Nobody

"I shall bid you go home," said Lois, laughing.

"I am not going to do that."

"Seriously, Mr. Dillwyn, I do not need the least care."

"Perhaps. But I must look at the matter from my point of view."

What a troublesome man! thought Lois; but then they were at theschoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, thatit seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwynwent in with her, and how to turn him out Lois did not know.

It was a bare little place. The sanded floor gave little help orseeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the placehabitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there.Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and itwas no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder.

"Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, asfar from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes norears? You must not be seen to have either – by any use you make of them.If you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. You cankeep up the fire for us."

She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyedorders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthestcorner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears shouldbe hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude mighthave suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation onthings far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois andher six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, whichwas too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctlyheard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyndesired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he mustnot be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve bothpurposes, of seeing and not seeing.

The hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extendeditself to full an hour and a half. He gave as close attention as everwhen 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 thelecturer. And the study grew intense. It was not flattering toperceive, as he soon did, that Lois had entirely forgotten hispresence. 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, andit cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his presentpurpose of observation. So he watched, – and listened. He heard thesweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, itis true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter thanusual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mentalharmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. It contrasted with theother voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, toohigh pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are aptto be. From the voices, Mr. Dillwyn's attention was drawn to what thevoices said. And here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal tointerest him. Those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to beacute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented tothem, often cunning to deal with it. Mr. Dillwyn was in danger ofsmiling, more than once. And Lois met them, if not with the skill of apractised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and awoman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, andtact, and gentleness, and wisdom. It was something delightful to hearher soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under theirsoftness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, andeagerness too; for Lois was talking with all her heart. Mr. Dillwynlost his wonder that her class came out in the rain; he only wished hecould 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 beforethem. They would not have been worthy to see it else. Lois had laid offher bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a littleloosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be calleddisorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, fullmasses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. Nothingcould be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eyenoted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of everymovement and attitude. The charm that comes, and always must come, frominward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence ofconsciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by anyperfection of the physical structure. Then the tints of absolutehealth, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in suchsweet 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 Biblelesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even themanagement of the voice told of it. Here was not a fine machine, soundand good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating toget it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running toldhow well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, andthe schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that wasLois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp ofa strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it wasfancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once forall; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yetungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made nodifference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. Hehardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her class, but as shecame up to him he rose.

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

"Not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak andhanded her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Loiswould have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it whicheven then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but thewalk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind wereunchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as theymore nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven againstthem 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 hadbeen violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which madethe difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were nowalmost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing shehad been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? Andwhat gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though shefelt 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 beentaking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as aman only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful ofher, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, whichLois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. Itwas something she had never touched before in her life, and did not nowknow what it meant; at least I should say her reason did not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuitionof recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. This was nothing like TomCaruthers, and anything she had received from him. Tom had beenflattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, andno demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. Itwas the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of allthe world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the mostsubtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; whichthe one renders and the other receives, without either being able totell how it is done. The more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. Lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and didnot know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompass her. Shewas ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; didnot know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; couldnot guess why she was sorry to get home. Yet the fact was before her asshe stepped in.

"It has done you no harm!" said Mr. Dillwyn, smiling, as he met Lois'seyes, 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 hercloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." And Loissubmitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet onone 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 theway. You cannot handle it."

Lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wetor dry make any difference to her? However, she did not on thisoccasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docilitypreceded Mr. Dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were Mrs. Armadaleand Madge, to the kitchen beyond, where Charity was just putting on thetea-kettle.

CHAPTER XXXV

OPINIONS

Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a lessentertaining man this evening than he had been during the former partof his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at thetea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into nodiscussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to hisduties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become secondnature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclaylooked 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 hadbecome a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, andshe and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, variedexceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn andpsaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally camefirst; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs.Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Loisboth had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs.Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philipjoined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could doin the Episcopal church."

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

"Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folkswon'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," saidDillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert thisevening."

"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 wayyou 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 andmanner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentlemanforgive 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. Doyou 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 arenever held responsible for the things they sing, – out of church," addedPhilip, 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 rightstate; – 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!" saidCharity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you hadyour way; and then we should have nice music!"

"I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind ofsober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring oftruth 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?"