The Missioner. E. Phillips Oppenheim

natural turn to the conversation.

      “It is always,” she remarked, “such a relief to get down into the country at the end of the season. I wonder I don’t spend more time here. I daresay one could amuse oneself?” she added carelessly.

      Mr. Hurd considered for a few moments.

      “There are croquet and archery and tennis in the neighbourhood,” he remarked. “The golf course on the Park hills is supposed to be excellent. A great many people come over to play.”

      She affected to be considering the question seriously. An intimate friend would not have been deceived by her air of attention. Mr. Hurd knew nothing of this. He, on his part, however, was capable of a little gentle irony.

      “It might amuse you,” he remarked, “to make a tour of your estate. There are some of the outlying portions which I think that I should have the honour of showing you for the first time.”

      “I might find that interesting,” she admitted. “By the bye, Mr. Hurd, what sort of a landlord am I? Am I easy, or do I exact my last pound of flesh? One likes to know these things.”

      “It depends upon the tenant,” the agent answered. “There is not one of your farms upon which, if a man works, he cannot make a living. On the other hand, there is not one of them on which a man can make a living unless he works. It is upon this principle that your rents have been adjusted. The tenants of the home lands have been most carefully chosen, and Thorpe itself is spoken of everywhere as a model village.”

      “It is very charming to look at,” its mistress admitted. “The flowers and thatched roofs are so picturesque. ‘Quite a pastoral idyll,’ my guests tell me. The people one sees about seem contented and respectful, too.”

      “They should be, madam,” Mr. Hurd answered drily. “The villagers have had a good many privileges from your family for generations.”

      The lady inclined her head thoughtfully.

      “You think, then,” she remarked, “that if anything should happen in England, like the French Revolution, I should not find unexpected thoughts and discontent smouldering amongst them? You believe that they are really contented?”

      Mr. Hurd knew nothing about revolutions, and he was utterly unable to follow the trend of her thoughts.

      “If they were not, madam,” he declared, “they would deserve to be in the workhouse—and I should feel it my duty to assist them in getting there.”

      The lady of Thorpe laughed softly to herself.

      “You, too, then, Mr. Hurd,” she said, “you are content with your life? You don’t mind my being personal, do you? It is such a change down here, such a different existence … and I like to understand everything.”

      Upon Mr. Hurd the almost pathetic significance of those last words was wholly wasted. They were words of a language which he could not comprehend. He realized only their direct application—and the woman to him seemed like a child.

      “If I were not content, madam,” he said, “I should deserve to lose my place. I should deserve to lose it,” he added after a moment’s pause, “notwithstanding the fact that I have done my duty faithfully for four and forty years.”

      She smiled upon him brilliantly. They were so far apart that she feared lest she might have offended him.

      “I have always felt myself a very fortunate woman, Mr. Hurd,” she said, “in having possessed your services.”

      He rose as though about to go. It was her whim, however, to detain him.

      “You lost your wife some years ago, did you not, Mr. Hurd?” she began tentatively. As a matter of fact, she was not sure of her ground.

      “Seven years back, madam,” he answered, with immovable face. “She was, unfortunately, never a strong woman.”

      “And your son?” she asked more confidently. “Is he back from South Africa?”

      “A year ago, madam,” he answered. “He is engaged at present in the estate office. He knows the work well——”

      “The best place for him, of course,” she interrupted. “We ought to do all we can for our young men who went out to the war. I should like to see your son, Mr. Hurd. Will you tell him to come up some day?”

      “Certainly, madam,” he answered.

      “Perhaps he would like to shoot with my guests on Thursday?” she suggested graciously.

      Mr. Hurd did not seem altogether pleased.

      “It has never been the custom, madam,” he remarked, “for either my son or myself to be associated with the Thorpe shooting parties.”

      “Some customs,” she remarked pleasantly, “are well changed, even in Thorpe. We shall expect him.”

      Mr. Hurd’s mouth reminded her for a moment of a steel trap. She could see that he disapproved, but she had no intention of giving way. He began to tie up his papers, and she watched him with some continuance of that wave of interest which he had somehow contrived to excite in her. The signature of one of the letters which he was methodically folding, caught her attention.

      “What a strange name!” she remarked. “Victor Macheson! Who is he?”

      Mr. Hurd unfolded the letter. The ghost of a smile flickered upon his lips.

      “A preacher, apparently,” he answered. “The letter is one asking permission to give a series of what he terms religious lectures in Harrison’s large barn!”

      Her eyebrows were gently raised. Her tone was one of genuine surprise.

      “What, in Thorpe?” she demanded.

      “In Thorpe!” Mr. Hurd acquiesced.

      She took the letter and read it. Her perplexity was in no manner diminished.

      “The man seems in earnest,” she remarked. “He must either be a stranger to this part of the country, or an extremely impertinent person. I presume, Mr. Hurd, that nothing has been going on in the place with which I am unacquainted?”

      “Certainly not, madam,” he answered.

      “There has been no drunkenness?” she remarked. “The young people have, I presume, been conducting their love-making discreetly?”

      The lines of Mr. Hurd’s mouth were a trifle severe. One could imagine that he found her modern directness of speech indelicate.

      “There have been no scandals of any sort connected with the village, madam,” he assured her. “To the best of my belief, all of our people are industrious, sober and pious. They attend church regularly. As you know, we have not a public-house or a dissenting place of worship in the village.”

      “The man must be a fool,” she said deliberately. “You did not, of course, give him permission to hold these services?”

      “Certainly not,” the agent answered. “I refused it absolutely.”

      The lady rose, and Mr. Hurd understood that he was dismissed.

      “You will tell your son about Thursday?” she reminded him.

      “I will deliver your message, madam,” he answered.

      She nodded her farewell as the footman opened the door.

      “Everything seems to be most satisfactory, Mr. Hurd,” she said. “I shall probably be here for several weeks, so come up again if there is anything you want me to sign.”

      “I am much obliged, madam,” the agent answered.

      He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The latch of the iron gate at the end