The Pagan's Cup

The Pagan’s Cup

BY

Fergus Hume

AUTHOR OF

THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB,

THE RAINBOW FEATHER,

CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE,

ETC.

Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.

This book is copyright and may not be

reproduced or copied in any way without

the express permission of the publisher in writing

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Contents

The Pagan’s Cup

Fergus Hume

I. A MODERN ARCADIA

II. THE CRUSADERS’ CHAPEL

III. THE LADY OF THE MANOR

IV. THE DINNER-PARTY

V. LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM

VI. TROUBLE

VII. A NINE DAYS’ WONDER

VIII. HAVERLEIGH’S DEFENCE

IX. A BAD REPUTATION

X. THE PRICE OF SILENCE

XI. THE LONDON DETECTIVE

XII. A SURPRISE

XIII. AN INTERESTING DOCUMENT

XIV. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

XV. A NEW COMPLICATION

XVI. SYBIL’S VISITOR

XVII. LORD KILSPINDIE EXPLAINS

XVIII. A MIRACLE

XIX. A STORY OF THE PAST

XX. MRS GABRIEL’S SECRET

Fergus Hume

Fergusson Wright Hume was born on 8th July 1859 in England, the second son of Dr. James Hume. The family migrated to New Zealand where Fergus was enrolled at Otago Boys’ High School, and later continued his legal and literary studies at the University of Otago. He received his admission to the bar in 1885 and left New Zealand for the city of Melbourne to become a managing clerk at a solicitors office.

Hume had ambitions of writing for the stage but to attract the interest of theatre managers he decided to pen a novel first. Taking influence from the style and works of Emile Gaboriau he wrote his first full-length work of fiction ‘The Mystery of the Hansom Cab’ (1886). Unfortunately, Hume could not find a publisher interested in his novel and had to publish it himself. The first run of 5000 copies sold out in three weeks and he was approached to sell the rights to a group of Australian speculators for the sum of £50. Although the work was reprinted many times and became the best selling mystery novel of the Victorian era , Hume received no further remuneration and even had to publicly defend its authorship when it was called into dispute.

After the success of ‘The Mystery of the Hansom Cab’ and the Publication of his second novel ‘Professor Brankel’s Secret’ (c.1886), Hume returned to England in 1888 where he resided in London for a few years until moving to the Essex countryside. There he published over 100 novels, mainly in the mystery fiction genre, though none had the success of his début work.

In his later years Hume was known to lecture at young people’s clubs and debating societies. Hume died at Thundersley, Essex, on 12 July 1932.

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 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.