“My dear wife! would you do that?  Surely you did not yourself intend to dance; the most liberal would be shocked, I fancy, were a minister’s wife to dance.”

“And why?  I am not the minister.  I recognise no restraints that do not apply as well to every Christian woman.  You told me yourself that Mrs. Graham is an excellent lady; she is a member of your church, and dances, I am told.  Why should not one professor of religion have the same privileges as another?”

“Vida,” he said, in a tone of mingled pain and tenderness, “it is only a short time since we were pronounced ‘no more twain hut one;’ you said then the thought made you glad.  How can you separate your interests from mine now?  Will you do what would dishonour my calling were I to do it?  The world counts us one, your action is mine, and just or unjust, they do not accord to you the right to wade quite so far into the sea of worldly pleasures as they themselves feel privileged to do.  They would point the finger of ridicule at both of us, and charge us with inconsistency.  We will not stop to argue the right and wrong of the subject now, supposing your conscience does not shut you out from the dance, let worldly prudence and a desire to keep our names from common gossip, influence you, I pray you, if indeed my wishes and opinion are of no value.”

But the young wife was in no frame for recollecting tender vows, nor listening to reason.  She threw off his arm with an impatient gesture, and glancing at her watch, said:—­

“I have not only accepted an invitation to this party, but promised to dance.  It is getting late and I must go.”

Mr. Eldred controlled his agitation by a mighty effort, and in a low, calm tone said:—­

“Then I must save you from disgracing us both.  I insist, I command you not to go.”

Had he struck her, she would not have been more astonished.  She stood as if stunned for a moment; then with a stately air, she swept by him and ascended the stairs to her room.  What was his consternation, as he stood gazing out into the moonlight, presently to see her pass down the walk, step into the carriage and drive away!

Turning from the window, he paced the floor with anguish keen as though she had gone from him for ever.  What obstinacy, what unreasoning wilfulness—­and what would come of it?  He spent the long night brooding over his great sorrow, the root of which was the fear that his dear wife did not belong to Christ, for beloved her through all her unloveliness.  “Husbands, love your wives even as Christ loved the church.”  His love had something in it of the divine pity and patience that our blessed Lord feels for his sinning, stumbling, and exasperating children.

Mrs. Eldred was not that type of womankind who spent their wrath in tears and reproaches.  When she was angry, she was unapproachably so, as frigid as an iceberg.  The crisis had come.  Her husband had dared to command.