Her husband smiled, though his smile was a melancholy one, at her earnestness.
“I have it,” he exclaimed suddenly; “I will write to Lyle by to-night’s post. He will come if he can, I am sure, and I know he only preaches occasionally where he is.”
The letter was written and despatched. Mr Lyle was a young clergyman doing assistant duty temporarily at a church in the suburbs while waiting for a living promised to him. His answer came by return. He would be glad to do as his friend asked. “But I shall go straight to Saint X’s on Sunday morning,” he wrote. “I shall not probably be able to reach it till the last moment, as I have an early service here. Ask them to count on me for nothing but the sermon. I shall look in after the 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 him after the service,” her husband replied. “With you there he will have one attentive hearer, I can safely promise him,” he added, with a smile.
“I cannot help listening, even when it is not you, Reginald,” she said naïvely. “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 real midsummer’s day.
“How beautiful it must be in the country to-day!” thought Mildred, as she made her way to church; “it is beautiful even here in town. I wonder why I feel so happy to-day. It is greatly, no doubt, that Reginald is better, and the sunshine is so lovely. When I feel as I do this morning I long to believe that the world is growing better, not worse, 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 down in her accustomed place. Gradually it filled—up the aisles flecked with the brilliant colours of the painted windows, as the sunshine made its 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 was diversity enough and of many kinds among those now pressing in through its doors. There were old, and middle-aged, and young—from the aged lady on her son’s arm, who, as she feebly moved along, said to herself that this might perhaps be her last attendance at public worship, to the little round-eyed wondering cherub coming to church for the first time. There was the anxious mother of a family, who came from a vague feeling that it was a right and respectable thing to do, though it was but seldom that she could sufficiently distract her mind from cares and calculations to take in clearly the sense of the words that fell upon her ears. There was the man of learning, who smiled indulgently at the survival of the ancient creeds and customs, while believing them doomed. There were bright and lovely young faces, whose owners, in the heyday of youth and prosperity, found it difficult to put aside for the time the thoughts of present enjoyment for graver matters. There were some in deep mourning, to whom, on the other hand, it seemed impossible that aught in life could ever cheer or interest them again.
There were men and women of many different and differing modes of thought, all assembled for the avowed purpose of praying to God and praising Him in company, and of listening to the exhortation or instruction of a man they recognised as empowered to deliver it. And among them all, how many, think you, prayed from the heart and not only with the lips? how many thrilled with solemn rejoicing as the beautiful words of adoration rose with the strains of the organ’s tones? how many ever thought of the “sermon,” save as a most legitimate subject for sharp criticism or indifferent contempt?