the way. His father, he knew, was anxious for him to marry into a noble
family--incomprehensibly anxious to have the affair settled; and, as two
or three scenes rose in his mind, Wilfrid perceived that the obstacle to
his present fancy was his father.

As clearly as he could, with the dread of the preacher's admonishing
cough before him, Wilfrid stated the case to Emilia; saying that he
loved her with his whole heart; but that the truth was, his father was
not in a condition of health to bear contradiction to his wishes, and
would, he was sure, be absolutely opposed to their union. He brought
on himself another reprimand from Mr. Marter, in seeking to propitiate
Emilia's reason to comprehend the position rightly; and could add little
more to the fact he had spoken, than that his father had other views,
which it would require time to combat.

Emilia listened attentively, replying with a flying glance to
the squeeze of his hand. He was astonished to see her so little
disconcerted. But now the gradual fall of Mr. Marter's voice gave them
warning.

"My lover?" breathed Emilia, hurriedly and eagerly; questioning with eye
and tone.

"My darling!" returned Wilfrid.

She sat down to the organ with a smile. He was careful to retreat before
the conclusion of the service; somewhat chagrined by his success. That
smile of hers was inexplicable to him.

CHAPTER XXIV

Mr. Pole was closeted in his City counting-house with Mr. Pericles,
before a heap of papers and newly-opened foreign letters; to one of
which, bearing a Russian stamp, he referred fretfully at times, as if
to verify a monstrous fact. Any one could have seen that he was not in
a condition to transact business. His face was unnaturally patched with
colour, and his grey-tinged hair hung tumbled over his forehead like
waves blown by a changeing wind. Still, he maintained his habitual
effort to look collected, and defeat the scrutiny of the sallow-eyed
fellow opposite; who quietly glanced, now and then, from the nervous
feet to the nervous fingers, and nodded to himself a sardonic outlandish
nod.

"Now, listen to me," said Mr. Pericles. "We shall not burst out about
zis Riga man. He is a villain,--very well. Say it. He is a villain,--say
so. And stop. Because" (and up went the Greek's forefinger), "we must
not have a scandal, in ze fairst place. We do not want pity, in ze
second. Saird, we must seem to trust him, in spite. I say, yeas! What
is pity to us of