could ask him to do that?"

"Not you,--certainly."

"Oh, no."

"I can ask him."

"Could you, Ferdinand?"

"Yes;--with a horsewhip in my hand."

"Indeed, indeed you do not know him. Will you do this;--will you tell
my father everything, and leave it to him to say whether Mr. Fletcher
has behaved badly to you?"

"Certainly not. I will not have any interference from your father
between you and me. If I had listened to your father, you would
not have been here now. Your father is not as yet a friend of mine.
When he comes to know what I can do for myself, and that I can rise
higher than these Herefordshire people, then perhaps he may become my
friend. But I will consult him in nothing so peculiar to myself as my
own wife. And you must understand that in coming to me all obligation
from you to him became extinct. Of course he is your father; but
in such a matter as this he has no more to say to you than any
stranger." After that he hardly spoke to her; but sat for an hour
with a book in his hand, and then rose and said that he would go down
to the club. "There is so much villainy about," he said, "that a man
if he means to do anything must keep himself on the watch."

When she was alone she at once burst into tears; but she soon dried
her eyes, and putting down her work, settled herself to think of it
all. What did it mean? Why was he thus changed to her? Could it be
that he was the same Ferdinand to whom she had given herself without
a doubt as to his personal merit? Every word that he had spoken since
she had shown him the letter from Arthur Fletcher had been injurious
to her, and offensive. It almost seemed as though he had determined
to show himself to be a tyrant to her, and had only put off playing
the part till the first convenient opportunity after their honeymoon.
But through all this, her ideas were loyal to him. She would obey him
in all things where obedience was possible, and would love him better
than all the world. Oh yes;--for was he not her husband? Were he
to prove himself the worst of men she would still love him. It had
been for better or for worse; and as she had repeated the words to
herself, she had sworn that if the worst should come, she would still
be true.

But she could not bring herself to say that Arthur Fletcher had
behaved badly. She could not lie. She knew well that his conduct had
been noble and generous. Then unconsciously and involuntarily,--or
rather in opposition to her own