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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Fergus Hume's "The Pagan's Cup" is a captivating blend of detective fiction and gothic elements, set against the backdrop of a decaying mansion filled with mystique and intrigue. The novel meticulously unfolds a complex interplay of crime and moral ambiguity, highlighting the tensions between the spiritual and the material. Hume expertly employs a rich, atmospheric prose style that immerses readers in the eeriness of the setting, while also presenting a gripping narrative steeped in Victorian sensibilities and sensationalism, emblematic of his broader oeuvre. The thematic exploration of pagan rituals juxtaposed with societal norms invites deeper reflections on the conflicts between tradition and modernity. Fergus Hume, an influential figure in the genre of mystery fiction, found his voice amidst the vibrant literary scene of late 19th-century England. Having experienced financial hardship in his early life, he turned to writing as a means of escape and expression. Hume's keen insights into human psychology and his fascination with the macabre informed his storytelling, often drawing inspiration from his surroundings and personal experiences. His narrative techniques paved the way for later crime fiction, placing him alongside contemporaries like Arthur Conan Doyle. For readers seeking an engrossing tale that deftly blends suspense with philosophical musings, "The Pagan's Cup" is an essential read. Hume's intricate plot and richly drawn characters offer a mesmerizing journey into the darker aspects of human nature. This novel not only entertains but also provokes thought, making it a crucial addition to the library of anyone passionate about classical detective fiction.
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The Pagan's Cup
Table of Contents
Chapter I A Modern Arcadia
Certain portions of England yet remain undiscovered by Americans and uncivilised by railways. Colester village above King’s-meadows, in a county which need not be named, is one of these unknown spots. No doubt before long the bicycle and the motor-car will enliven its somnolent neighbourhood, but at present it is free from the summer jaunts of tourists. With this neglect the Colester folk profess themselves satisfied. They have no wish to come into contact with the busy world. This prejudice against intrusion dates from mediæval times, when strangers rarely came to the village with peaceful intentions. Even now a chance comer is looked upon with suspicion.
Mr Richard Pratt said something of this sort to the vicar during a morning ramble, some six weeks after he had taken up his residence in The Nun’s House. With the parson and the gentry of the parish Mr Pratt agreed very well, his respectability having been vouched for by Mrs Gabriel, the lady of the manor. But the villagers still held aloof, although the newcomer did his best to overcome their churlish doubts. They did not credit his story that he had settled in Colester to pass his remaining years in peace, and even the money he scattered so freely could not buy their loyalty. Pratt had never met with such people before. In most countries an open purse invites an open heart; but the Colester villagers were above Mammon worship. Such an experience was refreshing to Pratt, and introduced him to a new type of humanity.
“The first place I ever struck in which the dollar is not all-powerful,” he said, with his Yankee twang and pleasant laugh.
“We are not sufficiently educated in that respect,” replied Mr Tempest in his simple way. “For my part, I am not ill pleased that my parishioners should refuse to worship the Golden Calf.”
“There is no calf about me, I guess,” said Pratt, grimly, “and very little gold. I don’t say I haven’t a decent income, but as to being a millionaire—no, sir.”
“In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed is king, Mr Pratt. You are a millionaire in this poor place. But I fear you find it dull.”
“Why, no, vicar. I’m glad to be out of the buzz. The world’s made up of nerves and machinery nowadays. At fifty-two years of age I can’t stand the racket. This Sleepy Hollow’s good enough for me to stay in until I peg out. Guess I’ll buy an allotment in that graveyard of yours.”
“Hollow!” said the vicar, smiling, “and our earthly dwelling-place is set upon a hill! Mr Pratt, I suspect you have Irish blood in your veins.”
Pratt laughed, and being to a large extent devoid of humour, explained earnestly that he had used the word figuratively. “Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle,” he explained, nodding, whereat the vicar smiled again.
The situation of Colester was striking and strange. A green-clothed promontory extended abruptly from the high table-land into King’s-meadow. To right and left chalky cliffs of considerable height flared away for miles, forming a buttress to the moors above and walls to the plains below. In pre-historic ages the ocean waves had beaten against these cliffs, but, gradually receding, had left dry the miles upon miles of fertile lands now called King’s-meadows. An appanage of the Crown, they had been called so from the days of William the Conqueror.
From where they stood, the vicar and his friend had a bird’s-eye view of this desirable land, unrolled like a map under the bright June sky. League after league of corn-fields stretched away to the clear, shining line of ocean; and amidst the ripening grain appeared red-roofed villages, clumps of trees, the straight lines of dusty white roads and the winding, glittering serpent of the river. And as a background to this smiling plenty—if so Irish an expression be permitted—was the blue expanse of the Channel dotted with the white sails of merchantmen.
A small wood of ancient oaks shut off the purple-clad moor from the spur upon which Colester was built. On the verge of this, yet encircled by trees, stood the village church—a crusading chapel, dedicated to St Gabriel the Messenger. Thence the ground fell away gradually, and spread out into a broad neck of land, down the centre of which ran a road leading from chapel to village. On either side of this, amidst oaks and elms and sycamores, were the houses of the gentry. From where they ended the promontory rose into two rounded hills, with a slight depression between. On the one to the left the village was built, its houses cramped within a tumble-down wall, dating from the days when it was needed as a defence. The other hill was surmounted by a well-preserved castle, the keep of which with its flag could be seen above the oak woods. This was inhabited by Mrs Gabriel, the sole representative of the feudal lords of Colester. Yet she was only the childless widow of the last baron, and had none of the fierce Gabriel blood in her veins. The once powerful and prolific family was extinct.
From castle and village steps led down into the depression between the two hills. Down this continued the chapel road, sloping gradually with many windings to the plains below. The whole place had the look of some Rhenish robber-hold. And if tradition was to be trusted, the Gabriel lords had dwelt like eagles in their eyrie, swooping down at intervals to harry and plunder, burn and slay the peaceful folk of the plains. A turbulent and aggressive race the Gabriels. It had defied king and priest, and parliament and people. Time alone had ever conquered it.
“A survival of the Middle Ages,” said Mr Tempest, pointing out these things to his companion. “It was needful that the Gabriel barons should build strong defences. They were fierce and blood-thirsty, defiant of law and order. For many centuries they were a scourge to the inhabitants of the plains. These often complained to the king, and several times the place was besieged, but without result. The Gabriels kept their hold of it. The only thing they ever lost was their title. A bill of attainder was passed against them in the time of the second George. After that they became less lions than foxes.”
“Just so,” said Mr Pratt. “This place couldn’t do much against artillery, I guess. And even in the bow and arrow days, a strong force coming over the moor and down the spur—”
“That was often tried,” interrupted Tempest, quickly, “but the attempt always failed. In the days of Henry II. Aylmer Gabriel beat back an overwhelming force, and then erected the chapel as a thanksgiving. The Archangel Gabriel was the patron saint of the family, and the chapel is dedicated to him.”
“He couldn’t keep the family from dying out, however,” said Pratt, as they moved towards the village.
“No. With the late John Gabriel the family became extinct. But I daresay Mrs Gabriel will arrange that her adopted son succeeds. He can take the name and the coat of arms. I should be very pleased to see that,” added the vicar, half to himself. “Leo is a good fellow, and would make an excellent landlord.”
The eyes of the American flashed when the name was mentioned, but he made only a careless comment. “Leo Haverleigh,” he said, after a pause, “he’s a right smart young chap, sure. Who is he?”
“The son of Mrs Gabriel’s brother. She was a Miss Haverleigh, you know. I believe her brother was somewhat dissipated, and died abroad. The boy arrived here when he was three years of age, and Mrs Gabriel adopted him. He will be her heir.”
“Is there anyone to object?” asked Pratt, eagerly.
The vicar shook his head. “The Gabriels are absolutely extinct. Failing Leo, the estates would lapse to the Crown. In the old days they would have been seized by the king in any case, as the sovereigns were always anxious to hold this point of vantage which dominated their lands below. But we live in such law-abiding times, that Mrs Gabriel, although not of the blood of the family, can leave the estates to whomsoever she will. I understand that she has quite decided Leo shall inherit and take the name; also the coat of arms.”
“She doesn’t strike me as over-fond of the boy,” said Pratt, as they climbed the crooked street; “rather a hard woman I should say.”
“Mrs Gabriel has a particularly high moral standard,” replied the vicar, evasively, “and she wishes all to attain to it. Leo—” he hesitated.
“He’s no worse than a boy ought to be,” said the American, cheerily. “Your young saint makes an old sinner. That’s so, vicar!”
Mr Tempest laughed outright. “I fear there is small chance of Leo becoming a saint either young or old,” he said, “though he is a good lad in many ways. Wild, I admit, but his heart is in the right place.”
Pratt smiled to himself. He knew that Leo was in love with Sybil, the daughter of this prosy old archæologist. Simple as Mr Tempest was, he could not be blind to the possibility of his daughter making such an excellent match. “Oh, yes,” laughed Pratt, knowingly, “I’m sure his heart is in the right place.”
But by this time the vicar was on his hobby horse, and did not gauge the significance of the speech. “Here,” he said, waving his hand towards the four sides of the square in which they stood, “the Romans built a camp. It crowned this hill, and was garrisoned by the tenth legion to overawe the turbulent tribes swarming on the plains below. In fact, this town is built within the camp, as the name shows.”
“How does it show that?” asked Pratt, more to keep the vicar talking than because he cared.
“The name, man, the name. It is properly Colncester, but by usage has been shortened to Colester. Coln comes from the Latin colonia, a colony, and caster, or cester, is derived from castra, a camp. Colncester therefore means the camp colony, which proves that the original builders of this town erected their dwellings within the circumvallation of the original castra of Claudian. If you will come with me, Mr Pratt, I will show you the remains of this great work.”
“I have seen it several times before,” replied Pratt, rather bored by this archæological disquisition. “I know every inch of this place. It doesn’t take an American centuries to get round, and six weeks of walking have fixed me up in your local geography. But there’s the chapel, vicar. We might walk up there. I’d like to hear a few remarks on the subject of the chapel. Interesting. Oh, I guess so!”
“Certainly! certainly!” said Tempest, absently, “let us walk, walk,” and he strolled away with his hands in his tail-coat pockets, looking something like an elderly jackdaw. Indeed the churchman, with his lean, oval face, his large spectacles and the fluttering black garments on his thin figure, very much resembled a bird. He was scholarly, well-bred and gentle, but wholly unworldly. Since his wife had died seven years before, Sybil had taken charge of the house. Harold Raston, the energetic curate, looked after the parish. But for these two, both clerical and domestic affairs would have been neglected, so immersed was Mr Tempest in his dry-as-dust explorations. Many people said openly that the vicar was past his work and should be pensioned off. Mrs Gabriel, a capable and managing woman, had once hinted as much to him. But the usually placid parson had flown into such a rage, that she had hastily withdrawn herself and her suggestion. “There is nothing more terrible than the rebellion of a sheep.” Mrs Gabriel recalled this remark of Balzac’s when Tempest, proving himself worthy of his name, swept her in wrath from his study.
Pratt was quite another specimen of humanity. A neat, dapper, suave little man, undersized yet perfectly proportioned. He had black hair, black eyes, and a clean-shaven face, which constantly wore an expression of imperturbable good-humour. His dress was too neat for the country. A blue serge suit, white spats on brown boots, a Panama hat, gloves and—what he was never without—a smoothly-rolled umbrella. Spick-and-span, he might have stepped out of a glass case, and this was his invariable appearance. No one ever saw Pratt unshaven or untidy. He had been everywhere, had seen everything, and was a most engaging companion, never out of temper and never bored. But for all his smiling ways the villagers held aloof from him. Wishing to break down their barrier of prejudice, the sharp little American had attached himself to the vicar during the good man’s usual morning walk. He thought that such a sight might dispose the villagers to relent.
“I shall not vary my usual walk,” remarked Mr Tempest, positively. “We will stroll through the village, return to the chapel, and then, Mr Pratt, I hope you will lunch with me.”
“Delighted, if it will not put Miss Sybil out.”
“No, no. My wife is always prepared for chance visitors,” answered the vicar, quite oblivious to the fact that the late Mrs Tempest was resting in the churchyard. “Ha, this is Mrs Jeal. How do you do, Mrs Jeal?”
Mrs Jeal was in excellent health, and said so with a curtsey. A dumpy, rosy-faced woman was Mrs Jeal, with a pair of extremely wicked black eyes which snapped fire when she was angered. She had a temper, but rarely displayed it, for it suited her better to gain her ends by craft rather than force. Fifteen years ago she had appeared from nowhere, to settle as a midwife in Colester. Contrary to their usual fashion, the villagers had taken her to their bosoms. This was owing to the clever way Mrs Jeal had of managing them, and to her knowledge of herbs. She had cured many sick people whom the doctor had given up, and consequently was not looked upon with favour by Dr James, who had succeeded to the family practice. But even he could not be angry at rosy, laughing Mrs Jeal. “Though I don’t like her,” confessed Dr James; “the devil looks out of her eyes. Dangerous woman, very dangerous.”
Pratt had no chance of proving this remark of the doctor’s to be true, for Mrs Jeal never looked at him. She kept her wicked eyes on the kindly vicar and smiled constantly, punctuating such smiles with an occasional curtsey. “Pearl is not with you?” said Mr Tempest.
“No, bless her poor heart!” cried Mrs Jeal, “she is up at the chapel. Her favourite place is the chapel, as your reverence knows.”
“She might have a worse place to haunt, Mrs Jeal. Poor soul—poor, mad, innocent child!”
“Do you call eighteen years of age childish, Mr Tempest?” asked the woman.
“No, no! I speak of her mind, her poor, weak mind. She is still a child. I beg of you to look after her, Mrs Jeal. We must make her path as pleasant as we may.”
“Then I beg your reverence will tell that Barker to leave her alone.”
“Barker, Barker? Ah, yes, the sexton—of course. Worthy man.”
Mrs Jeal sniffed. “He won’t let her stay in the chapel,” she said.
“Tut! tut! This must be seen to. Poor Pearl is God’s child, Mrs Jeal, so she has a right to rest in His House. Yes, yes, I’ll see to it. Good-day, Mrs Jeal.”
The woman dropped a curtsey, and for the first time shot a glance at Pratt, who was smiling blandly. A nervous expression crossed her face as she caught his eye. The next moment she drew herself up and passed on, crossing herself. Pratt looked after her, still smiling, then hurried to rejoin the vicar, who began to explain in his usual wandering way.
“A good woman, Mrs Jeal, a good woman,” he said. “For some years she has had charge of Pearl Darry, whom she rescued from her cruel father.”
“Is that the insane girl?” said Pratt, idly.
“Do not talk of one so afflicted in that way, Mr Pratt. Pearl may not be quite right in her head, but she is sane enough to conduct herself properly. If the fact that she is not all herself reached Portfront”—the principal town of the county—“it is possible that the authorities might wish to shut her up, and that would be the death of Pearl. No, no!” said the good vicar, “let her have a fair share of God’s beautiful earth, and live to a happy old age. In this quiet place we can afford one natural.”
“Like the village idiot we read about in Scotch tales,” said Pratt.
“Just so, Mr Pratt. In Waverley there is such a one. Pearl Darry is quite harmless, and really has a very beautiful nature. Mrs Jeal is much to be commended for her charity.”
“She looks a charitable woman,” said the American, but whether he meant this ironically or not it is hard to say.
The women of Colester were mostly lace-workers, and toiled at this fairylike craft while their husbands worked in the fields below. During three seasons the mountain men, as they might be called, ploughed the meadow-land, sowed the corn and helped to reap and harvest it. In the winter they returned to live on their earnings and take a holiday. But the women worked all the year through, and Colester lace was famous. As the vicar and Pratt walked down the street, at the door of every house sat a woman with her pillow and pins dexterously making the filmy fabric which was destined to adorn the dress of many a London beauty. They were mostly serious-looking, and some even grim. But all had a smile for the vicar, although they pursed up their lips when they saw the good-natured face of Pratt. Most unaccountable this dislike they had for the American. He was rather annoyed by his pronounced unpopularity.
“I must really do something to make them like me,” he said, much vexed.
“Tut, tut!” replied the vicar, “liking will come in good time, Mr Pratt. It takes some years for them to fancy a stranger. I was an object of distrust to them for quite three. Now they are devoted to me.”
“And have you been here long?”
“About forty years,” said Tempest. “I have buried many and christened most. We have no Methodists in Colester, Mr Pratt. Everyone comes to church and worships according to the rites of the Anglican communion, as is fit and proper.”
“I suppose you are a prosperous community on the whole?”
“So, so! Nothing to complain of. The lace made here by those clever fingers sells well in London and even abroad. Then the men earn a fair wage in King’s-meadows. Mrs Gabriel looks after the few poor we have amongst us. On the whole, we have much to be thankful for, Mr Pratt.”
Thus talking the good vicar led his companion round by the mouldering walls, where they could look down on to the plains. After a glance they re-entered the town and walked through the cobbled-stoned streets, between the quaint, high-roofed houses. Everywhere the vicar was greeted and Pratt frowned upon. He was quite glad when they descended from the village through the old gate, and after walking along the neck, which was the fashionable part of Colester, began to climb up towards the chapel.
“A most delightful spot,” said Pratt, politely; “but I guess the folk don’t cotton to me. I must make them freeze on somehow.”
Chapter II The Crusaders’ Chapel
The church dedicated to St Gabriel the Messenger was enshrined in a leafy glade. No churlish wall marked the limits of the sacred ground, and from the ancient building a soft green sward stretched on all sides to the circle of oaks which sheltered it from the rude winds. In this circle were two openings counter to each other. The lower one admitted those who came from Colester into the precincts; the upper gave entrance to a larger glade, in which the dead had been buried for centuries. This also was without a wall, and it was strange beyond words to come suddenly upon an assemblage of tombstones in the heart of a wood. From this sylvan God’s-acre a path climbed upward to the moor, and passed onward for some little distance until it was obliterated by the purple heather. Then for leagues stretched the trackless, treeless waste to the foot of distant hills.
Of no great size, the chapel was an architectural gem. Built in the form of a cross, a square tower rose where the four arms met, and this contained a famous peal of bells. The grey stone walls were carved with strange and holy devices, lettered with sacred texts in mediæval Latin, and here and there were draped in darkly-green ivy. The sharp angles of the building had been rounded by the weather, the stones were mellowed by time, and, nestling under the great boughs of the oaks, it had a holy, restful look. “Like a prayer made visible,” said Mr Tempest.
With his companion he had paused at the entrance to the glade, so as to enjoy the beauty of the scene. Round the chapel swept the swallows, pigeons whirled aloft in the cloudless blue sky; from the leafy trees came the cooing of doves, and the cawing of rooks could be heard. All the wild life of the wood haunted the chapel, and the place was musical with forest minstrelsy. As the beauty of scene and sound crept into their hearts, the vicar quoted Spenser’s lovely lines:—
“A little lowly hermitage it was, Downe in a dale, hard by a forest side.”
“Just so,” said Pratt, in the hard, unromantic way of the twentieth century; “it’s the kind of church you see in pictures.”
“The church in which Sir Percival met Sir Galahad,” replied Tempest.
The American felt the influence of the place despite the material faith which he held. There was a vein of romance in his nature which had been buried beneath the common-place and selfish. But in this holy solitude, at the door of the shrine, his spiritual self came uppermost, and when he stood bare-headed in the nave his talkative tongue was silent. The influence of the unseen surrounded him, and, like Moses, he was inclined to put off his shoes, “for this is holy ground,” murmured his heart.
Glancing at his companion, Tempest was surprised to see his usually pale and calm face working with emotion and covered with blushes.
“You are unwell, Mr Pratt?” he asked in a low tone befitting the place.
The man stammered, “No—that is, I feel that—well, no matter.” He controlled himself by a powerful effort and laughed. Tempest was not shocked. He was shrewd enough to see that the merriment was artificial and designed to cloak a deeper feeling. But the laughter was reproved in a most unexpected fashion.
“The joy of the profane is as the passing smoke,” said a high, sweet voice.
Pratt started in surprise, and looked around. He saw the jewelled windows shining through the dim twilight of the church, the white cloth on the altar, and the glimmer of a silver crucifix, in the faint light of tall candles. But who had spoken he could not guess, as no one was in sight. Mr Tempest, however, had recognised the voice.
“Is that you, Pearl?” he called out softly.
From behind the altar emerged a girl of eighteen, though in looks and stature she was a child. She was small and delicately formed, and on her thin white face there was a vacant look as of one whose wits were astray. No intelligence shone through her dark eyes, but a mystical light burned in their depths. Like Kilmeny, she had been to fairyland, and had seen things which had lifted her above the common lot of mortals. Therefore upon her face there shone the light that never was on sea or land. And, curiously enough, she was dressed in a green gown—the fairy’s colour. Round her straw hat was twisted a wreath of oak leaves. When she appeared her arms were full of flowers.
“You are decorating the altar, Pearl,” said the vicar, kindly.
“I am making ready the House for the Master’s coming,” replied the girl in her silvery voice, “but He will abide here but a little time.” She pointed to the groined roof of black oak. “That shuts out His Home,” said Pearl, reverently, “and He loves not to dwell in darkness.”
“Darkness and light are the same to Him, Pearl. But go on with your work, my child. You have beautiful flowers I see.”
“I gathered them in the woods before dawn, when the dew was yet on them. And see, I have got these mosses to put into the pots. The flowers will be quite fresh to-morrow for morning service. Then they will die,” added the girl, heaving a sigh, “die, as we all must.”
“To rise again in the light of Heaven, child.”
Pearl shook her black locks and turning back to the altar began dexterously to arrange the flowers. When passing and re-passing she never forgot to bend the knee. Pratt observed this. “Is she a Roman Catholic?” Mr Tempest smiled. “She does only what I have taught her,” he said. “I am what is called High Church, Mr Pratt, and believe in a beautiful ritual. To the service of God we should bring all lovely things, and perform all solemn acts of humility and reverence. That,” said Tempest, pointing to the white-covered altar, “is a symbol of the Unseen Power, and so those who approach it should acknowledge its solemn meaning.”
Pratt shrugged his shoulders. The vicar was talking of things too high for his comprehension. He looked at the mad girl decorating the altar. “I suppose the villagers think a great deal of this church,” he said.
“It is the most precious possession we have,” replied Tempest, reverently, “and it is all that remains to us of the beautiful and sacred things created by the faith of our forefathers. There were many vessels for the altar, Mr Pratt; but these were melted down by the Gabriel who fought for the first Charles in order to help his king. I would we had a communion service as beautiful as this shrine,” and Mr Tempest sighed.
The remark gave Pratt an idea. He wanted to obtain the goodwill of the villagers seeing he had come amongst them to pass his days in peace. If they loved their church so much they would approve of anyone who helped to decorate it. “I am not rich,” he said slowly, “and I can’t give you a whole service such as you want. But I should like to present this chapel with a communion cup. I have in my travels collected many beautiful things, Mr Tempest. Amongst others a golden cup of Roman workmanship which I obtained in Italy. It is a splendid example of the jeweller’s art, and would look well on that table.”
“On the altar,” corrected Tempest, wincing at the sound of the word which he connected with the Low Church party. “It is more than good of you, Mr Pratt. We must talk the matter over. I do not accept gifts lightly, especially for the service of the Church. But come, let us look at the tombs. Then we can go to luncheon.”
Pratt said no more, but fully made up his mind that the cup of which he spoke should figure on the altar. He had a vague kind of idea that he could buy repentance if he gave so splendid a present. If the vicar proved difficult to deal with, he resolved to ask for Mrs Gabriel’s help. As the lady of the manor, she could insist upon the acceptance of the offering. There was no reason why Tempest should refuse it, but Pratt knew that the old man was—as he phrased it—queer, and one never knew what objection he might make. If he thought that the cup was given only to secure the goodwill of the parish he would certainly refuse it. A gift made in such a spirit could not be accepted by the Church.
Meanwhile he examined the tombs of the crusading Gabriels, which he had seen often before. But the vicar made the present visit more acceptable by recounting the legends connected with each recumbent figure. The tombs were three in number, and occupied what was called the Ladye’s Chapel. Their sides were richly blazoned with the Gabriel crest and with decorations of scallop shells to denote that those who rested below had been to the Holy Land. The figures of the brave knights were cross-legged, and their hands rested on the pommels of their huge swords. Considering the lapse of time, they were in a wonderful state of preservation. Pratt looked upon them with a sigh, and the vicar inquired the reason of his sadness.
“I was thinking of the glory of having such ancestors,” said Pratt, and Mr Tempest noticed that his Yankee twang and mode of expressing himself had quite disappeared. “I would give anything to come of such a line—to have a dwelling that had been in the possession of my race for centuries, and to have traditions which I could live up to. I am a lonely man, Mr Tempest,” he added, with some pathos, “no one cares for me. I never had a home, or a family, or a position in the world. All my life I have had to fight for my own hand, and for years I have been a rolling stone. Money, yes! I have made money, but I would give it all,” and he pointed to the crusaders, “if I could call those my ancestors.”
Mr Tempest looked surprised. “I did not expect to hear such views from the mouth of a Republican,” he said, “for, as you are an American, I presume you hold by the political faith of Washington.”
“I don’t hold by anything in particular,” replied Pratt, recovering himself, as they left the chapel. “I am unfettered by sectarian prejudices. You can call me a cosmopolitan, Mr Tempest. But we can talk of these things on some other occasion. You must come to see me. I have furnished The Nun’s House, and have got out my collection of rare and curious things. Will you and Miss Tempest dine with me next week?”
“I rarely go out,” replied the vicar; “however, I will see what Sybil says. If she is willing, I will come with pleasure.”
“Oh, Miss Tempest will be willing,” said Pratt, significantly. “Leo Haverleigh is coming to dine also!”
“They are very good friends,” said the vicar, simply. No thought of what Pratt meant entered his mind.
At the Vicarage they were met by Sybil and the curate, who had been talking to her about parish affairs for the greater part of the morning. At once Raston drew aside his ecclesiastical superior, and the two went into the library, leaving Sybil to entertain the American. She was not averse to doing this, as she liked Mr Pratt and his merry conversation. Having recovered from the emotion caused by the atmosphere of the chapel, the man was more pronouncedly Yankee than ever. He described his walk with the vicar, and repeated his invitation to dinner. “Mrs Gabriel and Mr Haverleigh are coming,” he said, “and I shall also ask Sir Frank Hale and his sister.”
Sybil smiled on hearing that Leo was to be present, but her brow clouded over when she heard about the baronet and Miss Hale. She did not like that young woman, and Pratt knew the cause. It was not unconnected with Leo. He was the prize for which these young ladies strove. Miss Hale was very much in love with the young man, and so was Sibyl, but he cared more for the vicar’s daughter than for Miss Hale. The two girls guessed each other’s feelings, and disliked one another accordingly. This might not have been proper, but it was eminently human. However, Sibyl was too much a woman of the world to show Pratt what she felt, and she accepted his invitation calmly enough. “I shall be delighted to come,” she said, “but I can’t answer for my father.”
“Oh, I have something to lure him,” said Pratt, easily, “and I think you will be pleased also, Miss Tempest.” And thereupon he told the girl of his proposed gift. “The cup is over a thousand years old,” he explained. “It belongs to the time of the Cæsars.”
“From all I have heard of them,” said Sybil, bluntly, “I don’t think a vessel of their manufacture ought to serve for a Christian ceremony.”
“On the contrary, the cup will be sanctified by being put to such a good use,” said Pratt, “and you can set your mind at rest, Miss Tempest. I got the cup from the church of a little Italian town, where it served for a chalice. It has been used in the service of the Romish Church for ages.”
“In that case I am sure my father will be delighted to accept it. He is anxious to get some vessels for the chapel altar. It is very good of you to give the cup, Mr Pratt.”
“Not at all. It is better put to such use than in my collection. However, you will see all my curios when you come. Mr Haverleigh has already seen them.”
“He told me about them yesterday. I only hope Mr Haverleigh will be here next week. He said something about going away.”
“Why is he going away?” Pratt fixed his keen eyes on the girl.
“I think he is in trouble. That is,” added Sybil, hastily, “I gathered as much. But don’t say I told you anything, Mr Pratt. Ah,” she broke off suddenly, “here are my father and Mr Raston.”
Pratt cast another sharp glance at her. He guessed that something was wrong with Leo, and that the young man had told her of his trouble. He wondered if the two were engaged when they were thus confidential. Pratt took an interest in Leo, as he had known him for some years, and rather sympathised with his outbursts of youthful folly. He thought that marriage would steady the lad’s somewhat volatile nature, but he could not make up his mind as to whether Miss Hale or Miss Tempest was the best wife for him. However, it was useless for Pratt to worry over this, as he recognised very clearly. In the first place, it was none of his business; and in the second, Leo would certainly choose for himself.
“I am giving a house-warming, Mr Raston,” said Pratt during luncheon, “and I should like you to come to dinner. Next Thursday. I suppose in this Arcadian spot it is not necessary to give written invitations.”
“I accept with pleasure,” replied Raston, quite ignorant that Pratt wished to enlist him on his side in getting the vicar to accept the cup; “but as to written invitations—what do you say, Miss Tempest?”
“Oh, those are most necessary,” laughed Sybil. “We are very particular in this part of the world.”
“I am an American, you see, Miss Tempest, and I don’t know your English way of doing things. But the invitations shall be written in due form. I guess it is as well to humour the prejudice of folks.”
“If you wish to be popular,” said the vicar, “you must do so here.”
“As I intend to die in this part of the world, I must get on with the crowd somehow. I am not accustomed to be shunned, and that is what your people here are doing.”
“Oh, no!” cried Sybil, much distressed, “they are only waiting to know you better, Mr Pratt. In a year you will be quite friendly with them.”
“I’m friendly with them now,” said Pratt, dryly, “it is they who hold off.”
“We are slow to make friendships here,” said Raston, “but when we do accept a friend we stick to him always.”
“You are a native of these parts, Mr Raston?”
“I was born and bred here.”
“It is I who am the stranger,” put in Mr Tempest, “and it was a long time before my parishioners took to me.”
“You are adored now, papa,” said Sybil, with a bright glance.
“And someone else is adored also,” put in Pratt. Sybil flushed at the compliment. She thought it was in bad taste.
After a time the conversation turned on Pearl Darry, and Raston, who was deeply interested in her, gave them some insight into the girl’s mind. “She does not care for churches built by hands,” he said. “If she had her way she would take the altar into the middle of the moor and worship there. I think she feels stifled under a roof.”
“Ha!” said Pratt, with a swift glance, remembering Mrs Jeal, “is she of gipsy blood? She looks like it.”
“No. Her dark complexion comes from Highland blood,” explained Sybil. “Her father, Peter Darry, was a stone mason. He is dead now—died through drink. While working in Perth he married a farmer’s daughter. They came back here and Pearl was born. Then her mother died and her father treated her badly. Mrs Jeal rescued her, and Peter fell over a cliff while drunk.”
“Mrs Jeal is a good woman,” said Tempest, mechanically.
“Do you endorse that statement, Miss Tempest?”
Sybil looked at Pratt who had spoken. “I think Mrs Jeal was very good to take charge of Pearl,” she said evasively, whereat Pratt smiled to himself. He saw that Sybil did not like the woman, and privately admired her insight.
Mr Pratt was destined to deliver all his invitations verbally. On his way home after the vicar’s luncheon he met with a rider on a roan horse. This was a fair, handsome young man with a clear skin, a pair of bright blue eyes and a sunny look on his face. He had a remarkably good figure, and rode admirably. Horse and man made a picture as they came up the road. Pratt waved his hands and the rider pulled up.
“How are you this morning, Haverleigh?”
Leo laughed. He did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and if he was worried, as Sybil averred, he did not show his vexation. “I am all right,” he replied, with a smile. “Who could help being all right in this jolly weather? And how are you, Mr Pratt?”
“I am busy,” responded the American, gravely. “I have been lunching with the vicar, and now I am going home to write out invitations for a dinner at my new house.”
“Will you ask me, Mr Pratt?”
“I have asked Miss Tempest and I want you to come.”
Leo laughed. Also he flushed a trifle. “It is very good of you,” he said. “And who else will be at your house-warming?”
“Mrs Gabriel, Mr Raston, Miss Hale and her brother.”
“Oh!” Leo looked annoyed at the mention of Miss Hale. “I am not sure if I shall be able to come,” he said, after a pause.
“No?” Pratt’s tone was quite easy. “Miss Tempest said something about your going away. But I hope you will put that off. My dear fellow”—Pratt smiled meaningly—“you can depend upon me. It is not the first time I have helped you!”
Haverleigh made no direct response, but sat on his saddle in deep thought. “I’ll come,” he said at length, and rode off abruptly.
“I thought you would,” murmured Pratt, with a bland smile. He knew more about Leo Haverleigh than most people in Colester.
