“Stop, dearest; stop,” said his wife, rising from her chair and coming over to him; “do not say words which you will surely repent.”
“I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never have from me a son’s portion.”
“Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it—even to yourself—as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in cool blood.”
“I am cool,” said the archdeacon.
“No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have not even read his letter through.”
“I will read his letter.”
“You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him.”
“Psha!”
“You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And she has behaved very properly.”
“Why has she refused him?”
“There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become the wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that.”
Then the archdeacon finished his son’s letter, uttering sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so.
“Of course; I knew it. I understood it all,” he said at last. “I’ve nothing to do with the girl. I don’t care whether she be good or bad.”
“Oh, my dear!”
“I care not at all—with reference to my own concerns. Of course I would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman—that the daughter of any neighbour—that the daughter of anyone whatsoever—should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Let her be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from me, and me from him.”
“But she has refused him.”
“Yes; and what does he say?—that he has told her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom I have ever done a father’s duty with a father’s affectionate indulgence—him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this letter. I shall neither write to him about it, or speak to him about it. But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he does this thing he shall not have a child’s portion from me. It is not that I will shorten that which would have been his; but he shall have—nothing!” Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the length of the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed his wife again. “You understand my instructions, I hope?”
“What instructions?”
“That you write to Henry and tell him what I say.”
“I will speak again to you about it by-and-by.”
“I will speak no more about it—not a word more. Let there be not a word more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you.”
Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. “Wait a moment, my dear.”
“Why should I wait?”
“That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me; and I will give him your message, whatever it may be; but not today, my dear.”
“Why not today?”
“Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become its messenger. If you choose to write today yourself, I cannot help it. I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my instructions from you tomorrow morning. When tomorrow morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay.”
The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on the immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom’s mistress he did exercise a certain marital control—which was, for instance, quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thorough contempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie; but he was not a despot who could exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she was right;—and yet he regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment was very hot—so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it would cool before the morrow;—and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it should cool. But not the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms. “You will find that I shall be of the same mind tomorrow—exactly,” he said to his wife. “I have resolved about it long since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day.” Then he went out, about his parish, intending to continue to think of his son’s iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot—red hot. Then he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would
