It was all so moving, and Gaston felt so touched by it himself, that it scarcely surprised him when he glanced at Margaret, as the sweet voice died away, to see that her eyes were full of tears. As they knelt for the concluding prayer she brushed away the traces of these, and when they walked down the aisle together her calmness had quite returned. And how calm and quiet her companion looked! His perfectly chosen clothes, the smooth neatness of his short, dark hair, and, more than all, his self-collected bearing and thoughtful face, made him a contrast to the rather carelessly dressed young man, with dishevelled, curly locks, and eager, restless eyes, who stood in the vestibule, at the foot of the gallery steps, rapidly scanning the faces of the dispersing congregation, in complete unconsciousness of the fact that his somewhat singular conduct and appearance were being observed by those around him. As his restless gaze at last fell upon Miss Trevennon, his knit brows relaxed, and he pressed forward.
“May I come to see you to-morrow?” he said, in eager tones, which, though low, were distinctly audible to Louis.
“Yes,” replied Margaret at once, in a somewhat tremulous voice, “at eleven in the morning.”
Then, taking her companion’s arm, she passed on. Louis had observed that the two did not shake hands, nor exchange any word of greeting. This hurried question and answer was all that passed between them. What had there been in a short, casual meeting like that to make the girl look pale and excited, as her companion saw by a furtive glance that she was? He could feel her hand tremble slightly when she first laid it within his arm, but the little, almost imperceptible flutter soon ceased, and she walked on very quiet and still. And so they took their way along the streets in silence. She did not seem inclined to talk, and he would not jar her by speaking.
Margaret, as she mused upon this meeting, was blaming herself for the concession she had made, which was indeed attributable altogether to the music.
“I have no resolution or power of resistance whatever, when I’m under the influence of music,” she said to herself, half angrily. “It takes away my moral accountability. I don’t believe the story of the sirens is a fable. A beautiful voice could draw me toward itself as truly as the pole draws the magnet. It is intense weakness. I ought to have told him No, and ended the matter at once.”
Remembering that her companion would have reason to wonder at her silence, Margaret roused herself with an effort and made some comment on the service.
“It was all very beautiful,” said Louis. “I felt it very much, and I feel very happy to have gone. That solo was exquisitely sung. The voice does not seem to be highly cultivated, but it was thrillingly sweet.”
“It was Mr. Somers, the young man from Bassett, whose voice I have spoken to you of. He has just come to Washington, and I knew he would want to see me, so I named an hour when I was sure to be free.”
When they had reached home and were going up the steps, they found Thomas opening the door for a colored servant-man, who had two small parcels in his hand. He took off his hat and stepped back as they came up, and Thomas said: