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                      [Illustration: Cover]



                         The Pagan's Cup

                                BY

                           Fergus Hume


                            AUTHOR OF

                  "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB,"
                      "THE RAINBOW FEATHER,"
                  "CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE,"
                               ETC.


                     [Illustration: Vignette]


                             NEW YORK

                     G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

                            PUBLISHERS





                       Copyright, 1902, by

                     G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

                      [All rights reserved]




_The Pagan's Cup_




CONTENTS


   CHAP.                             PAGE
      I.  A Modern Arcadia              1
     II.  The Crusaders' Chapel        14
    III.  The Lady of the Manor        28
     IV.  The Dinner-Party             42
      V.  Love's Young Dream           58
     VI.  Trouble                      71
    VII.  A Nine Days' Wonder          87
   VIII.  Haverleigh's Defence        101
     IX.  A Bad Reputation            113
      X.  The Price of Silence        126
     XI.  The London Detective        140
    XII.  A Surprise                  154
   XIII.  An Interesting Document     168
    XIV.  An Unexpected Meeting       183
     XV.  A New Complication          198
    XVI.  Sybil's Visitor             214
   XVII.  Lord Kilspindie Explains    227
  XVIII.  A Miracle                   242
    XIX.  A Story of the Past         257
     XX.  Mrs Gabriel's Secret        276




THE PAGAN'S CUP




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 mediaeval 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 archaeologist. 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 archaeological 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