The Pagan's Cup

"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."