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 on your wrath before I become its messenger.  If you choose to write that 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.’