SYBIL'S VISITOR
Leo had never felt so wretched in his life as he did the next day.
Seeing that he was greatly disturbed, Marton wished to learn the reason.
As Haverleigh had promised to keep secret the presence of his father at
the castle, he was obliged to evade a direct answer.
"I saw Mrs Gabriel," he said quietly. "We had a long conversation, and
she told me what she had said to the vicar."
"Is it a serious matter?" asked the detective.
"Serious enough to prevent my marriage," replied Leo; "but what it is I
do not feel called upon to explain. It concerns myself and no one else.
If you could help me, Marton, I should tell you, but you cannot--no one
can. I don't think there is any more to be said."
Seeing the young man thus determined, Marton said no more, as he did not
wish to force Leo's confidence. The next morning he took his departure,
assuring Haverleigh that he was always at his disposal when wanted.
"Depend upon it," he said, as he took leave, "you are not yet done with
Mrs Gabriel. She will get you into more trouble. When she does, write to
that address."
"Thank you, Marton; should I require your assistance I will write."
The two men parted, Marton to London, and Leo back to the inn. He was
very miserable, the more so as he had to avoid the society of Sybil.
Knowing what he did, it was impossible for him to talk of love to her.
He felt that he had no right to do so--that he was gaining her
affections wrongly. Sooner or later he would have to leave her, but he
did not wish to break away abruptly. Little by little he hoped to
withdraw himself from her presence, and thus the final separation would
be more easy. All the next day he wandered alone on the moor, where
there was no chance of meeting with Sybil. The morning afterwards he
received a note from Mrs Gabriel stating that a certain person had taken
his departure, Leo was then in a fever of anxiety lest the person should
be captured.
However, he learned within twenty-four hours that there was no need to
worry. An unsigned telegram came from London, intimating that the sender
was in safety, and would communicate with him when the time was ripe.
Leo took this to mean that Pratt could not easily get at the papers
verifying his story, owing to the vigilance exercised by the police, who
were on the look-out for him. Leo therefore possessed his soul in
patience until such time as all should be made clear.
Meantime, as he told Pratt, he was hoping against hope that the story
was not true. Certainly Pratt had spoken in what appeared to be a most
truthful way, he had exhibited an emotion he would scarcely have given
way to had he been telling a falsehood. But Haverleigh knew what an
actor the man was, and, until proof was forthcoming, still cherished a
hope that a comedy had been acted for some reason best known to Pratt
himself. That is, it was a comedy to Pratt; but to Leo Haverleigh it
approached perilously near to tragedy. Afterwards, looking back on the
agony of those few days, he wondered that he had not killed himself in
sheer despair.
But he could not remain in the same place with Sybil without feeling an
overwhelming desire to tell her the whole story, and thus put an end to
an impossible situation. Once she knew the truth, that he was the son of
a criminal, she would see that a marriage was out of the question. Leo
was quite certain that she would still love him, and, after all, he was
not responsible for the sins of his father. But for the sake of Mr
Tempest, she could not marry him, nor--as he assured himself--would he
ask her to do so. Two or three times he was on the point of seeking her
out and revealing all; but a feeling of the grief he would cause her
made him change his determination. He resolved finally to leave her in a
fool's paradise until he had proof from Pratt of the supposed paternity.
But to be near her and not speak to her was unbearable. So he sent a
note saying he was called away for a few days on business, and went to
Portfront. Here he remained waiting to hear from Pratt. And no man could
have been more miserable, a mood scarcely to be wondered at considering
the provocation.
Meantime, Colester society had been much exercised over the discovery of
Leo's innocence and the supposed delinquency of Pratt. Certainly, as
Haverleigh and Mrs Gabriel knew, Pratt had generously taken on his own
shoulders the blame which had wrongfully rested on those of the young
man. But no one else knew this, and even if Pratt had come forward and
told the truth, no one would have believed him. He had been so clearly
proved to be a thief, and the scandal concerning the stolen goods in The
Nun's House was so great, that there was no ill deed with which the
villagers and gentry of Colester were not prepared to credit him. Mrs
Bathurst was particularly virulent in her denunciations of the rascal.
"But I always knew that he was a bad lot," said Mrs Bathurst. "Did I not
say it was incredible that a wealthy man should come down to pass his
days in a dull place like Colester? How lucky it is that we found out
his wickedness, thanks to that dear Mr Marton, who is, I am sure, a
perfect gentleman, in spite of his being a police officer. I shall
always look upon him as having saved Peggy. The creature," so she always
called her former favourite, "wanted to marry Peggy. I saw it in his
eye. Perhaps I might have yielded, and then what would have happened? I
should have had a Jack the Ripper in the family!"
"Oh! scarcely as bad as that, Mrs Bathurst," said Raston, to whom she
was speaking. "Pratt was never a murderer."
"How do you know that, Mr Raston? For my part, I believe he was capable
of the most terrible crimes. If he had married Peggy! The very idea
makes me shudder. But the dear child has escaped the snares of evil, and
I hope to see her shortly the wife of a good man," here Mrs Bathurst
cast a look on her companion.
Raston smiled. He knew perfectly well what she meant. Failing the
wealthy Pratt, who had been proved a scoundrel, the humble curate had a
chance of becoming Mrs Bathurst's son-in-law. And Raston was not
unwilling. He loved Peggy and she loved him. They understood one
another, and had done so for some time. Never would Peggy have married
Pratt had he asked her a dozen times. But, as she had told Raston, the
man had never intended to propose. Knowing this, Raston was glad to see
that Mrs Bathurst was not disinclined to accept him as a suitor for her
daughter. He then and there struck the iron while it was hot.
"I do not know if I am a very good man, Mrs Bathurst," he said, still
smiling, "but if you think me good enough for Peggy, I shall be more
than satisfied. I have the curacy and three hundred a year. My family
you know all about, and I suppose you have formed your own conclusions
as to the merits of my personality. I am not likely to turn out a
criminal like Pratt, you know."
"Really, Mr Raston, you take my breath away," said Mrs Bathurst, quite
equal to the occasion. "I never suspected that you loved Peggy. Still,
if such is the case, and she loves you, and you are prepared to insure
your life in case you die unexpectedly, I do not mind your marrying
her. She is a dear girl and will make you an excellent wife."
"Thank you, Mrs Bathurst. Then I may see Peggy now."
"She is in the garden, Harold." Mrs Bathurst had long since informed
herself of the curate's Christian name, so as to be prepared for an
emergency of this sort. "Go to her and take with you a mother's
blessing."
Thus burdened, Raston sought out Peggy, and then and there told her that
all was well. They could love one another without let or hindrance. The
engagement had been sanctioned officially by Mrs Bathurst. Peggy laughed
consumedly when Raston related the pretty little comedy played by her
mother. "She must think you a donkey, Harold," she said. "Mother thinks
everyone is as blind as herself."
"Mrs Bathurst fancies herself very wide awake, my dear."
"Those who are particularly blind always do, Harold."
Then they began to talk of their future, of the probability of Sybil
becoming the wife of Leo, and the chances of Mrs Gabriel taking the
young man again to her castle. From one subject to another they passed
on until Peggy made an observation about Pearl. "She is out and about, I
see," said Peggy, "but she still looks thin."
"And no wonder. Her illness has been a severe one. But she will soon put
on flesh and regain her colour. She is always wandering on the moor,
and the winds there will do more to restore her to health than all the
drugs in the pharmacopoeia of James."
"Why does she go on the moor?" said Peggy. "I thought it was the chapel
she was fond of sitting in."
"Ah! She has changed all that," said Raston, sadly. "It seems--I think I
told you this before--that Mrs Jeal told her some horrible Calvinistic
doctrine, and poor Pearl thinks she is lost eternally. It was her idea
that the cup was given into her charge, and now she believes that the
Master has taken it from her because she is not good enough to be the
custodian."
"Poor girl!" said Peggy, sympathetically. "But I thought, Harold, that
she believed the cup had been taken up to Heaven for the Supper of the
Master?"
"She did believe that till Mrs Jeal upset her mind anew. Now she thinks
she is lost, and I can't get the terrible idea out of her head. She is
like a lost thing wandering about the moor. Only one cure is possible."
"What is that, Harold?"
"The cup must be restored to the altar she has built."
"An altar! Has she built one?"
"I followed her on to the moor the other day, wishing to calm her mind.
Some distance away, in the centre of the heather, she has erected an
altar of turf, and she told me that if the Master forgave her He would
replace the cup which He had taken from her on that altar. She goes
there every day to see if the cup has returned. If it did, I believe
she would again be her old happy self."
"But there is no chance of the cup being returned."
"No," said Raston, a trifle grimly; "Pratt has got it again in his
possession, and he will not let it go. Save for Pearl, I do not think it
matters much. We could never again use it for the service of the chapel.
A cup that has been stolen cannot be put to sacred uses."
"Do you think it was stolen?"
"I am certain of it. Everything belonging to that man was stolen. What a
pity, Peggy, that such a clever fellow should use his talents for such a
bad purpose."
"A great pity. I liked Mr Pratt, and even now, although he is such a
wretch, I can't help feeling sorry for him."
"So do I, Peggy. There was good in Pratt. Let us hope he will repent.
But now, darling, don't let us talk more of him. He has gone, and will
never come back. What about the wedding-day?"
"Oh, Harold!" began Peggy, and blushed. After this the conversation
became too personal to be reported. It is sufficient to say that the
wedding-day was fixed for two months later.
While all these discoveries in connections with Pratt were being made in
Colester, events which had to do with Sybil's advertisement had happened
which prevented her keeping it any longer a secret from her father. She
put off telling him till the very last moment, but when one day a London
visitor arrived she was forced to speak out. A card inscribed with the
name "Lord Kilspindie" was brought to her, and on the back of it was a
pencilled note hinting that the gentleman had called about the
advertisement. Sybil ordered that he should be shown into the
drawing-room, and went to her father's study. The vicar was preparing
his sermon, and looked up ill-pleased at the interruption.
"What is it, Sybil?" he asked. "I am busy."
"Please forgive me for interrupting you, father," she replied, coming to
the desk and putting her arm round his neck, "but I have something to
tell you, something to confess."
"You have been doing nothing wrong, I hope," said Tempest, suspiciously.
"I don't think it is wrong, save in one particular. That advertisement!
It was I who put it into the papers."
"Sybil! And you never told me!" The vicar was annoyed. At the same time
he felt relieved that it was nothing worse. He fancied that she might be
about to confess that she had married Leo.
"It was no use telling you until something came of it, father," replied
Sybil, calmly, "so do not be angry. Now that the whole mystery has been
cleared up, the advertisement is useless. But I received one answer to
it. A gentleman called Lord Kilspindie wrote to me at the post-office as
'S. T.,' asking to see me about the cup. He had something serious to say
about it. I was curious--I think you would have been curious yourself,
father--so I wrote, and, giving my real name and address, asked him to
come down here. He is now in the drawing-room."
Tempest rose to his feet, looking vexed. "Lord Kilspindie in the
drawing-room, and I only know of the matter now. Really, Sybil, you have
behaved very badly. What does he want?"
"To tell us something about the cup, I suppose," said Sybil. "Do you
know Lord Kilspindie, father?"
"No more than that he is a border lord and a wealthy man. I believe he
has a splendid and famous castle near the Tweed. Sybil, you should have
told me."
"I am sorry, but I didn't think it was worth while until he came. You
are not angry, father. I have done nothing so very bad, and it was my
eagerness about Leo that made me take up the matter."
"You offered a reward of fifty pounds! How is that to be paid?"
Sybil laughed. "I don't think there will be any question of reward with
Lord Kilspindie," she said. "Besides, he has not brought the cup. You
know that Mr Pratt has it, and is likely to keep it. Come, father,
forgive me, and let us see Lord Kilspindie. I am filled with curiosity."
"You are a wicked girl," said the vicar, indulgently, and gave her a
kiss. "If you do this again--"
"I never will, father--unless Leo is again in danger."
The vicar sighed. His conscience pricked him about Leo, and he did not
know how to act towards making amendment. Certainly if he gave his
consent to the marriage Leo would be more than repaid for the ill
thoughts entertained about him. But Tempest was filled with pride of
race, and could not bring himself to give his beautiful daughter to a
nameless man. However, he could not consider the matter now, since his
illustrious visitor was waiting in the drawing room, so with Sybil he
went to greet him.
"Miss Tempest?" said Lord Kilspindie, coming forward, with a look of
admiration at the beautiful girl before him, "and you, sir?"
Sybil allowed her father to speak, as was right and proper. "I am the
vicar of this place, Lord Kilspindie," said Tempest, politely, "and this
is my daughter. It was she who put the advertisement in the paper. I
presume that it is to that we owe the pleasure of your company."
"That and nothing else," said Lord Kilspindie, taking the seat pointed
out to him by the vicar. "I have been looking for that cup for over
twenty years. It is not in your possession?"
"It was for a few weeks," replied the vicar, who was very curious. "I
had better tell you the whole story, and then you can judge for
yourself."
"If you will be so kind," replied Lord Kilspindie, courteously.
He listened attentively while Mr Tempest narrated all the events in
connection with the cup from the time Pratt had arrived in Colester. The
story was a strange one, and the visitor was much interested. However,
he did not offer one interruption. Sybil watched him the meanwhile.
He was a tall, grey-haired man of over sixty, but still vigorous and
straight. His face was lined, however, as though he had undergone much
trouble. He had a soldierly look about him, and all the time the vicar
was speaking tugged at a long grey moustache, the only hair he wore on
his face. Sybil thought of the line in the "Ancient Mariner" about long
and lean and brown as the seashore sand (she could not quite recall the
quotation), but to her it described Kilspindie perfectly. He was rather
sad-looking, and his quiet grey eyes looked as though he had known
bitter trouble. And indeed he had. Sybil learned that later.
"A very interesting story," he said politely when Mr Tempest had
finished, "but disappointing in its ending. You say this man Pratt has
now the cup in his possession?"
"He confessed as much, my lord, in a letter to the detective in charge
of the case. It is a pity he has escaped with it."
"A great pity," responded the other. "I suppose there is no chance of
his being captured?"
"From what Mr Marton said I should think not," put in Sybil. "He says
that Pratt has baffled all the cleverest detectives in England for a
great number of years."
Kilspindie sighed. "No chance of getting it back," he murmured; "and the
luck will still be bad."
"The luck!" echoed Sybil, catching the word.
"You will think me superstitious," he said, with a smile; "but the fact
is that the cup is said to be a fairy gift, and has been in our family
for generations. The luck of the family goes with the cup."
"Like the luck of Edenhall!" said Sybil, remembering Longfellow's poem.
"Precisely," responded Kilspindie. "The legend is a curious one. I must
tell it to you some time. Of course my opinion is that the cup is of
Roman manufacture. I recognised it from its description, and especially
from the Latin motto you set down in the advertisement. I think that
goblet was dedicated to Bacchus, and was probably lost by some Roman
general when Scotland was invaded by the Cæsars."
All this time Mr Tempest was trying to recover from the horror of his
thoughts. "A pagan cup!" he gasped, "and a stolen cup! Oh, my lord, and
it was used as a communion cup. Pratt said that he had brought it from
Italy, where it was so used by the Romish Church. I thought it was
sanctified by such a use, and did not hesitate to put it again on the
altar. I really don't know what to say. It is like sacrilege."
"I am sorry, Mr Tempest. But the cup has been at Kilspindie Castle for
five hundred years. It never was used in the service of the Church. Over
twenty years ago it was stolen by a woman."
"By a woman," echoed Sybil. She had quite expected to hear Pratt's
name.