Mrs. Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and Mrs. Miff, and Mr. Sownds the beadle, sit upon the steps to count what they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls a funeral. Now, the carriages arrive at the bride's residence, and the players on the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr. Punch, that model of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run and push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr. Dombey, leading Mrs. Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Feenix halls. Now, the rest of the wedding-party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr. Carker, passing through the people to the hall-door, think of the old woman who called to him in the grove that morning? Or why does Florence, as she passes, think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was lost, and of the visage of good Mrs. Brown? Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more company, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range themselves at table in the dark brown dining-room, which no confectioner can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and love-knots as he will. The pastrycook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich breakfast is set forth. Mr. and Mrs. Chick have joined the party, among others. Mrs. Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs. Skewton, whose mind is relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the champagne. The very tall young man, who suffered from excitement early, is better; but a vague sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, and he hates the other very tall young man, and wrests dishes from him by violence, and takes a grim delight in disobliging the company. The company are cool and calm, and do not outrage the black hatchments of pictures looking down upon them. by any excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix and the major are the gayest there; but Mr. Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has an especial smile for the bride, who very, very seldom meets it. Cousin Feenia rises when the company have broˇkfast, and the servants have left the room; and wonderfully young he is, with his white wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the bloom of the champagne in. his cheeks. Upon my honour," says Cousin Feenix, "although it's an unusual sort of thing in a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you to drink what is usually called ain fact, a toast." The major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr. Carker, bending his head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and nods a great many times. "A-in fact, it's not a- Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus, comes to a dead stop. Hear, hear!" says the major in a tone of conviction. Mr. Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table again, smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were particularly struck by this last observation, and desired personally to express his sense of the good it has done him. "It is," says Cousin Feenix, "an occasion, in fact, when the general usages of life may be a little departed from without impropriety; and although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was-in fact, was laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure- The major and Mr. Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of personal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and, addressing them individually, goes on to say: "And, in point of fact, when I was devilish ill-still, you know, I feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he can. Well our family has had the gratification, to-day, of connecting itself, in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see-in point of fact, present' Here there is general applause. "Present," repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which will bear repetition,-" with one who-that is to say, with a man at whom the finger of scorn can never-in fact, with my honourable friend Dombey, if he will allow me to call him so." Cousin Feenix bows to Mr. Dombey; Mr. Dombey solemnly returns the bow; everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings. "I have not," says Cousin Feenix, "enjoyed those opportunities which I could have desired, of cultivating the acquaintance of my friend Dombey, and studying those qualities which do equal honour to his head, and, in point of fact, to his heart; for it has been my misfortune to be, as we used to say in my time in the House of Commons, when it was not the custom to allude to the Lords, and when the order of parliamentary proceedings was perhaps better observed than it is now-to be in -in point of fact," says Cousin Feenix, cherishing his joke with great slyness, and finally bringing it out with a jerk, "in another place!"" The major falls into convulsions, and is recovered with difficulty. "But I know sufficient of my friend Dombey," resumes Cousin Feenix in a graver tone, as if he had suddenly become a sadder and a wiser man, "to know that he is, in point of fact, what may be emphatically called a-a merchant-a British merchant-and a-and a man. And although I have been resident abroad for some years (it would give me great pleasure to receive my friend Dombey, and everybody here, at Baden-Baden, and to have an opportunity of making 'em known to the Grand Duke), stiil I |