The Missioner. E. Phillips Oppenheim

he answered, “I do not believe that you will visit it upon them.”

      “But I will,” she interrupted ruthlessly. “You are young and know little of the world. You have not yet learnt the truth of one of the oldest of proverbs—that it is well to let well alone!”

      “It is a sop for the idle, that proverb,” he answered. “It is the motto for the great army of those who drift.”

      “I have been making inquiries,” she said. “I find that my villagers are contented and prosperous. There are no signs of vice in the place.”

      “There is such a thing,” he answered, “as being too prosperous, over-contented. The person in such a state takes life for granted. Religion is a thing he hears about, but fails to realize. He has no need of it. He becomes like the prize cattle in your park! He has a mind, but has forgotten how to use it.”

      She looked at him steadily, perhaps a trifle insolently.

      “How old are you, Mr. Macheson?” she asked.

      “Twenty-eight,” he answered, with a slight flush.

      “Twenty-eight! You are young to make yourself the judge of such things as these. You will do a great deal of mischief, I am afraid, before you are old enough to realize it.”

      “To awaken those who sleep in the daytime—is that mischief?” he asked.

      “It is,” she answered deliberately. “When you are older you will realize it. Sleep is the best.”

      He bent towards her. The light in his eyes had blazed out.

      “You know in your heart,” he said, “that it is not true. You have brains, and you are as much of an artist as your fettered life permits you to be. You know very well that knowledge is best.”

      “Do you believe,” she answered, “that I—I take myself not personally but as a type—am as happy as they are?”

      She moved her parasol to where the village lay beyond the trees. He hesitated.

      “Madam,” he answered gravely, “I know too little of your life to answer your question.”

      She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her parasol hid her face.

      “We are quite à la mode, are we not, my dear Peggy?” she remarked, with a curious little laugh. “Philosophy upon the village green. Gilbert, tell them to drive on.”

      She turned deliberately to Macheson.

      “Come and convert us instead,” she said. “We need it more.”

      “I do not doubt it, madam,” he answered. “Good afternoon!”

      The carriage drove off. Macheson, obeying an impulse which he did not recognize, watched it till it was out of sight. At the bend, Wilhelmina deliberately turned in her seat and saw him standing there. She waved her parasol in ironical farewell, and Macheson walked back to the tent with burning cheeks.

CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC

       Table of Contents

      A great dinner party had come to an end, and the Lord-Lieutenant of the county bowed low over the cold hand of his departing guest, in whose honour it had been given. A distant relationship gave Lord Westerdean privileges upon which he would willingly have improved.

      “You are leaving us early, Wilhelmina,” he murmured reproachfully. “How can I expect to keep my other guests if you desert us?”

      Wilhelmina withdrew the hand and nodded her other farewells. The heat of the summer evening had brought every one out from the drawing-room. The hall doors stood open. Those of the guests who were not playing bridge or billiards were outside upon the terrace—some had wandered into the gardens.

      “My dear Leslie,” she said, as she stood upon the broad steps, “you are losing your habit of gallantry. A year ago you would not have ventured to suggest that in my absence the coming or going of your other guests could matter a straw.”

      “You know very well that it doesn’t,” he answered, dropping his voice. “You know very well——”

      “To-night,” she interrupted calmly, “I will not be made love to! I am not in the humour for it.”

      He looked down at her curiously. He was a man of exceptional height, thin, grey, still handsome, an ex-diplomat, whose career, had he chosen to follow it, would have been a brilliant one. Wealth and immense estates had thrust their burdens upon him, however, and he was content to be the most popular man in his county.

      “There is nothing the matter?” he asked anxiously.

      She shook her head.

      “You are well?” he persisted, dropping his voice.

      “Absolutely,” she answered. “It is not that. It is a mood. I used to welcome moods as an escape from the ruts. I suppose I am getting too old for them now.”

      He shook his head.

      “I wonder,” he said, “if the world really knows how young you are.”

      “Don’t,” she interrupted, with a shudder, “I have outlived my years.”

      A motor omnibus and a small victoria came round from the stables. The party from Thorpe began slowly to assemble upon the steps.

      “I am going in the victoria—alone,” she said, resting her fingers upon his arm. “Don’t you envy me?”

      “I envy the vacant place,” he answered sadly. “Isn’t this desire for solitude somewhat of a new departure, though?”

      “Perhaps,” she admitted. “I am rather looking forward to my drive. To-night, as we came here, the whole country seemed like a great garden of perfumes and beautiful places. That is why I had them telephone for a carriage. There are times when I hate motoring!”

      He broke off a cluster of pink roses and placed them in her hands.

      “If your thoughts must needs fill the empty seat,” he whispered, as he bent over her for his final adieux, “remember my claims, I beg. Perhaps my thoughts might even meet yours!”

      She laughed under her breath, but the light in his eyes was unanswered.

      “Perhaps!” she answered. “It is a night for thoughts and dreams, this. Even I may drift into sentiment. Good night! Such a charming evening.”

      The carriage rolled smoothly down the avenue from the great house, over which she might so easily have reigned, and turned into the road. A few minutes later the motor-car flashed by. Afterwards there was solitude, for it was already past midnight. Gilbert Deyes looked thoughtfully out at the carriage from his place in the car. He had begged—very hard for him—for that empty seat.

      “Of what is it a sign,” he asked, “when a woman seeks solitude?”

      Lady Peggy shrugged her shoulders.

      “Wilhelmina is tired of us all, I suppose,” she remarked. “She gets like that sometimes.”

      “Then of what is it a sign,” he persisted, “when a woman tires of people—like us?”

      Lady Peggy yawned.

      “In a woman of more primitive instincts,” she said, “it would mean an affair. But Wilhelmina has outgrown all that. She is the only woman of our acquaintance of whom one would