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.
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