“I think, Dr. Sombre, we require your services; the parties are assembled and willing, and the ceremony had better take place.”

Thomas Corbet had been standing at a front window, and Alley Mahon, on hearing the baronet’s words, instantly changed her position to the front of Lucy, as if she intended to make a spring between her and Dunroe, as soon as the matter should come to a crisis.

In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced with his book, and Lord Dunroe was led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a noise of carriage-wheels was heard coming rapidly along, and stopping as rapidly at the hall door.  In an instant a knock that almost shook the house, and certainly startled some of the females, among whom was the unhappy bride herself, was heard at the hall door, and the next moment Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had arrived, instantly followed by Gibson.

Dr. Sombre, who now stood with his finger between the leaves of his book, where its frequent pressure had nearly obliterated the word “obedience” in the marriage ceremony, said,

“My dear children, it is a custom of mine—­and it is so because I conceive it a duty—­to give you a few preliminary words of advice, a little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter.”

This intimation was received with solemn silence, if we except the word “Attention!” which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued tone from old Sam.  The Doctor looked about him a little startled, but again proceeded,

“Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads:  first, its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, its tribulations.  I place tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its tribulations—­”

“My good friend,” said Sir Thomas, with impatience, “we will spare you the little homily you speak of, until after the ceremony.  I dare say it is designed for married life and married people; but as those for whose especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife yet, I think you had better reserve it until you make them so.  Proceed, Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony.”

“I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” replied the Doctor; “I shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, as father of the bride.”

“Why, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter with you?  Am not I Sir Thomas Gourlay?”

The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him more closely, exclaimed,

“Upon my word, and so you are.  I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, but with respect to this dejeuner—­homily, I would say—­its enunciation here is exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more than about half-an-hour, or three-quarters, which is only a brief space when the happiness of a whole life is concerned.  Well, my children, I was speaking about this dejuner,” he proceeded; “the time, as I said, will not occupy more than half-an-hour, or probably three-quarters; and, indeed, if our whole life were as agreeably spent—­I refer now especially to married life—­its tribulations would not—­”