“It was the vox humana. It is too theatrical for my taste, my dear. It was invented by——”
“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Lottie, under her breath; “he is beginning again.”
This time it was the “Pastoral Symphony” the Signor played—music that was never intended for the chill of winter, but for the gleaming stars, the soft falling dews, the ineffable paleness and tenderness of spring. It came upon Lottie like those same dews from heaven. She grasped the old man’s arm, but she could not keep herself from the response which no longer seemed to come back from any unseen and mystic shrine. Why should the old monks come back to sing, or the angels have the trouble, who have so much else to do, when Lottie was there? When the “Pastoral Symphony” was over the Signor went on, and she with him. Surely there must have been some secret understanding that no one knew of—not themselves. He played on unconscious, and she lifted up her head to the moonlight and her voice to heaven and sang—
There were shepherds watching their flocks by night.
Lottie let go her hold of the Captain’s arm. She wanted no support now. She wanted nothing but to go on, to tell all that divine story from end to end. It got possession of her. She did not remember even the changes of the voices; the end of one strain and another was nothing to her. She sang through the whole of the songs that follow each other without a pause or a falter. And like her, without questioning, without hesitation, the Signor played on. It was not till she had proclaimed into the gloom that “His yoke is easy and His burden light” that she came to herself. The last chords thrilled and vibrated through the great arches and died away in lingering echoes in the vast gloom of the roof. And then there was a pause.
Lottie came to herself. She was not overwhelmed and exhausted by the effort, as she had been at the Deanery. She felt herself come down, as out of heaven, and slowly became aware of Captain Temple looking at her with a disturbed countenance, and old Wykeham in all the agitation of alarm. “If I’d have known I’d never have let you in. It’s as much as my place is worth,” the old man was saying; and Captain Temple, very kindly and fatherly, but troubled too, and by no means happy, gave her his arm hurriedly. “I think we had better go, my dear,” he said; “I think we had better go.”
Some one stopped them at the door—some one who took her hand in his with a warmth which enthusiasm permitted.
“I knew it must be you, if it were not one of the angels,” he said; “one or the other. I have just come; and what a welcome I have had—too good for a king!”
“I did not know you were here, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Lottie, faintly, holding fast by Captain Temple’s arm.
“But I knew you were here; it was in the air,” he said, half-whispering. “Good-night; but good-night lasts only till to-morrow, thank heaven.”