And then they loose their hands, and the cool curate doth bid the Man to put a ring on the Woman’s fourth finger, counting thumb.  And the Man thrusts his hand into one pocket, and into another, forward and back many times into all his pockets.  He remembers that he felt for it, and felt it in his waistcoat pocket, when in the Gardens.  And his hand comes forth empty.  And the Man is ghastly to look at!

Yet, though Angels smile, shall not Devils laugh!  The curate deliberates.  The black satin bunch ceases to simmer.  He in her shadow changes from a beaming cock-robin to an inquisitive sparrow.  Eyes multiply questions:  lips have no reply.  Time ominously shakes his chain, and in the pause a sound of mockery stings their ears.

Think ye a hero is one to be defeated in his first battle?  Look at the clock! there are but seven minutes to the stroke of the celibate hours:  the veteran is surely lifting his two hands to deliver fire, and his shot will sunder them in twain so nearly united.  All the jewellers of London speeding down with sacks full of the nuptial circlet cannot save them!

The battle must be won on the field, and what does the hero now?  It is an inspiration!  For who else would dream of such a reserve in the rear?  None see what he does; only that the black-satin bunch is remonstratingly agitated, stormily shaken, and subdued:  and as though the menacing cloud had opened, and dropped the dear token from the skies at his demand, he produces the symbol of their consent, and the service proceeds:  “With this ring I thee wed.”

They are prayed over and blest.  For good, or for ill, this deed is done.  The names are registered; fees fly right and left:  they thank, and salute, the curate, whose official coolness melts into a smile of monastic gallantry:  the beadle on the steps waves off a gaping world as they issue forth bridegroom and bridesman recklessly scatter gold on him:  carriage doors are banged to:  the coachmen drive off, and the scene closes, everybody happy.

CHAPTER XXX

And the next moment the bride is weeping as if she would dissolve to one of Dian’s Virgin Fountains from the clasp of the Sun-God.  She has nobly preserved the mask imposed by comedies, till the curtain has fallen, and now she weeps, streams with tears.  Have patience, O impetuous young man!  It is your profession to be a hero.  This poor heart is new to it, and her duties involve such wild acts, such brigandage, such terrors and tasks, she is quite unnerved.  She did you honour till now.  Bear with her now.  She does not cry the cry of ordinary maidens in like cases.  While the struggle went on her tender face was brave; but, alas!  Omens are against her:  she holds an ever-present dreadful one on that fatal fourth finger of hers, which has coiled itself round her dream of delight, and takes her in its clutch like a horrid serpent.  And yet she must love it.  She dares not part from it.  She must love and hug it, and feed on its strange honey, and all the bliss it gives her casts all the deeper shadow on what is to come.