CHAPTER I

THE SERMON THAT WAS NEVER PREACHED

A little party of men and women on bicycles were pushing their machines
up the steep ascent which formed the one street of Feldwick village. It
was a Sunday morning, and the place was curiously empty. Their little
scraps of gay conversation and laughter--they were men and women of the
smart world--seemed to strike almost a pagan note in a deep Sabbatical
stillness. They passed the wide open doors of a red brick chapel, and
several of the worshippers within turned their heads. As the last two
of the party went by, the wheezings of a harmonium ceased, and a man's
voice came travelling out to them. The lady rested her hand upon her
host's arm. "Listen," she whispered.

Her host, Lord of the Manor, Lord Lieutenant of the County, and tenth
Earl of Cumberland, paused readily enough and leaned his machine against
a kerbstone. Bicycling was by no means a favourite pursuit of his, and
the morning for the time of year was warm.

"Dear lady," he murmured, "shall we go a little nearer and listen to the
words of grace? Anything for a short rest."

She leaned her own bicycle against the wall. From where she was she
could catch a sideway glimpse of a tall, slight figure standing up
before the handful of people.