"The Christian morality," he had answered.

Macheson had been surprised.

"But you----" he said, "you don't believe anything."

"It is not necessary," Holderness had answered. "It is a matter of the intelligence. As an artist, if I might dare to call myself one, I say that the Christian life, if honestly lived, is the most beautiful thing of all the ages."

Macheson walked down to the village with the memory of those words still in his brain. The bell was ringing for service from the queer, ivy-covered church, the villagers were coming down the lane in little groups. Macheson found himself one of a small knot of people, who stood reverently on one side, with doffed hats, just by the wooden porch. He looked up, suddenly realizing the cause.

A small vehicle, something between a bath-chair and a miniature carriage, drawn by a fat, sleek pony, was turning into the lane from one of the splendid avenues which led to the house. A boy led the pony, a footman marched behind. Wilhelmina, in a plain white muslin dress and a black hat, was slowly preparing to descend. She smiled languidly, but pleasantly enough, at the line of curtseying women and men with doffed hats. The note of feudalism which their almost reverential att.i.tudes suggested appealed irresistibly to Macheson's sense of humour. He, too, formed one of them; he, too, doffed his hat. His greeting, however, was different. Her eyes swept by him unseeing, his pleasant "Good morning"

was unheeded. She even touched her skirt with her fingers, as though afraid lest it might brush against him in pa.s.sing. With tired, graceful footsteps, she pa.s.sed into the cool church, leaving him to admire against his will the slim perfection of her figure, the wonderful carriage of her small but perfect head.

He followed with the others presently, and found a single seat close to the door. The service began almost at once, a very beautiful service in its way, for the organ, a present from the lady of the manor, was perfectly played, and the preacher's voice was clear and as sweet as a boy's. Macheson, however, was nervous and ill at ease. From the open door he heard the soft whispering of the west wind--for the first time in his life he found the simple but dignified ritual unconvincing. He was haunted by the sense of some impending disaster. When the prayers came, he fell on his knees and remained there! Even then he could not collect himself! He was praying to an unknown G.o.d for protection against some nameless evil! He knew quite well that the words he muttered were vain words. Through the stained gla.s.s windows, the sunlight fell in a subdued golden stream upon the glowing hair, the gracefully bent head of the woman who sat alone in the deep square pew. She, too, seemed to be praying. Macheson got up and softly, but abruptly, stole from the church.

Up into the hills, as far away, as high up as possible! A day of sabbath calm, this! Macheson, with the fire in his veins and a sharp pain in his side, climbed as a man possessed. He, too, was fleeing from the unknown.

He was many miles away when down in the valley at Thorpe some one spoke of him.

"By the bye," Gilbert Deyes remarked, looking across the luncheon table at his hostess, "when does this athletic young missioner of yours begin his work of regeneration?"

Wilhelmina raised her eyebrows.

"To-morrow evening, I believe," she answered. "He is going to speak at the cross-roads. I fancy that his audience will consist chiefly of the children, and Mrs. Adnith's chickens."

"Can't understand," Austin remarked, "why a chap who can play cricket like that--he did lay on to 'em, too--can be such a crank!"

"He is very young," Wilhelmina remarked composedly, "and I fancy that he must be a little mad. I hope that Thorpe will teach him a lesson. He needs it."

"You do not antic.i.p.ate then," Deyes remarked, "that his labours here will be crowned with success?"

"He won't get a soul to hear him," Stephen Hurd replied confidently.

"The villagers all know what Miss Thorpe-Hatton thinks of his coming here. It will be quite sufficient."

Wilhelmina lit a cigarette and rose to her feet.

"Let us hope so," she remarked drily. "Please remember, all of you, that this is the Palace of Ease! Do exactly what you like, all of you, till five o'clock. I shall be ready for bridge then."

Lady Peggy rose briskly.

"No doubt about what I shall do," she remarked. "I'm going to bed."

Deyes smiled.

"I," he said, "shall spend the afternoon in the rose garden. I need--development."

Wilhelmina looked at him questioningly.

"Please don't be inexplicable," she begged. "It is too hot."

"Roses and sentiment," he declared, "are supposed to go together. I want to grow into accord with my surroundings."

Wilhelmina was silent for a moment.

"If you have found sentiment here," she said carelessly, "you must have dug deep."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I have scarcely scratched the surface!"

Stephen Hurd looked uneasily from Deyes to his hostess. Never altogether comfortable, although eager to accept the most casually offered invitation to Thorpe, he had always the idea that the most commonplace remark contained an innuendo purposely concealed from him.

"Mr. Deyes," he remarked, "looks mysterious."

Deyes glanced at him through his eyegla.s.s.

"It is a subtle neighbourhood," he said. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd, have you ever seen the rose gardens at Carrow?"

"Never," Hurd replied enviously. "I have heard that they are very beautiful."

Wilhelmina pa.s.sed out.

"The gardens are beautiful," she said, looking back, "but the roses are like all other roses, they fade quickly. Till five o'clock, all of you!"

CHAPTER IX

SUMMER LIGHTNING

Stephen Hurd walked into the room which he and his father shared as a sanctum, half office, half study. Mr. Hurd, senior, was attired in his conventional Sabbath garb, the same black coat of hard, dull material, and dark grey trousers, in which he had attended church for more years than many of the villagers could remember. Stephen, on the other hand, was attired in evening clothes of the latest cut. His white waistcoat had come from a London tailor, and his white tie had cost him considerable pains. His father looked him over with expressionless face.

"You are going to the House again, Stephen?" he asked calmly.

"I am asked to dine there, father," he answered. "Sorry to leave you alone."

"I have no objection to being alone," Mr. Hurd answered. "I think that you know that. You lunched there, didn't you?"

Stephen nodded.

"Miss Thorpe-Hatton asked me as we came out of church," he answered.

"You play cards?"

The directness of the question allowed of no evasion. Stephen flushed as he answered.

"They play bridge. I may be asked to join. It--is a sort of whist, you know."

"So I understand," the older man remarked. "I have no remark to make concerning that. Manners change, I suppose, with the generations. You are young and I am old. I have never sought to impose my prejudices upon you. You have seen more of the world than I ever did. Perhaps you have found wisdom there."

Stephen was not at his ease.