I went home, and had my horse saddled.  I was in no mood for remaining in an empty house, in no mood for calling on any of my friends—­I was fit for nothing but a gallop through the rain.  All my wearing and depressing emotions of the morning, had now merged into a wild excitement of body and mind.  When the horse was brought round, I saw with delight that the groom could hardly hold him.  “Keep him well in hand, Sir,” said the man, “he’s not been out for three days.”  I was just in the humour for such a ride as the caution promised me.

And what a ride it was, when I fairly got out of London; and the afternoon brightening of the foggy atmosphere, showed the smooth, empty high road before me!  The dashing through the rain that still fell; the feel of the long, powerful, regular stride of the horse under me; the thrill of that physical sympathy which establishes itself between the man and the steed; the whirling past carts and waggons, saluted by the frantic barking of dogs inside them; the flying by roadside alehouses, with the cheering of boys and half-drunken men sounding for an instant behind me, then lost in the distance—­this was indeed to occupy, to hurry on, to annihilate the tardy hours of solitude on my wedding day, exactly as my heart desired!

I got home wet through; but with my body in a glow from the exercise, with my spirits boiling up at fever heat.  When I arrived at North Villa, the change in my manner astonished every one.  At dinner, I required no pressing now to partake of the sherry which Mr. Sherwin was so fond of extolling, nor of the port which he brought out afterwards, with a preliminary account of the vintage-date of the wine, and the price of each bottle.  My spirits, factitious as they were, never flagged.  Every time I looked at Margaret, the sight of her stimulated them afresh.  She seemed pre-occupied, and was unusually silent during dinner; but her beauty was just that voluptuous beauty which is loveliest in repose.  I had never felt its influence so powerful over me as I felt it then.

In the drawing-room, Margaret’s manner grew more familiar, more confident towards me than it had ever been before.  She spoke to me in warmer tones, looked at me with warmer looks.  A hundred little incidents marked our wedding-evening—­trifles that love treasures up—­which still remain in my memory.  One among them, at least, will never depart from it:  I first kissed her on that evening.

Mr. Sherwin had gone out of the room; Mrs. Sherwin was at the other end of it, watering some plants at the window; Margaret, by her father’s desire, was showing me some rare prints.  She handed me a magnifying glass, through which I was to look at a particular part of one of the engravings, that was considered a master-piece of delicate workmanship.  Instead of applying the magnifying test to the print, for which I cared nothing, I laughingly applied it to Margaret’s face.  Her lovely lustrous black eye seemed to flash into mine through the glass; her warm, quick breathing played on my cheek—­it was but for an instant, and in that instant I kissed her for the first time.  What sensations the kiss gave me then!—­what remembrances it has left me now!