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"Em"

CHAPTER I
THE MAJOR'S INSTRUCTIONS

"Don't tell me, miss; don't tell me, I say."

And Major Clifford stood up, and shook his fist and stamped his foot in a way suggestive of the Black Country and wife beating. But Miss Maynard, who sat opposite to him, meek and mild, being used to his eccentric behaviour, was quite equal to the occasion. When he got very red in the face and seemed on the point of breaking a blood vessel, she just stood up, moved across the room, and put her hands upon his shoulders.

"Uncle," she said, and her face was very close to his, "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you."

"It's all very well," the Major replied, pretending to struggle from her grasp. "It's all very well, but I say-"

"Of course. That's exactly what you do say."

And she kissed him. Then it was all over.

When a young woman of a certain kind kisses an elderly gentleman of a certain temperament, it soothes his savage breast, like oil upon the troubled waters. And as Miss Maynard was a young woman whose influence was not likely to be ineffective with any man whether young or old, Major Clifford was tolerably helpless in her hands.

Now, they called her "Em." Emily was her name, Emily Maynard, but from her babyhood the concluding syllables had been forgotten, and by general consent among her intimates she was "Em." There could be no doubt whether you called her Em or whether you did not, she was a young woman it was not unpleasant to know.

She was pretty tall and pretty slender, quiet, like still waters running deep. She never made a noise herself, being a model of good behaviour, but she created in some people an irresistible inclination to look upon life as a first-rate joke.

She had a tendency to throw everything into inextricable confusion by the depth of her enthusiasm. She managed many things, and with complete impartiality managed them all wrong. In that unassuming way of hers she took the lead in all well-directed efforts, and had a wonderful genius for setting her colleagues by the ears.

At the present moment things had occurred which were the cause to her of no little sorrow. She was the treasurer of the District Visitor's Fund, and at the same time of the Coal and Clothing Clubs. In that capacity she had taken a view of the duties of her office which had caused some dissatisfaction to her friends.

Being possessed of a bad memory, it had been her misfortune to receive several subscriptions to the District Visitors' Fund, of which she had forgotten to make any entry, and which she had paid away in a manner of which she was totally incapable of giving any account. In moments of generosity, too, she had bestowed the greater portion of the Coal Fund on unfortunate persons who were not of her parish, nor, it was to be feared, of any creed either. And in moments still more generous, the funds of the Clothing Club she had applied to the purchase of books for her Sunday School Library. Therefore, when the quarter ended and a request was made to examine her accounts and rectify them, she was in a position which was not exactly pleasant.

Now there happened to be at St. Giles's a curate who was a Low Churchman. Miss Maynard had a tendency to "High;" and between these two there was no good feeling lost. It was this curate who was causing all the trouble. He had not only made some uncomfortable remarks, but he had gone so far as to suggest that Miss Maynard should resign her office, and on this particular morning he had made an appointment to call in order that, as he said, some decision might be arrived at.

Major Clifford, I regret to say, was no churchgoer. In addition to which he had an unreasonable objection to what he called "parsons," and was wont to boast that he knew none of them, except the vicar, who was a sociable gentleman of a somewhat older school, even by sight. However, when he heard that the Rev. Philip Spooner was calling, and what was the purport of his intended visit, he announced his intention to favour the reverend gentleman with a personal interview, and to present him with a piece of his mind. Hence the strong words which head this chapter.

Miss Maynard was not at all unwilling that he should see the Rev. Spooner, but she was exceedingly anxious that he should not wait for him as he would for a deadly enemy.

"Uncle, promise me that you will be calm and gentle."

"Calm and gentle!" cried the Major, banging his fist upon the table. "Calm and gentle! Do you mean to say, miss, that I would harm a fly!"

"But I am afraid, uncle, that Mr. Spooner will not understand you so well as I do."

"Then," said the Major, "if the man doesn't understand me, he must be a fool!"

In which Miss Maynard begged to differ, so put her hands upon his shoulders, which was a favourite trick of hers, and said:

"Uncle, you do love me, don't you? And I am sure you wouldn't hurt my feelings. You will be kind to Mr. Spooner for my sake, won't you?"

CHAPTER II
HIS NIECE'S WOOING

It was a warm morning in a pleasant country lane, and a young gentleman, with a very broad brimmed hat, a very long frock-coat, and a very small, stiff shirt collar, was pacing meditatively to and fro, evidently waiting for someone. Every now and then he glanced up the lane which seemed deserted by ordinary passengers, and if he had not been a clergyman would no doubt have whistled.

At last his patience was rewarded. Over the top of the low hedge a coquettish hat appeared sailing along, and presently a young woman came meekly round the corner, enjoying the fresh country air. It was Miss Maynard. The young gentleman advanced. He seemed to know her, for taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he kissed her, much in the same fashion as a short time before she had kissed the Major, only much more forcibly, and apparently with much enjoyment.

"Em, I thought you were never coming."

"I don't know," she said, and sighed. "I don't know. It's all vanity. I was thinking of your last Sunday's sermon," she continued as they wandered on, seemingly unconscious that his arm was round her waist. "It was so true."

They walked on till they reached a gate which opened into a little woodland copse. Here, under the mighty trees, the shade was pleasant, and the grass cool and refreshing to the eye. They sat at the foot of a great old oak.

"Em," said Mr. Roland-by the way, the Rev. John Roland was the young gentleman's name-"these meetings are very pleasant."

"Yes," said Em, who was always truthful, "they are."

"Therefore, I am afraid to run the risk of ending them."

"What do you mean?" cried she.

To be candid, four mornings out of five were taken up by these pleasant little meetings, and to end them would be to rob her of one of her most important occupations.

"Em, you know what I mean."

"I don't," said she.

"You do," said he.

"I do not," she said, and looked the other way.

"Then I'll tell you." And he told her. "Em, I can keep silence no longer. I must tell your uncle all. And if he forbids me-"

"I don't mind saying," she observed, taking advantage of the pause, "that I don't care if he does."

"What do you mean?"

"John," she whispered.

"Call me Jack."

"No; it's so undignified for a clergyman." Some people would call it undignified for a young woman to lay her hand on a clergyman's shoulder. "What do I care if he says no? He never does say what he means the first time. I can just turn him round my finger. Whatever he said to you he would never dare to say no to me; at least, when I had done with him."

"Let us hope so," said Mr. Roland. "But whatever happens, I feel that I have already been too long silent."

"I don't know," murmured Em, with a saintlike expression in her eyes. "I rather like meeting you upon the sly."

Mr. Roland, as a curate and so on, perceived this to be a sentiment in which, under any circumstances, it was impossible for him to acquiesce-at least, verbally.

"No," he declared; "it must not be. This is a matter in which delay is almost worse than dangerous. I must go to him at once and tell him all."

Miss Maynard yielded. She was not disinclined to have their little mutual understanding publicly announced, if only to gratify Miss Gigsby and one or two other young ladies.

"Yes, Em," he continued, "I will go at once, and doubt will be ended."

They went together to the end of the lane, then she departed to do a few little errands in the town, and the Rev. John Roland went on his visit to Major Clifford.

CHAPTER III
THE LADY'S LOVER

The Major waited for his visitor-waited in a mood which, in spite of his promise to Miss Maynard, promised unpleasantness for Mr. Spooner. Time passed on, and he did not come. The Major paced up and down stairs, to and from the windows, and from room to room. Finally, he took a large meerschaum pipe from the mantelshelf in the smoking-room and smoked it in the drawing-room, a thing he would not have dared to do-very properly-if Miss Maynard had been at home.

"I promised young Trafford I'd go and see what I thought of that new gun of his," growled the Major, "and here's that jackanapes keeping me in to listen to his insulting twaddle."

The Major probably forgot that at any rate the jackanapes in question had no appointment with him.

At last he threw open the window, and thrusting his head out, looked up and down the street to see if he could catch a glimpse of the expected Spooner.

"The fellow's playing with me!" he told himself considerably above a whisper. "Like his confounded impudence!"

Suddenly he caught sight of a shovel hat and clerical garments turning the street corner, and re-entering the room with some loss of dignity, commenced reading the "Broad Arrow" upside down. Presently there was a knock at the street door, and a stranger was shown upstairs unannounced.

"I have called," he began.

The Major rose.

"I am perfectly aware why you have called," said he. "My niece is not at home."

"No," said the visitor. "I am aware-"

"But," continued the Major, who meant to carry the thing with a high hand, and give Mr. Spooner clearly to understand what his opinions were, "she has commissioned me to deal with the matter in her name."

The Rev. John Roland-for it was the Rev. John Roland-looked somewhat mystified. He failed to see the drift of the Major's observation, and also did not fail to see that, for some reason, his reception was not exactly what he would have wished it to be.

"I regret," he began, with the Major standing bolt upright, glancing at him with an air of a martinet lecturing an unfortunate sub for neglect of duty, "that it is my painful duty-"

"Sir," said the Major, stiff as a poker, "you need regret nothing."

The Rev. John Roland looked at him. It was very kind of him to say so, but a little premature.

"I was about to say," he went on, feeling more awkward than he had intended to feel, "that owing to circumstances-"

"On which we need not enter," said the Major. "Quite so-quite so!"

He rose upon his toes, and sank back on his heels. Mr. Roland began to blush. He was not a particularly shy man, but under the circumstances the Major was trying.

"But I was about to remark that-"

"Sir," said the Major, shooting out his right hand towards Mr. Ronald in an unexpected manner, "once for all, sir, I say that I know all about it-once for all, sir! And the sooner we come to the point the better."

"Really," murmured Mr. Roland, "I am at a loss-"

"Then," cried the Major, suddenly flaring up in a way that was even startling, "let me tell you that I wonder you have the impertinence to say so. And I may further remark that the sooner you say what you have to say, and have done with it, the better for both sides."

Thereupon he went stamping up and down the room with heavy strides. Mr. Roland was so taken aback, that for a moment he was inclined to think that the Major had been drinking.

"Major Clifford," he said, with an air of dignity which he fondly hoped would tell, "I came here to speak to you on a matter intimately connected with your niece's future happiness."

"What the dickens do you mean by your confounded impudence? Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that my niece's happiness can be affected by your trumpery nonsense?"

"Sir," said Mr. Roland. "Major!"

There was no doubt about it, the Major must be intoxicated. It was painful to witness in a man of his years, but what could you expect from a person of his habits of life? He began to wish he had postponed his visit to another day.

"Don't Major me! Don't attempt any of your palavering with me! I'm not a fool, sir, and I am not an idiot, sir, and that's plain, sir!"

"Major," he said-"Major Clifford, I will not tell you-"

"You will not tell me, sir! What the dickens do you mean by you will not tell me? Do you mean to insult me in my own house, sir?"

Mr. Roland was disposed to think that the insult was all on the other side, and inclined to fancy that a man who abused another before he knew either his name or errand, could be nothing but a hopeless lunatic.

"This pains me," he observed-"pains me more than I can express."

"Well, upon my life!" shouted the Major. "A fellow comes to my house with the deliberate intention of insulting me and mine, and yet he has the confounded insolence to tell me that it pains him!"

"Major," Mr. Roland was naturally beginning to feel a little warm, "you are not sober."

"Sober!" roared the Major. "Not sober! Confound it! this is too much!"

And before the curate knew what was coming, the Major took him by the collar of his coat, led him from the room, and-let us say, assisted him down the stairs. The front door was flung open, and, in broad daylight, the astonished neighbours saw the Rev. John Roland, M.A., of Caius College, Cambridge, what is commonly called "kicked-out," of Major Clifford's house.

CHAPTER IV
THE MAJOR'S SORROW

After the Major had disposed of his offensive visitor, he went upstairs to think the matter over. It began to suggest itself to him that, upon the whole, he had not, perhaps, been so kind and gentle as Miss Maynard had advised. But then, as he phrased it, the fellow had been so confoundedly impertinent.

"Bully me, sir! Bully me!" cried the Major, taking a strong view of Mr. Roland's, under the circumstances, exceedingly mild deportment. "And the fellow said I wasn't sober! I never was so insulted in my life."

The Major felt the insinuation keenly, because-for prudential reasons only-he was rigidly abstemious.

When Miss Maynard returned, she was met at the door by the respected housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, and her own maid, Mary Ann.

"Oh, Miss," began Mrs. Phillips, directly the door was opened, "such goings on I never see in all my life-never in all my days. I thought I should have fainted."

Miss Maynard turned pale. She thought of the mild, if aggravating, Spooner, and was fearful that her affectionate relative might in some degree have forgotten her emphasised directions.

"Oh, Miss Em!" chimed in Mary Ann. "Whatever will come to us I don't know. If the police were to come and lock us all up, I shouldn't be surprised. Not a bit, I shouldn't."

"Pray shut the door," observed Miss Maynard, who was still upon the doorstep. "Come in here, Phillips, and tell me what is the matter."

Miss Maynard looked disturbed. Mr. Spooner was bad enough before, but he might make things very unpleasant indeed if anything had occurred to annoy him further.

"Oh, Miss Em, Mr. Roland has been here."

"Mr. Roland!"

"Yes, miss. And there was the Major and he a-shouting at each other, and the next thing I see was the Major dragging of him downstairs and a-shoving of him down the front steps."

Miss Maynard sank upon a chair. She seemed nearly fainting.

"Mrs. Phillips, this is awful."

"Awful ain't the word for it, miss. It's a case for the police."

"Mrs. Phillips, this is worse than you can possibly conceive. I must see the Major."

"The Major's in the drawing-room. Can't you hear him, miss?"

Miss Maynard could hear him stamping overhead as though he were doing his best to bring the ceiling down.

"Thank you; I will go to him."

She did go to him. But first she went to her own room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Going to the dressing-table she put her arms upon it and hid her face within her hands.

"Oh!" she said, "whatever shall I do?" Then she cried. "It's the most dreadful thing I ever heard of. Oh, how could he find it in his heart to treat me so?" She ceased crying and dried her eyes, "Never mind, it's not over yet. If he drives me to despair he shall know it was his doing."

Then she stood up, took off her hat and coat, washed her face and eyes, and entered the drawing-room in her best manner.

The Major was alone. He was perfectly aware that Miss Maynard had returned. He had seen her come up the street, he had heard her enter the house, but for reasons of his own he had not gone to meet her with that exuberant warmth with which, occasionally, it was his custom to greet her. He was in a towering passion. At least, he fully intended to be in a towering passion, but at the same time he was fully conscious that, under the circumstances, a towering passion was a very difficult thing to keep properly towering. And when Miss Maynard entered with the expression of her countenance so sweet and saintlike, he knew that there was trouble in the air. He looked at his watch.

"Five-and-twenty minutes to two. Five-and-twenty minutes to two. And we lunch at half-past one. Those servants are disgraceful!"

And he crossed the room to ring the bell.

"Please don't ring," said Miss Maynard, quite up to the manœuvre. "I wish to speak to you."

"Oh, oh! Then perhaps you'll remember it is luncheon-time, and when we're likely to have any regularity in this establishment, perhaps you'll let me know."

Miss Maynard drew herself up.

"Pray don't attack me," she observed. "I don't wish to be kicked out of the house."

The Major turned crimson. It was true that someone had been so kicked that morning, but it was unkind of Miss Maynard to insinuate that he had any desire to kick her.

"Look here!" he cried, actually shaking his fist at her.

"Don't threaten me," remarked Miss Maynard.

"Threaten you! You leave me at home to meet a scoundrel!"

"How dare you!" exclaimed Miss Maynard, who had momentarily forgotten whom it was she had left him there to meet.

"How dare I. Well, upon my soul, this is a pretty thing!"

"I had never thought that in a matter in which my happiness was so involved, my existence so bound up, you could have treated me so cruelly!"

The Major stared. Like Mr. Roland, he was a little puzzled.

"You tell me that your existence is bound up in that fellow's?"

"Fellow! The fellow is worth twenty thousand such gentleman as you!"

The Major was astounded. The remark amazed him. He really thought Miss Maynard must be demented, not knowing that Mr. Roland had thought the same thing of him not long before.

"Oh, Major Clifford, when I am broken-hearted, and you follow me, if you ever do, to a miserable tomb, then-then may you never know what it is to be a savage!"

The Major began to be alarmed. He feared Miss Maynard must be seriously unwell.

"Eh! ah! you-you're not well. You-you don't take enough care. It's-it's indigestion."

"Indigestion!" cried Miss Maynard, and she sank upon the couch. "Indigestion! He breaks my heart, and he says it's indigestion!"

She burst into a flood of tears. The Major was terrified.

"Mrs. Philips!" he shouted. "Mary Ann!"

"Don't!" exclaimed Miss Maynard. "Call no one. Let me die alone! You have robbed me of the man I love!"

"Love!" cried the Major, racking his brains to think where the tinge of insanity came in the family. "You love Spooner!"

"Spooner!" replied Miss Maynard with contempt. "I love John Roland."

"John Roland!" yelled the Major, thinking that he must be going mad as well. "Who the deuce is he?"

"He asks me who he is, and he kicked him from his house this morning!"

"I kicked him!" cried the Major, indignant at the charge. "I kicked Spooner!"

"You did not!" persisted Miss Maynard between her tears. "You kicked Roland!"

"I kicked Spooner!" said the Major.

"Do you mean to say," enquired Miss Maynard, on whom a light was dimly breaking, "that you didn't know the gentleman you kicked was Mr. Roland?"

"Roland!" exclaimed the Major, staggered. "Roland! I swear I thought the man was Spooner."

"Oh!" gasped Miss Maynard, overwhelmed by the discovery, "Major Clifford, what have you done?"

"Heaven knows!" groaned the Major as he sank into a chair. "Chanced six months' hard labour."

There was silence for a few moments then the Major spoke again:

"I know what I'll do, I'll write."

Miss Maynard was agreeable. Getting pens, ink and paper he sat down and commenced his composition.

"My Dear Sir,

"As an unmitigated idiot and an ungentlemanly ruffian, I am only too conscious that I am an ass-"

"I don't think I would put unmitigated idiot and ungentlemanly ruffian," suggested Miss Maynard mildly. "Perhaps Mr. Roland would not care to marry into a family which contained such characters as that."

"Marry?" said the Major, arresting his pen.

"Yes," replied Miss Maynard. "I think I would put it in this way: 'My Dear Mr. Roland-'"

"But I never saw the man before. I don't know him from Adam."

"Never mind," said Miss Maynard; "I do."

So the Major wrote as he was told.

"My Dear Mr. Roland,

"I have to apologise for my conduct of this morning, which was entirely owing to a gross misconception on my part. If you will kindly call at your earliest convenience I will explain fully. I may say that your proposition has my heartiest approval-"

"But I don't know what his proposition is," protested the Major.

"Mr. Roland's proposition is that he should marry me," explained Miss Maynard. There was silence. Miss Maynard prepared to raise her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes. "Of course, if you wish to break my heart-"

Then the Major succumbed, and Miss Maynard continued her dictation.

–"and I shall have the greatest pleasure in welcoming you as my nephew.

"Believe me, with repeated apologies,

Very faithfully yours,

"Arthur Clifford."

Miss Maynard possessed herself of the epistle, and while the Major was addressing the envelope, added a postscript of her own:

"My Dear Jack,

"You see, I call you Jack for once-my silly old uncle has made a goose of himself. Please, please come this instant to your own Em, because-I will not say I want to kiss you. It would be most unseemly in the afternoon.

"Ever, ever your own

"Em."

This choice epistle, containing additions of which he was unconscious, the Major packed into an envelope, and, under Miss Maynard's supervision, dispatched to its destination by a maid. Then they went down, models of propriety, to luncheon.

It was after that meal, when they were again in the drawing-room, that there came a knock at the street door. Steps were heard coming up the stairs.

"It is he!" cried Miss Maynard, with that intuition bestowed upon true love preparing to receive him in her arms.

Fortunately, however, he eluded her embrace, because the visitor happened to be Mr. Spooner.

"Mr. Spooner!" cried Miss Maynard.

"Miss-Miss Maynard," said Mr. Spooner, "I-I beg your pardon."

"The Rev. William Spooner-Major Clifford."

Miss Maynard introduced them. The gentlemen looked at each other. At least, the Major looked at Mr. Spooner. Mr. Spooner, after the first shy glance, seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet.

"With regard to the purport of your visit," went on Miss Maynard, using her finest dictionary words, "I have to place in your hands my resignation of the offices I have hitherto so unworthily held. With reference to the unfortunately mismanaged-er-book-keeping, to make that all right" – it was rather a comedown-"Major Clifford wishes to present you with a donation of," she paused, "of twenty-five guineas."

"Fifty," growled the Major, much disgusted. "For goodness sake, make it fifty while you are about it!"

"Just so," said Miss Maynard blandly. "The Major is particularly anxious to make it fifty guineas."

The Major glared at her. If they had been alone, and the circumstances had been different, he would no doubt have given her a small piece of his mind. As it was-well, discretion is the better part of valour.

Mr. Spooner began his speech:

"I-I am sure we shall be very happy; I-I should say we shall exceedingly; that is, no doubt the donation is-is- At the same time, Miss-Miss Maynard's services, though-though-"

He went blundering on, Miss Maynard looking at him stonily, raising not a finger to his help. The Major took his bearings. He was a tall, thin young gentleman with a white face-which, however, was just now pinkish-white hair upon the top of his head, and a faint suspicion of more white hair upon his upper lip. It would have been cruel to apply assault and battery to one so innocent.

While Mr. Spooner was still stammering, and stuttering there came another knock at the street door. Miss Maynard gave a slight jump. There was no mistake about it this time. Somebody came bolting up the stairs apparently three steps at a time. The door was thrown open. Somebody entered the room, and in about two seconds in spite of the assembled company Miss Maynard and the Rev. John Roland were locked breast to breast. To do the young man justice it was not his idea of things at all. He was plainly taken a little aback. But the young woman's enthusiasm was not to be restrained.

"This," explained Miss Maynard, holding Mr. Roland by his coat sleeve, "this is the Rev. John Roland. John, this is my uncle."

There was a striking difference between the tones in which she made the two announcements. The two gentlemen bowed. They had had the pleasure of meeting before. One, if not both, felt a little awkward. But Miss Maynard did not care two pins how they felt. She transferred her attentions to Mr. Spooner.

"I am going to leave St. Giles's," she observed; "the service is too low. I am going to St. Simon Stylites. I suppose, John, I may as well tell Mr. Spooner that you are going to be my husband."

John was silent. So was Mr. Spooner. The latter was gentleman amazed not to say indignant. In his heart of hearts he had been persuaded that Miss Maynard was consumed by a hopeless passion for William Spooner.

"Perhaps Miss Maynard will become treasurer of the Clothing Club at St. Simon Stylites."

Had it not been a case of two clergyman, Mr. Roland might possibly have liked to have had a try at knocking Mr. Spooner down. As it was he refrained.

"If Miss Maynard does so honour us, she at least need fear no insults from the clergy."

Miss Maynard favoured him with a lovely smile, and Mr. Spooner was annihilated.

Since then Mr. Roland and Miss Maynard have been united in the bonds of holy matrimony. The ceremony was performed at St. Simon Stylites, and the Rev. William Spooner was, after all, one of the officiating clergy. Mr. Roland is at present Vicar of a parish in the neighbourhood of Stoke-cum-Poger, of which parish Mrs. Roland is also Vicaress. He is very "High," and it is darkly whispered that certain courts possessing very nicely defined spiritual powers have their eyes upon him. Of that we know nothing, but we do know that he is possessed of a promising family, and that, not so very long ago, Mrs. Roland presented him with a second Em.