But what were the feelings of Theobald and Christina when the village was passed and they were rolling quietly by the fir plantation?  It is at this point that even the stoutest heart must fail, unless it beat in the breast of one who is over head and ears in love.  If a young man is in a small boat on a choppy sea, along with his affianced bride and both are sea-sick, and if the sick swain can forget his own anguish in the happiness of holding the fair one’s head when she is at her worst—­then he is in love, and his heart will be in no danger of failing him as he passes his fir plantation.  Other people, and unfortunately by far the greater number of those who get married must be classed among the “other people,” will inevitably go through a quarter or half an hour of greater or less badness as the case may be.  Taking numbers into account, I should think more mental suffering had been undergone in the streets leading from St George’s, Hanover Square, than in the condemned cells of Newgate.  There is no time at which what the Italians call la figlia della Morte lays her cold hand upon a man more awfully than during the first half hour that he is alone with a woman whom he has married but never genuinely loved.

Death’s daughter did not spare Theobald.  He had behaved very well hitherto.  When Christina had offered to let him go, he had stuck to his post with a magnanimity on which he had plumed himself ever since.  From that time forward he had said to himself:  “I, at any rate, am the very soul of honour; I am not,” etc., etc.  True, at the moment of magnanimity the actual cash payment, so to speak, was still distant; when his father gave formal consent to his marriage things began to look more serious; when the college living had fallen vacant and been accepted they looked more serious still; but when Christina actually named the day, then Theobald’s heart fainted within him.

The engagement had gone on so long that he had got into a groove, and the prospect of change was disconcerting.  Christina and he had got on, he thought to himself, very nicely for a great number of years; why—­why—­why should they not continue to go on as they were doing now for the rest of their lives?  But there was no more chance of escape for him than for the sheep which is being driven to the butcher’s back premises, and like the sheep he felt that there was nothing to be gained by resistance, so he made none.  He behaved, in fact, with decency, and was declared on all hands to be one of the happiest men imaginable.

Now, however, to change the metaphor, the drop had actually fallen, and the poor wretch was hanging in mid air along with the creature of his affections.  This creature was now thirty-three years old, and looked it:  she had been weeping, and her eyes and nose were reddish; if “I have done it and I am alive,” was written on Mr Allaby’s face after he had thrown the shoe, “I have done it, and I do not see how I can possibly live much longer” was upon the face of Theobald as he was being driven along by the fir Plantation.  This, however, was not apparent at the Rectory.  All that could be seen there was the bobbing up and down of the postilion’s head, which just over-topped the hedge by the roadside as he rose in his stirrups, and the black and yellow body of the carriage.