FIRST BLOOD
A footman entered the room a few minutes later, and obedient, without a
doubt, to some previously given command, waited behind his mistress'
chair until a hand had been played. When it was over, she spoke to him
without turning her head.
"What is it, Perkins?" she asked.
He bent forward respectfully.
"There is a young gentleman here, madam, who wishes to see you most
particularly. He has no card, but he said that his name would not be
known to you."
"Tell him that I am engaged," Wilhelmina said. "He must give you his
name, and tell you what business he has come upon."
"Very good, madam!" the man answered, and withdrew.
He was back again before the next hand had been played. Once more he
stood waiting in respectful silence.
"Well?" his mistress asked.
"His name, madam, is Mr. Victor Macheson. He said that he would wait as
long as you liked, but he preferred telling you his business himself."
"I fancy that I know it," Wilhelmina answered. "You can show him in
here."
"Is it the young man, I wonder," Lady Peggy remarked, "who came up the
avenue as though he were walking on air?"
"Doubtless," Wilhelmina answered. "He is some sort of a missionary.
I had him shown in here because I thought his coming at all an
impertinence, and I want to make him understand it. You will probably
find him amusing, Mr. Deyes."
Gilbert Deyes shook his head quietly.
"There was a time," he murmured, "when the very word missionary was a
finger-post to the ridiculous. The comic papers rob us, however, of our
elementary sources of humour."
They all looked curiously towards the door as he entered, all except
Wilhelmina, who was the last to turn her head, and found him hesitating
in some embarrassment as to whom to address. He was somewhat above
medium height, fair, with a mass of wind-tossed hair, and had the smooth
face of a boy. His eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were
very bright and very restless. Lady Peggy called them afterwards
uncomfortable eyes, and the others, without any explanation, understood
what she meant.
"I am Miss Thorpe-Hatton," Wilhelmina said calmly. "I am told that you
wished to see me."
She turned only her head towards him. Her words were cold and
unwelcoming. She saw that he was nervous and she had no pity. It was
unworthy of her. She knew that. Her eyes questioned him calmly. Sitting
there in her light muslin dress, with her deep-brown hair arranged in
the Madonna-like fashion, which chanced to be the caprice of the moment,
she herself--one of London's most beautiful women--seemed little more
than a girl.
"I beg your pardon," he began hurriedly. "I understood--I expected----"
"Well?"
The monosyllable was like a drop of ice. A faint spot of colour burned
in his cheeks. He understood now that for some reason this woman was
inimical to him. The knowledge seemed to have a bracing effect. His eyes
flashed with a sudden fire which gave force to his face.
"I expected," he continued with more assurance, "to have found Miss
Thorpe-Hatton an older lady."
She said nothing. Only her eyebrows were very slightly raised. She
seemed to be asking him silently what possible concern the age of the
lady of Thorpe-Hatton could be to him. He was to understand that his
remark was almost an impertinence.
"I wished," he said, "to hold a service in Thorpe on Sunday afternoon,
and also one during the week, and I wrote to your agent asking for the
loan of a barn, which is generally, I believe, used for any gathering of
the villagers. Mr. Hurd found himself unable to grant my request. I have
ventured to appeal to you."
"Mr. Hurd," she said calmly, "decided, in my opinion, quite rightly. I
do not see what possible need my villagers can have of further religious
services than the Church affords them."
"Madam," he answered, "I have not a word to say against your parish
church, or against your excellent vicar. Yet I believe, and the
body to which I am attached believes, that change is stimulating. We
believe that the great truths of life cannot be presented to our
fellow-creatures too often, or in too many different ways."
"And what," she asked, with a faint curl of her beautiful lips, "do you
consider the great truths of life?"
"Madam," he answered, with slightly reddening cheeks, "they vary for
every one of us, according to our capacity and our circumstances. What
they may mean," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "to people of
your social order, I do not know. It has not come within the orbit of my
experience. It was your villagers to whom I was proposing to talk."
There was a moment's silence. Gilbert Deyes and Lady Peggy exchanged
swift glances of amused understanding. Wilhelmina bit her lip, but she
betrayed no other sign of annoyance.
"To what religious body do you belong?" she asked.
"My friends," he answered, "and I, are attached to none of the
recognized denominations. Our only object is to try to keep alight in
our fellow-creatures the flame of spirituality. We want to help
them--not to forget."
"There is no name by which you call yourselves?" she asked.
"None," he answered.
"And your headquarters are where?" she asked.
"In Gloucestershire," he answered--"so far as we can be said to have any
headquarters at all."
"You have no churches then?" she asked.
"Any building," he answered, "where the people are to whom we desire to
speak, is our church. We look upon ourselves as missioners only."
"I am afraid," Wilhelmina said quietly, "that I am only wasting your
time in asking these questions. Still, I should like to know what
induced you to choose my village as an appropriate sphere for your
labours."
"We each took a county," he answered. "Leicestershire fell to my lot. I
selected Thorpe to begin with, because I have heard it spoken of as a
model village."
Wilhelmina's forehead was gently wrinkled.
"I am afraid," she said, "that I am a somewhat dense person. Your reason
seems to me scarcely an adequate one."
"Our belief is," he declared, "that where material prosperity is
assured, especially amongst this class of people, the instincts towards
spirituality are weakened."
"My people all attend church; we have no public-house; there are never
any scandals," she said.
"All these things," he admitted, "are excellent. But they do not help
you to see into the lives of these people. Church-going may become a
habit, a respectable and praiseworthy thing--and a thing expected of
them. Morality, too, may become a custom--until temptation comes. One
must ask oneself what is the force which prompts these people to direct
their lives in so praiseworthy a manner."
"You forget," she remarked, "that these are simple folk. Their religion
with them is simply a matter of right or wrong. They need no further
instruction in this."
"Madam," he said, "so long as they are living here, that may be so.
Frankly, I do not consider it sufficient that their lives are seemly, so
long as they live in the shadow of your patronage. What happens to those
who pass outside its influence is another matter."
"What do you know about that?" she asked coldly.
"What I do know about it," he answered, "decided me to come to Thorpe."
There was a moment's silence. Any of the other three, Gilbert Deyes
especially, perhaps, would have found it hard to explain, even to
realize the interest with which they listened to the conversation
between these two--the somewhat unkempt, ill-attired boy, with the
nervous, forceful manner and burning eyes, and the woman, so sure of
herself, so coldly and yet brutally ungracious. It was not so much the
words themselves that passed between them that attracted as the
undernote of hostility, more felt than apparent--the beginning of a
duel, to all appearance so ludicrously onesided, yet destined to endure.
Deyes turned in his chair uneasily. He was watching this intruder--a
being outwardly so far removed from their world. The niceties of a
correct toilet had certainly never troubled him, his clothes were rough
in material and cut, he wore a flannel shirt, and a collar so low that
his neck seemed ill-shaped. He had no special gifts of features or
figure, his manner was nervous, his speech none too ready. Deyes found
himself engaged in a swift analysis of the subtleties of personality.
What did this young man possess that he should convey so strong a sense
of power? There was something about him which told. They were all
conscious of it, and, more than any of them, the woman who was regarding
him with such studied ill-favour. To the others, her still beautiful
face betrayed only some languid irritation. Deyes fancied that he saw
more there--that underneath the mask which she knew so well how to wear
there were traces of some deeper disturbance.
"Do you mind explaining yourself?" she asked. "That sounds rather an
extraordinary statement of yours."
"A few months ago," he said, "I attended regularly one of the police
courts in London. Day by day I came into contact with the lost souls who
have drifted on to the great rubbish-heap. There was a girl, Martha
Gullimore her name was, whose record for her age was as black as sin
could make it. Her father, I believe, is the blacksmith in your model
village! I spoke to him of his daughter yesterday, and he cursed me!"
"You mean Samuel Gullimore--my farrier?" she asked.
"That is the man," he answered.
"Have you any other--instances?" she asked.
"More than one, I am sorry to say," he replied. "There were two young
men who left here only a year ago--one is the son of your gardener,
the other was brought up by his uncle at your lodge gates. I was
instrumental in saving them from prison a few months ago. One we have
shipped to Canada--the other, I am sorry to say, has relapsed. We did
what we could, but beyond a certain point we cannot go."
She leaned her head for a moment upon the slim, white fingers of her
right hand, innocent of rings save for one great emerald, whose gleam
of colour was almost barbaric in its momentary splendour. Her face
had hardened a little, her tone was almost an offence.
"You would have me believe, then," she said, "that my peaceful village
is a veritable den of iniquity?"
"Not I," he answered brusquely. "Only I would have you realize that
roses and honeysuckle and regular wages, the appurtenances of material
prosperity, are after all things of little consequence. They hear the
song of the world, these people, in their leisure moments; their young
men and girls are no stronger than their fellows when temptation comes."
Deyes leaned suddenly forward in his chair. He felt that his
intervention dissipated a dramatic interest, of which he was keenly
conscious, but he could not keep silence any longer.
"To follow out your argument, sir, to its logical conclusion," he said,
"why not aim higher still? It is your contention, is it not, that the
seeds of evil things are sown in indifference, that prosperity might
even tend towards their propagation. Why not direct your energies, then,
towards the men and women of Society? There is plenty of scope here for
your labours."
The young man turned towards him. The lines of his mouth had relaxed
into a smile of tolerant indifference.
"I have no sympathy, sir," he answered, "with the class you name. On a
sinking ship, the cry is always, 'Save the women and children.' It is
the less fortunate in the world's possessions who represent the women
and children of shipwrecked morality. It is for their betterment that we
work."
Deyes sighed gently.
"It is a pity," he declared. "I am convinced that there is a magnificent
opening for mission work amongst the idle classes."
"No doubt," the young man agreed quickly. "The question is whether the
game is worth the candle."
Deyes made no reply. Lady Peggy was laughing softly to herself.
"I have heard all that you have to say, Mr. Macheson," the mistress of
Thorpe said calmly, "and I can only repeat that I think your presence
here as a missioner most unnecessary. I consider it, in fact, an----"
She hesitated. With a sudden flash of humour in his deep-set eyes, he
supplied the word.
"An impertinence, perhaps!"
"The word is not mine," she answered, "but I accept it willingly. I
cannot interfere with Mr. Hurd's decision as to the barn."
"I am sorry," he said slowly. "I must hold my meetings out of doors!
That is all!"
There was a dangerous glitter in her beautiful eyes.
"There is no common land in the neighbourhood," she said, "and you will
of course understand that I will consider you a trespasser at any time
you are found upon my property."
He bowed slightly.
"I am here to speak to your people," he said, "and I will do so, if I
have to stop in these lanes and talk to them one by one. You will pardon
my reminding you, madam, that the days of feudalism are over."
Wilhelmina carefully shuffled the pack of cards which she had just taken
up.
"We will finish our rubber, Peggy," she said. "Mr. Deyes, perhaps I may
trouble you to ring the bell!"
The young man was across the room before Deyes could move.
"You will allow me," he said, with a delightfully humourous smile, "to
facilitate my own dismissal. I shall doubtless meet your man in the
hall. May I be allowed to wish you all good afternoon!"
They all returned his farewell save Wilhelmina, who had begun to deal.
She seemed determined to remember his existence no more. Yet on the
threshold, with the handle of the door between his fingers, he turned
back. He said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon her. Deyes leaned
forward in his chair, immensely curious. Softly the cards fell into
their places, there was no sign in her face of any consciousness of his
presence. Deyes alone knew that she was fighting. He heard her breath
come quicker, saw the fingers which gathered up her cards shake. Slowly,
but with obvious unwillingness, she turned her head. She looked straight
into the eyes of the man who still lingered.
"Good afternoon, Miss Thorpe-Hatton," he said pleasantly. "I am sorry to
have troubled you."
Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She half inclined her head. The
door was softly closed.