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 to-day, my dear."

"Why not to-day?"

"Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become its
messenger. If you choose to write to-day 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 to-morrow morning. When to-morrow
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 be cool. But not the less
was it a matter