’But he has not withdrawn it.  The last quarter was paid to your account only the other day.  He does not mean to withdraw it.’

’Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage—­that my income will be continued to me whether I marry or no, and I’ll arrange matters with the auctioneer tomorrow.  You can’t suppose that I should prefer to live in France.’

‘Henry, you are too hard on your father.’

‘I think, mother, he has been too hard on me.’

’It is you who are to blame now.  I tell you plainly that that is my opinion.  If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault.’

‘If evil comes of it, I must bear it.’

’A son ought to give up something to his father;—­especially to a father as indulgent as yours.’

But it was of no use.  And Mrs Grantly when she went to bed could only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men.  ’They are as alike each other as two peas,’ she said, ’and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be just.’  Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was there a word said between the father and the son that had the slightest reference to the subject in dispute between them.  The archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes.  He was very civil to his son;—­too civil by half, as Mrs Grantly continued to say to herself.  And then the major drove himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather.  When he wished his father good-bye, the archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance of rain.  Had he not better take the big umbrella?  The major thanked him courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain.  Then he was gone.  ‘Upon his own head be it,’ said the archdeacon when his son’s step was heard in the passage to the backyard.  Then Mrs Grantly got up quietly and followed her son.  She found him settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse’s head.  She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear.  ’If you love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale.  Do it for my sake.’  There came across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.

The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife returned to him.  ‘I have done all that I can,’ he said—­’all that I can; more, indeed, than was becoming of me.  Upon his own head be it.  Upon his own head be it.’

‘What is it you fear?’ she asked.

’I fear nothing.  But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide the consequences.  They shall not be replaced with my money.’