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 a 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 of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted.  He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him.  Even in his anger he could not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms.  ’You will find that I shall be of the same mind tomorrow—­exactly,’ he said to his wife.  ’I have resolved about it long since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day.’  Then he went out, about his parish, intending to continue to think of his son’s iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hot—­red hot.  Then he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say his prayers; and he shook his head in regret—­in a regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he did not attempt to analyse—­as he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal.  How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is.

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a property at Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire.  And of this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Stogpingum—­Stoke Pinguium would have been the proper name had not the barbarous Saxon tongues clipped it of its proper proportions—­he had always intended that his son Charles should enjoy the inheritance.  There was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again for the maintenance of his wife, for the archdeacon’s father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such a bishopric as that of Barchester had been in those days worth money.  Of his intention in this respect he had never spoken in plain language to either of his sons; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game;