To-morrow morning, the church of St. Asphodel—Bessy, from her window in Primrose1 Place, could see its spire2 tapering3 above the distant trees—would hold within its walls a happy couple. To-morrow, Basil and Bessy were to be writ4 in the church-books one. It would be a magnificent wedding; hopes and affections would so adorn5 and elevate the ceremony. But, when the time arrives, we will endeavour as faithfully as we may, to chronicle the doings of the hour. As the day before a wedding will to some parties seem the longest day that ever dawned and died, so to others it will appear the shortest day imaginable; a day that just shows itself and is gone. However Basil and Bessy may have measured the day of which we write, thinking it a day without an end, sure we are that Mrs. Carraways more and more believed it impossible that the wedding could take place on the morrow, so much had still to be completed.
“How ever I shall get through what I have to do, I can’t tell,” said the good woman to her incredulous husband. “I only hope, we shan’t have to put it off.” Carraways laughed. “Yes, my dear, it’s all very well. You men think that things can do themselves; but Bessy can’t go if her luggage isn’t packed.”
“Why not? I suppose she doesn’t want to take her trunk to church,” said the aggravating6 Carraways, and again he laughed with such a want of consideration! And here, Miss Barnes came full of meaning into the room; and suddenly paused, seeing Carraways. It was of no use; Mrs. Carraways would at once assert her authority. Therefore she set herself face to face with her husband.
“Now, my dear Gilbert; you must go out; you must indeed. And, there’s a dear, don’t let me see you again until the evening.” Miss Barnes, of course, said nothing: but her looks eloquently7 and stedfastly seconded the wishes of the matron.
“What! I’m in the way? Well, Bessy and I are going upon a little business.”
“Bessy,” cried her mother, rather astonished; and then she complacently8 added—“to be sure; why not? We can do everything better without her, can’t we, Miss Barnes? And poor thing, she’s as pale,—for she hasn’t been out these three days. So, you’d better go; both of you.”
In a very short time, considering that Bessy had only to put on her bonnet9, the bride and her father had left the house; surrendered the field to Mrs. Carraways and Miss Barnes made happy by their employment. And leaving them deep in trunks, let us accompany father and daughter.
Bessy had resolved upon carrying with her to her new country, a very swarm10 of illustrious strangers: constant, untiring labourers that should fill the air with sweetest music—music that should murmur11 of her English home—still winning from the fields the most delicious gains. It appeared that this order[Pg 266] of labourers—wonderful workers, at once singers, chemists and masons,—we mean, in a word, the honey-bee—had not yet travelled to the Antipodes.[1] Honey-bee had yet to cross the ocean to a new world. Though his great progenitors—the Adam and Eve bees—had sung and worked in the roses of Eden—none of their million million descendants, to the time of a certain lady—and let the name of the benefactress shine like a star in future Antipodean history—had touched upon the other side of the Pacific. The flowers and blossoms of ages had budded and fallen, and not a bee had drunk of their honey-cups.—This, become known to Bessy, she determined12 to carry with her a swarm of colonists13 to her new home: to people the waste with millions of workers; the toiling14, happy bond-folk—(pity there should be any other!)—of imperial man.
And the bees were of the old Jogtrot stock. Of the family that had worked in the gardens and orchards15 of Marigolds; descendants in right regal descent of the same line that had sung and worked about Bessy’s childhood; that had awakened16 her infant thought, had engaged her youthful care. We believe that Robert Topps had been Bessy’s silent agent in the work; and with consummate17 skill and secresy had conveyed away a hive of the old household from their native village, taking them to nurse at a certain gardener’s, some three or four miles distant from Primrose Place. And thither18, to learn how fared the little ones, wended Bessy and her father. The old man, though doubtful of the prosperity of the scheme, nevertheless entered into it with all the cordiality of his nature. “There’s always a sure comfort about attempting good; delight if you succeed, and consolation20 if you fail.” With this creed21, Carraways listened with pleasure to the plan of Bessy who had kept the scheme a secret from her mother and Basil.
[Pg 267]
“Won’t they be surprised, when they see them aboard the ship,” cried Bessy, glowing with pleasure. (And by the way, in the course of the two past paragraphs, Bessy and her father have reached the gardener’s, and are now in front of the very hive; close to the swarm of insect colonists, the pilgrim bees, the emigrant22 honey-makers.) “Won’t they be surprised!” repeated Bessy.
“Well, I doubt,” said Carraways, smiling down upon the hive, “I doubt, if Queen Dido—yes, I think it was Dido—carried with her more useful colonists; and I take it, say what they will, few so innocent.” Bessy looked inquiringly.—“I don’t think you know much of Queen Dido, my dear; and to say the truth, my school knowledge with the lady was at the best a nodding acquaintance. But, if you can only preserve them!” and the old gentleman folded his hands thoughtfully.
“Oh, I have no fear of that. I am certain, dear father—I feel so sure of it—they will arrive with us all safe and well. And then”—
“And then, my love,”—said the old man—“you will not have lived in vain. No, my child, you will have done your share in the great human work—have obeyed the behest that lays it as a solemn task on all to share with all the good that, for some wise end, was only meted23 to a few. Only land the bees safe; let the swarm be but well upon the wing; let them once set to work, making honey—the new manna in the wilderness24—where honey was never made before,—why do this, Bessy, and you are greater than any of the men Queens, that ever lived—greater than any of the topping masculine ladies out of place in petticoats. Catherine and Christina and such folks—humph! very great no doubt,—but their memory is not exactly kept in honey. And Queen Elizabeth—yes, an extraordinary virgin—but what a small stinging insect in a stomacher—how useless to the world is Queen Elizabeth against Queen Bee!”
“I am sure they will live,” repeated Bessy; “and ’twill be[Pg 268] such nice employment, during the voyage, to take care of them. And then, in a little time when they swarm and swarm”—
“Why, then, my dear—yes, I see it all”—and the old man, with a thoughtful smile, and as though dallying25 with a fancy, continued—“I see it all, and can prophesy26. In some hundred years or so, when men think it the true glory to build up, not to destroy; when work, not slaughter27, is the noble thing; when, in a word, the eagles of war shall be scouted28 as carrion29 fowl30, and the bees of the garden shall be the honoured type of human wisdom,—why, then, Bessy—then, my child—that is some hundred years to come—in the city that will then flourish, I predict that the people will raise a statue to the memory of the woman, who gave to the Antipodes the household glory of the honey bee.”
“Oh, father!” cried Bessy.
“If the bees prosper19, why you and Basil shall in the new country take a bee for your crest31; by the way, not at all bad emigrant heraldry,” laughed the old man. “Let me see; a bee or on a thistle proper. And the motto, ‘Honey from suffering!’ A good Christian32 legend,” said Carraways. “And then, in a hundred years, as I predict, a statue”—
“A statue!” and Bessy laughed.
“Well,” said the father with a gentle seriousness, “I’m getting old, Bessy. But I feel ’tis good—very good—to gain hope for the world, even as we gain years. It makes the sweeter sunset for our human day.”
And now anticipating awhile, we have only to say that at the proper season the hive was tenderly conveyed on board the Halcyon33, there to await the cares of its coming mistress.
Looking in—as we are permitted to do—at the chamber34-window of Basil, we find him assorting friends and companions for his future home. Though a wild sportive lad—bouncing through the early chapters of this veracious35 history,—he was so deeply touched by his love of Bessy; so suddenly pulled up[Pg 269] to a serious contemplation of the world, by the strange events of his family,—that, after a brief pause, he sprang, as at a bound, to a nobler, higher view of human dealings. Hence, he had soon gathered some glorious books. A blessed companion is a book! A book that, fitly chosen, is a life-long friend. A book—the unfailing Damon to his loving Pythias. A book that—at a touch—pours its heart into our own.
And some of these friends, with looks that may not alter, with tones that cannot change,—Basil set apart for his companions in the wilds. As he chose them one by one—for some must remain behind, he might not take them all—he looked gravely down upon them; with almost a tenderness of touch laid them aside,—his fellow-voyagers. Some twoscore were selected; special friends. There they lay; motionless and dumb. And yet the chamber was filled with lovely presences; was sounding with spiritual voices: the beautiful and mighty36 populace, evoked37 by the memory of the living friend—the friend in the flesh, the companion and the scholar of the souls of the dead.
And this was Basil’s last employment, the day before his bridal. He marshalled a magnificent array of friends to bear him company in the wilderness. He carried with him an invisible host of bright spirits; spirits of every kind and degree; and all friends—sound friends;—of friendship made in solitude38; and without patch or lacker, lasting39 to the grave.
Five minutes, reader; and your company to the once decent lodging—now turned topsy-turvy—of Mr. and Mrs. Topps. They, too, are in the very fury of packing-up. Or rather, Mrs. Topps and two or three friends. For Robert and his father-in-law—Goodman White, late and future schoolmaster—remain passively in the way; both of them discussing the apparent merits of some score of young rooks; that Bob, on his own account, and as a special offering to his old master Carraways, had with some difficulty and danger, kidnapped from the high-top elms[Pg 270] that surround Jogtrot Hall. Bob, in his snatch of reading, had learned that rooks were at the Antipodes precious as birds of paradise. He had therefore obtained some twenty nestlings, “very sarcy upon their legs, indeed.” They would be worth their weight in gold, he declared to his father-in-law, to pick up the worms and the grubs.
“It’s a capital thing for a bird or a brute,” said Bob, “to be born to be of some use. Eh?” The schoolmaster assented40. “Now, I shouldn’t have liked to be born a magpie—or a weasel; it’s like being born a thief”—
“I doubt, aye, I more than doubt whether anybody’s born a thief,” said White.
“I’m not a scholar,—that is, compared to you; I can’t say. But a rook is a serviceable cretur; he earns his living; and nobody can’t grudge41 it him. They are precious hearty42, arn’t they,” and Bob, with an eye of pride surveyed the nestlings. “There’s only one thing that I’m sorry about: but it’s impossible—and this it is; I am only sorry we couldn’t take the trees from the Hall, too.”
“Ha! We shall find trees enough, there,” said White, intent upon the birds. “Well, they are strong!”
“No fear of they’re making capital sailors. And they’ll be quite company, won’t they, to feed ’em, and watch their ways? And what’s more, when we get reg’larly settled, why their noise will always remind us of England. How they will caw and caw, eh! Rather have ’em with us”—and Bob slapt his leg to emphasise43 the preference,—“rather have ’em than a band of music.”
And the sun set and rose and shone out the bridal morning. As the good folks of Primrose Place had determined that the ceremony should be performed with the best quiet and simplicity44, we are left but little to do as chroniclers of the marriage. We may merely observe that Bessy flushed into a positive beauty; and her mother, as Carraways said, had somehow flung clean[Pg 271] away twelve or fourteen years from her face, determined on that occasion only to look the bride’s elder sister. Miss Barnes, the bridesmaid—for Carraways would have none other—was, despite of herself, sad. The event seemed to bring into her face, a past history. Of Basil we have nothing to say; the bridegroom is so rarely interesting.
Topps claimed the privilege of driving the bride to church. (The slim Mrs. Topps, with riband and bows, had burst out in white like a cherry-tree in brilliant blossom). Topps, however, to the passing—very passing disquiet—of Carraways, who wished everything to be so simple, drove to the door with a white favour in his hat, as big as a ventilator; a favour in his coat; and four favours to match on the heads of the horses.
“A stupid fellow!” said Carraways.
“Well, after all, my dear,” said his wife, “I don’t know if Robert isn’t right. There’s no harm in a bit of riband; and why should we steal to church as if we were ashamed of what we’re doing? What do you think, Miss Barnes?”
“It’s quite right,” said Carraways; for he well knew what Miss Barnes would think. “Drive on, Robert.”
In a short time the bridal party reached St. Asphodel’s church. A short time and Basil and Bessy stand hand in hand at the altar. The minutes pass; and the lovers’ destinies—as before their hearts—grow into one. The priest is silent; and “amen” like consecrating45 balm, hallows the mystery.
And then father and mother, and humble46 friends, gather close to the wedded47; press them and bless them. And the spirits that await on human trustfulness, and human hope, when plighted48 to each other to make the best and lightest of the world’s journey, be it through a garden or over a desert; arrayed with roses, or strown with flint—the spirits that sanctify and strengthen simple faith and all unworldly love,—hover about bride and bridegroom, and as they take their way from the church, bless them on their pilgrimage.
Another hour, and Robert Topps is again in attendance at[Pg 272] Primrose Place. Trunks are brought to the door, and packed on the carriage; and in a few minutes Basil hands his wife to her seat. There has been a shower of tears within at the separation; though mother and daughter are to meet again in so short a time. For be it known that Basil and his bride are westward49 bound, to pass the first three or four days of the honeymoon50 on the coast; to be duly taken thence by the good ship Halcyon calling there on the voyage out.
It may have been at the very minute that Basil and his bride quitted Primrose Place, that a letter was delivered at Jericho House. The letter was for Miss Pennibacker, written in the pangs51 of disappointment, in the agony of a broken heart, by the Hon. Cesar Candituft. We sum up the meaning of the epistle, gladly avoiding the fulness of its contents—gladly, too, avoiding any attempted description of the profound astonishment52, disgust, and horror, of poor Monica. It may be remembered that the lover, baulked of the dowry by the loathsome53 avarice54 of Mr. Jericho, was fain to trust to the successful issue of some vague law-suit for the means of married life in its required magnificence. Well, the uncertainty55 of the law, is a grim joke that generations of men have suffered and bled under. And—to be brief—Candituft after his late visit to Jericho House, discovered that, with the best of causes he had the worst of luck, and so—and so—with a bleeding heart he released from all her vows56 the betrayed Monica. He was about to leave London, to seek consolation in the society of his brother-in-law and his sweet sister.
“The villain57!” cried Monica, “and after I had been brought to promise him my hand! To leave me, and perhaps for another.”
“The cruel creature!” little Agatha spoke58 of Hodmadod—“after I had cured his hand, to go before my face, and give it to that—that little scorpion59!”
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1
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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7
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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9
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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14
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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consecrating
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| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
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46
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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50
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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51
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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52
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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