it, Mr. Marter, from the pulpit underneath, sent forth a significant reprimand to the conscience of a particular culprit of his congregation, in the form of a solemn cough.  Emilia had to remain unenlightened, and she proceeded to build on her previous assumption; doing the whispering easily and sweetly; in the prettiest way from her tongue’s tip, with her chin lifted up; and sending the vowels on a prolonged hushed breath, that seemed to print them on the hearing far more distinctly than a volume of sound.  Wilfrid fell back on monosyllables.  He could not bring his mouth to utter flinty negatives, so it appeared that he assented; and then his better nature abused him for deluding her.  He grew utterly ashamed of his aimless selfish double-dealing.  “Can it be?” he questioned his own mind, and listened greedily to any mental confirmations of surpassing excellence in her, that the world might possibly acknowledge.  Having, with great zeal, created a set of circumstances, he cursed them heartily, after the fashion of little people.  He grew resigned to abandon Lady Charlotte, and to give his name to this subduing girl; but a comfortable quieting sensation came over him, at the thought that his filial duty stood in 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