Stephen Hurd, who was standing by the side of the carriage.
“You executed my commission,” she asked, “respecting that young man?”
“The first thing this morning,” he answered. “I went up to see Mrs. Foulton, and I also spoke to him.”
“Did he make any difficulty?”
“None at all!” the young man answered.
“What did he say?”
Stephen hesitated, but Wilhelmina waited for his reply. She had the air of one remotely interested, yet she waited obviously to hear what this young man had said.
“I think he said something about your making war upon a large scale,” Stephen explained diffidently.
She sat still for a moment. She was looking towards the deserted cricket pitch.
“Where is he staying now?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he answered. “I have warned all the likely people not to receive him, and I have told him, too, that he will only get your tenants into trouble if he tries to get lodgings here.”
“I should like,” she said, “to speak to him. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask him to step this way for a moment.”
Stephen departed, wondering. Deyes was watching his hostess with an air of covert amusement.
“Do you continue the warfare,” he asked, “or has the young man’s prowess softened your heart?”
Wilhelmina raised her parasol and looked steadily at her questioner.
“Warfare is scarcely the word, is it?” she remarked carelessly. “I have no personal objection to the young man.”
They watched him crossing the field towards them. Notwithstanding his recent exertions, he walked lightly, and without any sign of fatigue. Deyes looked curiously at the crest upon the cap which he was carrying in his hand.
“Magdalen,” he muttered. “Your missioner grows more interesting.”
Wilhelmina leaned forwards. Her face was inscrutable, and her greeting devoid of cordiality.
“So you have decided to teach my people cricket instead of morals, Mr. Macheson,” she remarked.
“The two,” he answered pleasantly, “are not incompatible.”
Wilhelmina frowned.
“I hope,” she said, “that you have abandoned your idea of holding meetings in the village.”
“Certainly not,” he answered. “I will begin next week.”
“You understand,” she said calmly, “that I consider you—as a missioner—an intruder—here! Those of my people who attend your services will incur my displeasure!”
“Madam,” 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
AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC
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
