Lyle by to-night'spost. He will come if he can, I am sure, and I know he only preachesoccasionally where he is."
The letter was written and despatched. Mr Lyle was a young clergymandoing assistant duty temporarily at a church in the suburbs whilewaiting for a living promised to him. His answer came by return. Hewould be glad to do as his friend asked. "But I shall go straight toSaint X's on Sunday morning," he wrote. "I shall not probably be ableto reach it till the last moment, as I have an early service here. Askthem to count on me for nothing but the sermon. I shall look in afterthe service and shall hope to find you better."
"He will be here at luncheon, then, I suppose?" said the Rector's wife--Mildred was her name.
"Doubtless; at least you will ask him to come. You can wait to see himafter the service," her husband replied. "With you there he will have_one_ attentive hearer, I can safely promise him," he added, with asmile.
"I cannot help listening, even when it is not you, Reginald," she saidnaively. "It seems to me only natural to do so and to try to gain_something_ at least. We cannot expect perfection in sermons surely,even less than in lesser things. And if the perfection were there,could we, imperfect as we are, recognise it?"
Sunday morning rose, bright and glowing over the great city--a realmidsummer's day.
"How beautiful it must be in the country to-day!" thought Mildred, asshe made her way to church; "it is beautiful even here in town. Iwonder why I feel so happy to-day. It is greatly, no doubt, thatReginald is better, and the sunshine is so lovely. When I feel as I dothis morning I _long_ to believe that the world is growing better, notworse, that the misery, and the ignorance, and the sins are lessening,however slowly; I feel as if I could give my life to help it on."
There was scarcely any one in the church when she entered and sat downin her accustomed place. Gradually it filled--up the aisles fleckedwith the brilliant colours of the painted windows, as the sunshine madeits way through them, the congregation crowded in, in decorous silence.There were but few poor, few even of the the so-called working classes,for Saint X's is in a rich and fashionable neighbourhood, yet there wasdiversity enough and of many kinds among those now pressing in throughits doors. There were old, and middle-aged, and young--from the agedlady on her son's arm, who, as she feebly moved along, said to herselfthat this might perhaps be her last attendance at public worship, to thelittle round-eyed wondering cherub coming to church for the first time.There was the anxious mother of a family, who came from a vague feelingthat it was a right and respectable thing to do, though it was butseldom that she could sufficiently distract her mind from cares andcalculations to take in clearly the sense of the words that fell uponher ears. There was the man of learning, who smiled indulgently at thesurvival of the ancient creeds and customs, while believing them doomed.There were bright and lovely young faces, whose owners, in the heydayof youth and prosperity, found it difficult to put aside for the timethe thoughts of present enjoyment for graver matters. There were somein deep mourning, to whom, on the other hand, it seemed impossible thataught in life could ever cheer or interest them again.
There were men and women of many different and differing modes ofthought, all assembled for the avowed purpose of praying to God andpraising Him in company, and of listening to the exhortation orinstruction of a man they recognised as empowered to deliver it. Andamong them all, how many, think you, prayed from the heart and not onlywith the lips? how many thrilled with solemn rejoicing as the beautifulwords of adoration rose with the strains of the organ's tones? how manyever thought of the "sermon," save as a most legitimate subject forsharp criticism or indifferent contempt?
The service went on with the usual decorum. From her place Mildredcould see all that passed. She noticed that the two curates were aloneand unaided.
"Mr Lyle cannot yet have come," she thought nervously. "Surely nothingcan have detained him?" and a slight misgiving, lest he should not havegot away in time, began to assail her. But when the moment forcommencing the Communion service came, the sight of a thirdwhite-surpliced figure removed all her apprehensions, and with a sigh ofrelief she knelt again, joining her voice to the responses. Sheobserved that the new-comer took no active part in the service; heremained kneeling where she had first perceived him. But it seemed toher that the music and the voices had never sounded so rich andmelodious, and once or twice tones caught her ears which she fancied shehad not before remarked.
"I wonder if it can be Mr Lyle singing," she thought. "I do notremember if Reginald ever mentioned his having a beautiful voice."
And when the time came for the preacher to ascend the pulpit, shewatched for him with increased interest. It needed but the first fewsyllables which fell from his lips to satisfy her that his was the voicewhich she had perceived; and with calm yet earnest expectancy she waitedto hear what he had to say.
At the first glance he looked very young. His face was pale, and he wasof a fair complexion. There was nothing in him to strike or attract acareless or superficial observer. But when the soft yet penetratingtones of his voice caught the ear, one felt constrained to bestow acloser attention on the speaker, and this, once given, was not easilywithdrawn. For there was a power in his eyes, though their habitualexpression was mild, such as it would be vain for me to attempt todescribe--a strength and firmness in the lines of the youthful facewhich marked him as one not used to speak in vain.
"Is he young?" thought Mildred more than once. "It seems in some waydifficult to believe it, though his features are in no way time-worn;and those wonderful eyes are as clear and candid as the eyes of a childthat has scarcely yet learned to look out on to this troubled world."
And her perplexity was shared by many among the hearers.
They had settled themselves comfortably to listen or not to listen,according to their wont, as the preacher ascended the pulpit steps.
A momentary feeling of surprise--in a few cases of disappointment--passed through the congregation on catching sight of the unfamiliarface.
"Another new curate, no doubt," thought a portly and pompouschurchwarden. "And what a boy! Well, if the Rector chooses to throwaway his money on three when two are quite enough for the work, it is nobusiness of ours. Still, it would be more becoming to consult us, andnot to set a beardless youth like that to teach us. I, for one, shallnot irritate myself by listening to his platitudes."
And he ensconsed himself more snugly in his corner to carry out hisintention. But what was there in that vibrating voice that _would_ beheard?--that so often as Mr Goldmain turned his thoughts in otherdirections, drew them back again like a flock of rebellious sheep,constraining him to hearken? Then his mood changed: annoyed, he knewnot why, he set himself to cavil and object.
"Arrant Socialism!" he called the sermon when describing it afterwards."Shallow, superficial, unpractical nonsense, about drawing all classestogether by sympathy and charity. It sounds plausible enough, Idaresay; so did many of the theories and doctrines of the first moversin the great French Revolution, I have no doubt. No, no! Let each dohis duty in that station of life where God has placed him; that is _my_interpretation of religion. Our great charitable institutions must bekept up, of course, so that the _deserving_ poor may be helped when theyreally need it; though even among the respectable, in nine cases out often, my dear sir, you may believe me, it's their own fault. But as forthis dream of universal brotherhood, `of the rich mingling in the dailylife of the poor, weeping with them in their sorrows, rejoicing in theirjoys,' it is sentimental twaddle. It would revolutionise society, itwould break down all the barriers which keep the masses in their places.And to have this nonsense preached to us by a chit of a boy, it makesme lose my temper, I confess. I have not seen our worthy Rector yet,but when I do, I must tell him plainly that if he is not more carefulwhom he puts in his pulpit when he is absent or ill--hypochondriacalfellow he is, I fancy--I shall look out for seats in some other churchthan Saint X's."
Such was Mr Goldmain's impression of the ser
mon. For though he closedhis eyes in order that those about him might think he was asleep, he didnot succeed in achieving even the shortest of dozes. Nay, more, he feltas if mentally stung by nettles for the rest of the day, so irritated,and, though for worlds he would not have confessed it, ill at ease, hadthe strange preacher's discourse left him. But the soil of hisconscience was choked with thorns; there was room for naught beside. MrGoldmain was of this world, worldly, and such he remained.
He might have spared himself the trouble of thinking of how he appearedto those around him. They were none of them paying any attention tohim. In the next seat sat some richly-clad ladies of uncertain age.They had become members of the Saint X's congregation because they hadbeen told they would find its Rector's views in no way