The hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extended itself to full an hour and a half. He gave as close attention as ever when a student in college he had given to lecture or lesson. And yet, though he did this, Mr. Dillwyn was not, at least not at the time, thinking much of the matter of the lesson. He was studying the lecturer. And the study grew intense. It was not flattering to perceive, as he soon did, that Lois had entirely forgotten his presence. He saw it by the free unconcern with which she did her work, as well as in the absorbed interest she gave to it. Not flattering, and it cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his present purpose of observation. So he watched,--and listened. He heard the sweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, it is true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter than usual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mental harmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. It contrasted with the other voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, too high pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are apt to be. From the voices, Mr. Dillwyn's attention was drawn to what the voices said. And here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal to interest him. Those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to be acute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented to them, often cunning to deal with it. Mr. Dillwyn was in danger of smiling, more than once. And Lois met them, if not with the skill of a practised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and a woman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, and tact, and gentleness, and wisdom. It was something delightful to hear her soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under their softness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, and eagerness too; for Lois was talking with all her heart. Mr. Dillwyn lost his wonder that her cla.s.s came out in the rain; he only wished he could be one of them, and have the privilege too!

It was impossible but that with all this mental observation Mr.

Dillwyn's eyes should also take notice of the fair exterior before them. They would not have been worthy to see it else. Lois had laid off her bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a little loosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be called disorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, full ma.s.ses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. Nothing could be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eye noted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of every movement and att.i.tude. The charm that comes, and always must come, from inward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence of consciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by any perfection of the physical structure. Then the tints of absolute health, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in such sweet modulations--

What a woman was this! Mr. Dillwyn could see, too, the effect of Mrs.

Barclay's work. He was sure he could. The whole giving of that Bible lesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even the management of the voice told of it. Here was not a fine machine, sound and good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating to get it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running told how well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the cla.s.s, and the schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that was Lois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp of a strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it was fancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once for all; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yet ungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made no difference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. He hardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her cla.s.s, but as she came up to him he rose.

"I have kept you too long, Mr. Dillwyn; but I could not help it; and really, you know, it was your own fault."

"Not a minute too long," he a.s.sured her; and he put on her cloak and handed her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Lois would have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it which even then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but the walk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind were unchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as they more nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven against them with greater fury. Lois was fain to cling to her companion's arm, and the umbrella had to be handled with discretion. But the storm had been violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which made the difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were now almost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing she had been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? And what gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though she felt it in every fibre of her being. And Mr. Dillwyn did not know, though the cause lay in him. He was taking care of Lois; he had been taking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as a man only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful of her, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, which Lois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. It was something she had never touched before in her life, and did not now know what it meant; at least I should say her _reason_ did not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuition of recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. This was nothing like Tom Caruthers, and anything she had received from him. Tom had been flattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, and no demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. It was the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of all the world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the most subtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; which the one renders and the other receives, without either being able to tell how it is done. The more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. Lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and did not know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompa.s.s her. She was ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; did not know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; could not guess why she was sorry to get home. Yet the fact was before her as she stepped in.

"It has done you no harm!" said Mr. Dillwyn, smiling, as he met Lois's eyes, and saw her fresh, flushed cheeks. "Are you wet?"

"I think not at all."

"This must come off, however," he went on, proceeding to unfasten her cloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." And Lois submitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet on one side, to be taken off her.

"Where is this to go? there seems to be no place to hang it here."

"O, I will hang it up to dry in the kitchen, thank you," said Lois, offering to take it.

"_I_ will hang it up to dry in the kitchen,--if you will show me the way. You cannot handle it."

Lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wet or dry make any difference to her? However, she did not on this occasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docility preceded Mr. Dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were Mrs. Armadale and Madge, to the kitchen beyond, where Charity was just putting on the tea-kettle.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

OPINIONS.

Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a less entertaining man this evening than he had been during the former part of his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at the tea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into no discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclay looked at Lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there.

Always on Sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity.

The rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. It had become a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, and she and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, varied exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn and psaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally came first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs.

Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Lois both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs.

Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philip joined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could do in the Episcopal church."

"Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philip absently.

"Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folks won't practise."

"I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts _are_ in it,"

said Mrs. Armadale.

"But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said Dillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert this evening."

"Was your'n in it?" asked Mrs. Armadale abruptly.

"My heart? In the words? I am afraid I must own it was not, in the way you mean, madam. If I must answer truth."

"Don't you always speak truth?"

"I believe I may say, that _is_ my habit," Philip answered, smiling.

"Then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean 'em?"

The question looks abrupt, on paper. It did not sound equally so.

Something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman forgive her on the spot. He sat down beside her.

"Would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?"

"It's not my place to bid or forbid. But you can judge for yourself. Do you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?"

"I made no professions."

"Ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?"

"If you will forgive me--I did not say it," responded Philip.

"Ain't singin' sayin'?"

"They are generally looked upon as essentially different. People are never held responsible for the things they sing,--out of church," added Philip, smiling. "Is it otherwise with church singing?"

"What's church singin' good for, then?"

"I thought it was to put the minds of the worshippers in a right state;--to sober and harmonize them."

"I thought it was to tell the Lord how we felt," said the old lady.

"That is a new view of it, certainly."

"_I_ thought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" said Charity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you had _your_ way; and then we should have nice music!"

"I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind of sober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring of truth was there, at any rate.

"Could the world be managed," he said, with very gentle deference; "could the world be managed on such principles of truth and purity?

Must we not take people as we find them?"

"Those are the Lord's principles," said Mrs. Armadale.

"Yes, but you know how the world is. Must we not, a little, as I said, take people as we find them?"

"The Lord won't do that," said the old lady. "He will either make them better, or he will cast them away."