The wedding was very gorgeous. Very rarely are two people joined together with so much expense. Nevertheless the contribution of either party—had the other known it—would have somewhat shaken Hymen; if, indeed, it had not wholly frightened him out of the church. Mrs. Pennibacker, when introduced to Jericho, was so deep in debt, that often, let folks try as they would, they could not see her. And Jericho—doubtless from a short supply of platina—was an object of extreme solicitude to a large number of dealers. When, however, it was understood that the widow was to be married to a rich man in the City, the lady found the very handsomest outfit for herself and children made delightfully easy. And Jericho, bearing in mind the heavy expense of an intoxicating honeymoon, readily obtained the means, when his circle—and every man has a circle, though of the smallest—rang with the news that he was in imminent likelihood of marrying the widow of an Indian Nabob!
And so bridegroom and bride—with a mutual trust even beyond mutual expectation—walked to the altar, there to be welded into one. They were married at St. George’s Church,—married in the bosom of a few surrounding friends. The bride’s children were present, and cast a mixed interest of pensiveness and pleasure on the ceremony. The bride had told her bridesmaids that, “It would cost her a struggle, but the dear children should be present; it was right they should. They ought to have the sacrifice impressed upon their minds in the most solemn way; the sacrifice that their poor mother consented to make for them. Nobody but herself knew what a struggle it was; but, it was her duty, and though her heart was with dear Pennibacker,—yes, she would go through with it. Mr. Jericho had given the dear girls the most beautiful lace frocks; and to Basil a lovely gold hunting-watch; therefore, they ought and they should, witness the sacrifice.”
And Miss Pennibacker and Miss Agatha Pennibacker, like little fairies, clothed in muslin and lace from elfin-looms, saw the sacrifice with a vivacity of heart that almost spirted out at the corners of their lips; and Basil Pennibacker, a gaunt, reedy boy of twelve, did nothing during the ceremony but take out his new gold hunting-watch—open it—snap it to—and return it again, as though he had already had a glimpse of the preparations for the wedding-breakfast, and with his thoughts upon all the delicacies of the season, was impatient for the sacrifice to be completed.
And the last “Amen”—the last blow on the rivet—was struck, and Solomon Jericho and Sabilla Pennibacker were man and wife. Whereupon, in a hysteric moment, the bride turning to her children, took the three in one living bunch in her arms, and sweeping them over to Jericho, said—“You are their father now.”
Turning to the church books of St. George’s we find that the date of this interesting deed of gift makes it about eight years to the date of the particular emphatic question with which Mrs. Jericho, as with a flourish of a silver trumpet, opened this little history.
CHAPTER II.
It was what we will venture to call a vinous hour of the morning, when Mr. Jericho returned home after the dinner eaten abroad in defiance of his own household gods, we fear sadly despised upon the occasion. For Mr. Jericho, with accessory boon-fellows, had partaken of a luxurious repast; little caring that his own stinted lares were served with, at best, metaphoric cold mutton. Mr. Jericho had tested the best resources of the larder and cellar of the Apollo Tavern; and full of meat and wine, and his brain singing with fantastic humours, he had surveyed the river Thames with simpering complacency; had seen big-bellied ships, stowed with India and Africa, drop silently with the tide towards their haven. It was impossible to enjoy a serener evening or a nobler sight. The setting sun, with a magnificence quite worthy of the west-end, coloured all things gold and ruby; the black hulls of ships glowed darkly and richly; and their sails were, for the time, from Tyrian looms. The gorgeousness of the hour enriched every common object with glorious beauty. Every cold, mean common-place of the common day seemed suffused in one wide harmonious splendour. And the brain of Jericho, meditating the scene, was expanded and melted into it; and in that prodigal wealth of colour, the illusion a little assisted by the swallowed colours within him, Jericho felt himself a part and parcel of the absorbing richness. The wine in his heart, a Bacchus’ jack-o’-lantern, reflected the rosy, golden light that came upon him.
This sweet illusion lasted its pleasant time, fading a little when the bill was rung for. Nevertheless, Jericho, by the force of the scene and the wine, felt himself in much easier circumstances than the hard tyranny of truth, when he was in a calm condition to respect its dictum, was likely to allow. And so, at that hour when sparrows look down reproachfully from their eaves at the flushed man trying the street-door—at that penitential hour, with the hues of the past romantic evening becoming very cold within him—Mr. Jericho stood beneath his own oppressive roof.
Mrs. Jericho was gone to bed.