Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon.
"It's Maryllia Vancourt's creature,"--she whispered--"The ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really IS a voice?"
"It really is, I think!" responded Lady Beaulyon, languidly, turning her fair head to look at the plain sallow girl with the untidy black hair whom she had only seen for a few minutes on her arrival at Abbot's Manor the previous day, and whom she had scarcely noticed. But Cicely saw her not--her whole soul was in her singing,--and she had no glance even for Julian Adderley, who, gazing at her as if she were already the prima donna in an opera, listened enrapt.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land; And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand."
Maryllia felt a contraction in her throat, and her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. How sweet that hymn was!--how very sweet! Tender memories of her father crowded upon her,--her mother's face, grown familiar to her sight from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word 'Resurget' sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine,--and she began to feel that after all there was something in the Christian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!"
Pure and true rang Cicely's young, fresh and glorious voice, carrying all the voices of the children with it on the pulsating waves of the organ chords,--and an impression of high exaltation, serenity and peace, rested on the whole congregation with the singing of the last verse-"The Lord is my Shepherd: O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray; But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray! Amen!"
During the silence that immediately followed, Walden stood erect in the pulpit, looking down upon the people. He saw Maryllia's face,-- he saw all the eyes of her London friends fixed on him with a more or less critical and supercilious stare,--he saw his own flock' waiting for his first word with their usual air of respectful attention,--every small point and detail in his surroundings became suddenly magnified to his sight,--even the little rose in old Josey Letherbarrow's smock caught his eye with an almost obtrusive flare. The blithe soft carol of the birds outside sounded close and loud,-- the buzzing of a bumble-bee that had found its way into the church and was now bouncing fussily against a sunlit window, in its efforts to pass through what seemed to itself clear space, made quite an abnormal noise. His heart beat heavily,--he fancied he could hear it thudding in his breast,--then, all at once, an inflow of energy rushed upon him as though the 'fiery tongues' of which Adam Frost had spoken, were in very truth descending upon him. Maryllia's face! There it was--so winsome, so bright, and proud and provocative in its every feature,--and the old French damask roses growing in her garden borders could not show a prettier colour than her cheeks! He lifted his hands. "Let us pray!"