The Missioner. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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      Never was a young man more pleased with himself than Stephen Hurd, on the night he dined at Thorpe-Hatton. He had shot well all day, and been accepted with the utmost cordiality by the rest of the party. At dinner time, his hostess had placed him on her left hand, and though it was true she had not much to say to him, it was equally obvious that her duties were sufficient to account for her divided attention. He was quite willing to be ignored by the lady on his other side—a little elderly, and noted throughout the country for her husband-hunting proclivities. He recognized the fact that, apart from the personal side of the question, he could scarcely hope to be of any interest to her. The novelty of the situation, Wilhelmina’s occasional remarks, and a dinner such as he had never tasted before were sufficient to keep him interested. For the rest he was content to twirl his moustache, of which he was inordinately proud, and lean back in his chair with the comfortable reflection that he was the first of his family to be offered the complete hospitality of Thorpe-Hatton.

      Towards the close of dinner, his hostess leaned towards him.

      “Have you seen or heard anything of a young man named Macheson in the village?” she asked.

      “I have seen him once or twice,” he answered. “Here on a missionary expedition or something of the sort, I believe.”

      “Has he made any attempt to hold a meeting?” she asked.

      “Not that I have heard of,” he replied. “He has been talking to some of the people, though. I saw him with old Gullimore yesterday.”

      “That reminds me,” she remarked, “is it true that Gullimore has had trouble with his daughter?”

      “I believe so,” young Hurd admitted, looking downwards at his plate.

      “The man was to blame for letting her leave the place,” Wilhelmina declared, in cold, measured tones. “A pretty girl, I remember, but very vain, and a fool, of course. But about this young fellow Macheson. Do you know who he is, and where he came from?”

      Stephen Hurd shook his head.

      “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said doubtfully. “He belongs to some sort of brotherhood, I believe. I can’t exactly make out what he’s at. Seems a queer sort of place for him to come missioning, this!”

      “So I told him,” she said. “By the bye, do you know where he is staying?”

      “At Onetree farm,” the young man answered.

      Wilhelmina frowned.

      “Will you execute a commission for me to-morrow?” she asked.

      “With pleasure!” he answered eagerly.

      “You will go to the woman at Onetree farm, I forget her name, and say that I desire to take her rooms myself from to-morrow, or as soon as possible. I will pay her for them, but I do not wish that young man to be taken in by any of my tenants. You will perhaps make that known.”

      “I will do so,” he declared. “I hope he will have the good sense to leave the neighbourhood.”

      “I trust so,” Wilhelmina replied.

      She turned away to speak once more to the man on her other side, and did not address Stephen Hurd again. He watched her covertly, with tingling pulses, as she devoted herself to her neighbour—the Lord-Lieutenant of the county. He considered himself a judge of the sex, but he had had few opportunities even of admiring such women as the mistress of Thorpe. He watched the curve of her white neck with its delicate, satin-like skin, the play of her features, the poise of her somewhat small, oval head. He admired the slightly wearied air with which she performed her duties and accepted the compliments of her neighbour. “A woman of mysteries” some one had once called her, and he realized that it was the mouth and the dark, tired eyes which puzzled those who attempted to classify her. What a triumph—to bring her down to the world of ordinary women, to drive the weariness away, to feel the soft touch, perhaps, of those wonderful arms! He was a young man of many conquests, and with a sufficiently good idea of himself. The thought was like wine in his blood. If only it were possible!

      He relapsed into a day-dream, from which he was aroused only by the soft flutter of gowns and laces as the women rose to go. There was a momentary disarrangement of seats. Gilbert Deyes, who was on the other side of the table, rose, and carrying his glass in his hand, came deliberately round to the vacant seat by the young man’s side. In his evening clothes, the length and gauntness of his face and figure seemed more noticeable than ever. His skin was dry, almost like parchment, and his eyes by contrast appeared unnaturally bright. His new neighbour noticed, too, that the glass which he carried so carefully contained nothing but water.

      “I will come and talk to you for a few minutes, if I may,” Deyes said. “I leave the Church and agriculture to hobnob. Somehow I don’t fancy that as a buffer I should be a success.”

      Young Hurd smiled amiably. He was more than a little flattered.

      “The Archdeacon,” he remarked, “is not an inspiring neighbour.”

      Deyes lit one of his own cigarettes and passed his case.

      “I have found the Archdeacon very dull,” he admitted—“a privilege of his order, I suppose. By the bye, you are having a dose of religion from a new source hereabouts, are you not?”

      “You mean this young missioner?” Hurd inquired doubtfully.

      Deyes nodded.

      “I was with our hostess when he came up to ask for the loan of a barn to hold services in. A very queer sort of person, I should think?”

      “I haven’t spoken to him,” Hurd answered, “but I should think he’s more or less mad. I can understand mission and Salvation Army work and all that sort of thing in the cities, but I’m hanged if I can understand any one coming to Thorpe with such notions.”

      “Our hostess is annoyed about it, I imagine,” Deyes remarked.

      “She seems to have taken a dislike to the fellow,” Hurd admitted. “She was speaking to me about him just now. He is to be turned out of his lodgings here.”

      Gilbert Deyes smiled. The news interested him.

      “Our hostess is practical in her dislikes,” he remarked.

      “Why not?” his neighbour answered. “The place belongs to her.”

      Deyes watched for a moment the smoke from his cigarette, curling upwards.

      “The young man,” he said thoughtfully, “impressed me as being a person of some determination. I wonder whether he will consent to accept defeat so easily.”

      The agent’s son scarcely saw what else there was for him to do.

      “There isn’t anywhere round here,” he remarked, “where they would take him in against Miss Thorpe-Hatton’s wishes. Besides, he has nowhere to preach. His coming here at all was a huge mistake. If he’s a sensible person he’ll admit it.”

      Deyes nodded as he rose to his feet and lounged towards the door with the other men.

      “Play bridge?” he asked his companion, as they crossed the hall.

      “A little,” the young man answered, “for moderate stakes.”

      They entered the drawing-room, and Deyes made his way to a secluded corner, where Lady Peggy sat scribbling alone in a note-book.

      “My dear Lady Peggy,” he inquired, “whence this exceptional industry?”

      She closed the book and looked up at him with twinkling eyes.

      “Well, I didn’t mean to tell a soul until it was finished,” she declared, “but you’ve just caught me. I’ve had such