The Sally at Dawn

On the morning after his strange wedding Prosper rose up early, quite
himself. He left Isoult asleep in the bed, but could see neither old
man, old woman, nor friar; so far as he could tell, he and his wife
were alone in the cottage. Now he must think what to do. He admitted
freely enough to himself that he had not been in a condition for this
overnight; the girl's mood had exalted him; he had acted, and rightly
acted (he was clear about this); now he must think what to do. The
first duty was plain: he went out into the air and bathed in a pool;
he took a quick run and set his blood galloping; then he groomed and
fed his horse; put on his armour, and said his prayers. In the course
of this last exercise he again remembered his wife, on whose account
he had determined to make up his mind. He rose from his knees at once
and walked about the heath, thinking it out.

"It is clear enough," he said to himself, "that neither my wife nor I
desired marriage. We are not of the same condition; we have not--I
speak for myself and by implication for her also--we have not those
desires which draw men and women towards each other. Love, no doubt,
is a strange and terrible thing: it may lead a man to the writing of
verses and a most fatiguing search for words, but it will not allow
him to be happy in anything except its own satisfaction; and in that
it seems absurd to be happy. Marriage is in the same plight: it may be
a good or a bad thing; without love it is a ridiculous thing.
Nevertheless my wife and I are of agreement in this, that we think
marriage better than being hanged. I do not understand the
alternatives, but I accept them, and am married. My wife will not be
hanged. For the rest, I shall take her to Gracedieu. The devout ladies
there will no doubt make a nun of her; she will be out of harm's way,
and all will be well."