As summer passed into early autumn the sense of dangers and difficulties accumulating grew acute.  “The ground,” wrote Browning, “is crumbling from beneath our feet with its chances and opportunities.”  In one of the early days of August a thunder-storm with torrents of rain detained him for longer than usual at Wimpole Street; the lightning was the lesser terror of the day, for in the evening entered Mr Barrett to his daughter with disagreeable questioning, and presently came the words—­accompanied by a gaze of stern displeasure—­“It appears that that man has spent the whole day with you.”  The louring cloud passed, but it was felt that visits to be prudent must be rare; for the first time a week went by without a meeting.  Early in September George Barrett, a kindly brother distinguished by his constant air of dignity and importance, was commissioned to hire a country house for the family at Dover or Reigate or Tunbridge, while paperers and painters were to busy themselves at Wimpole Street.  The moment for immediate action had come; else all chance of Italy might be lost for the year 1846.  “We must be married directly,” wrote Browning on the morning when this intelligence arrived.  Next day a marriage license was procured.  On the following morning, Saturday, September 12th, accompanied by her maid Wilson, Miss Barrett, after a sleepless night, left her father’s house with feet that trembled; she procured a fly, fortified her shaken nerves with a dose of sal volatile at a chemist’s shop, and drove to Marylebone Church, where the marriage service was celebrated in the presence of two witnesses.  As she stood and knelt her central feeling was one of measureless trust, a deep rest upon assured foundations; other women who had stood there supported by their nearest kinsfolk—­parents or sisters—­had one happiness she did not know; she needed it less because she was happier than they.[38] Then husband and wife parted.  Mrs Browning drove to the house of her blind friend, Mr Boyd, who had been made aware of the engagement.  On his sitting-room sofa she rested and sipped his Cyprus wine; by and by arrived her sisters with grave faces; the carriage was driven to Hampstead Heath for the soothing happiness of the autumnal air and sunshine; after which the three sisters returned to their father’s house; the wedding-ring was regretfully taken off; and the prayer arose in Mrs Browning’s heart that if sorrow or injury should ever follow upon what had happened that day for either of the two, it might all fall upon her.

Browning did not again visit at 50 Wimpole Street; it was enough to know that his wife was well, and kept all these things gladly, tremblingly, in her heart.  For himself he felt that come what might his life had “borne flower and fruit."[39] On the Monday week which succeeded the marriage the Barrett family were to move to the country house that had been taken at Little Bookham.  On Saturday afternoon, a week having gone by since the wedding, Mrs Browning