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.