At length the anthem succeeding the communion-service, filled the chapel with its solemn echoes, accompanied by the pealing of the magnificent organ. Then a simultaneous sensation pervaded the entire congregation, and all eyes were directed towards the Rev. Reginald Tracy, who was now ascending the steps to the pulpit.
The anthem was ended; the congregation resumed their seats; and the preacher commenced.
It is not, however, our intention to treat our readers to a sermon: suffice it to say, that the eloquence and matter of the discourse which the Rev. Reginald Tracy delivered upon this occasion, were well calculated to sustain his high reputation.
But of the attentive audience, no individual seemed to be more deeply impressed with his sermon than Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sate in a pew near the pulpit—next indeed to the one which the clergyman himself had occupied during the former part of the service.
She was alone; for on the previous day she had hired that pew for her own especial use.
Whenever the eyes of the preacher were turned in the direction where she sate, she appeared to be wiping away tears from her cheeks; for the sermon was on a solemn and pathetic subject.
More than once she fancied that he observed her; and her heart beat triumphantly in her bosom.
When the sermon was concluded she remained in her pew, and allowed the rest of the congregation to leave the chapel ere she moved from her seat. At length the sacred edifice was deserted, save by herself and two or three officials connected with the establishment.
In a few minutes the pew-opener—an elderly matron-like person—accosted her, and said, "If you please, ma'am, the doors will be closed almost directly."
"Could you—could you oblige me with a glass of water?" faltered Lady Cecilia: "I feel as if I were about to faint."