The Way of All Flesh

A due number of old shoes had been thrown at the carriage in which the happy pair departed from the Rectory, and it had turned the corner at the bottom of the village.  It could then be seen for two or three hundred yards creeping past a fir coppice, and after this was lost to view.

“John,” said Mr Allaby to his man-servant, “shut the gate;” and he went indoors with a sigh of relief which seemed to say:  “I have done it, and I am alive.”  This was the reaction after a burst of enthusiastic merriment during which the old gentleman had run twenty yards after the carriage to fling a slipper at it—­which he had duly flung.

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.

For some time the pair said nothing:  what they must have felt during their first half hour, the reader must guess, for it is beyond my power to tell him; at the end of that time, however, Theobald had rummaged up a conclusion from some odd corner of his soul to the effect that now he and Christina were married the sooner they fell into their future mutual relations the better.  If people who are in a difficulty will only do the first little reasonable thing which they can clearly recognise as reasonable, they will always find the next step more easy both to see and take.  What, then, thought Theobald, was here at this moment the first and most obvious matter to be considered, and what would be an equitable view of his and Christina’s relative positions in respect to it?  Clearly their first dinner was their first joint entry into the duties and pleasures of married life.  No less clearly it was Christina’s duty to order it, and his own to eat it and pay for it.

The arguments leading to this conclusion, and the conclusion itself, flashed upon Theobald about three and a half miles after he had left Crampsford on the road to Newmarket.  He had breakfasted early, but his usual appetite had failed him.  They had left the vicarage at noon without staying for the wedding breakfast.  Theobald liked an early dinner; it dawned upon him that he was beginning to be hungry; from this to the conclusion stated in the preceding paragraph the steps had been easy.  After a few minutes’ further reflection he broached the matter to his bride, and thus the ice was broken.

Mrs Theobald was not prepared for so sudden an assumption of importance.  Her nerves, never of the strongest, had been strung to their highest tension by the event of the morning.  She wanted to escape observation; she was conscious of looking a little older than she quite liked to look as a bride who had been married that morning; she feared the landlady, the chamber-maid, the waiter—­everybody and everything; her heart beat so fast that she could hardly speak, much less go through the ordeal of ordering dinner in a strange hotel with a strange landlady.  She begged and prayed to be let off.  If Theobald would only order dinner this once, she would order it any day and every day in future.

But the inexorable Theobald was not to be put off with such absurd excuses.  He was master now.  Had not Christina less than two hours ago promised solemnly to honour and obey him, and was she turning restive over such a trifle as this?  The loving smile departed from his face, and was succeeded by a scowl which that old Turk, his father, might have envied.  “Stuff and nonsense, my dearest Christina,” he exclaimed mildly, and stamped his foot upon the floor of the carriage.  “It is a wife’s duty to order her husband’s dinner; you are my wife, and I shall expect you to order mine.”  For Theobald was nothing if he was not logical.

The bride began to cry, and said he was unkind; whereon he said nothing, but revolved unutterable things in his heart.  Was this, then, the end of his six years of unflagging devotion?  Was it for this that when Christina had offered to let him off, he had stuck to his engagement?  Was this the outcome of her talks about duty and spiritual mindedness—­that now upon the very day of her marriage she should fail to see that the first step in obedience to God lay in obedience to himself?  He would drive back to Crampsford; he would complain to Mr and Mrs Allaby; he didn’t mean to have married Christina; he hadn’t married her; it was all a hideous dream; he would—­But a voice kept ringing in his ears which said:  “YOU CAN’T, CAN’T, CAN’T.”

“CAN’T I?” screamed the unhappy creature to himself.

“No,” said the remorseless voice, “YOU CAN’T.  YOU ARE A MARRIED MAN.”

He rolled back in his corner of the carriage and for the first time felt how iniquitous were the marriage laws of England.  But he would buy Milton’s prose works and read his pamphlet on divorce.  He might perhaps be able to get them at Newmarket.

So the bride sat crying in one corner of the carriage; and the bridegroom sulked in the other, and he feared her as only a bridegroom can fear.

Presently, however, a feeble voice was heard from the bride’s corner saying: 

“Dearest Theobald—­dearest Theobald, forgive me; I have been very, very wrong.  Please do not be angry with me.  I will order the—­the—­” but the word “dinner” was checked by rising sobs.

When Theobald heard these words a load began to be lifted from his heart, but he only looked towards her, and that not too pleasantly.

“Please tell me,” continued the voice, “what you think you would like, and I will tell the landlady when we get to Newmar—­” but another burst of sobs checked the completion of the word.

The load on Theobald’s heart grew lighter and lighter.  Was it possible that she might not be going to henpeck him after all?  Besides, had she not diverted his attention from herself to his approaching dinner?

He swallowed down more of his apprehensions and said, but still gloomily, “I think we might have a roast fowl with bread sauce, new potatoes and green peas, and then we will see if they could let us have a cherry tart and some cream.”

After a few minutes more he drew her towards him, kissed away her tears, and assured her that he knew she would be a good wife to him.

“Dearest Theobald,” she exclaimed in answer, “you are an angel.”

Theobald believed her, and in ten minutes more the happy couple alighted at the inn at Newmarket.

Bravely did Christina go through her arduous task.  Eagerly did she beseech the landlady, in secret, not to keep her Theobald waiting longer than was absolutely necessary.

“If you have any soup ready, you know, Mrs Barber, it might save ten minutes, for we might have it while the fowl was browning.”

See how necessity had nerved her!  But in truth she had a splitting headache, and would have given anything to have been alone.

The dinner was a success.  A pint of sherry had warmed Theobald’s heart, and he began to hope that, after all, matters might still go well with him.  He had conquered in the first battle, and this gives great prestige.  How easy it had been too!  Why had he never treated his sisters in this way?  He would do so next time he saw them; he might in time be able to stand up to his brother John, or even his father.  Thus do we build castles in air when flushed with wine and conquest.

The end of the honeymoon saw Mrs Theobald the most devotedly obsequious wife in all England.  According to the old saying, Theobald had killed the cat at the beginning.  It had been a very little cat, a mere kitten in fact, or he might have been afraid to face it, but such as it had been he had challenged it to mortal combat, and had held up its dripping head defiantly before his wife’s face.  The rest had been easy.

Strange that one whom I have described hitherto as so timid and easily put upon should prove such a Tartar all of a sudden on the day of his marriage.  Perhaps I have passed over his years of courtship too rapidly.  During these he had become a tutor of his college, and had at last been Junior Dean.  I never yet knew a man whose sense of his own importance did not become adequately developed after he had held a resident fellowship for five or six years.  True—­immediately on arriving within a ten mile radius of his father’s house, an enchantment fell upon him, so that his knees waxed weak, his greatness departed, and he again felt himself like an overgrown baby under a perpetual cloud; but then he was not often at Elmhurst, and as soon as he left it the spell was taken off again; once more he became the fellow and tutor of his college, the Junior Dean, the betrothed of Christina, the idol of the Allaby womankind.  From all which it may be gathered that if Christina had been a Barbary hen, and had ruffled her feathers in any show of resistance Theobald would not have ventured to swagger with her, but she was not a Barbary hen, she was only a common hen, and that too with rather a smaller share of personal bravery than hens generally have.