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.
CHAPTER III
THE LADY OF THE MANOR
Haverleigh's face did not continue to wear its sunny expression after he left the American. He frowned and bit his moustache, and in the annoyance of the moment spurred his horse full speed up the castle road. Only when he was within the avenue and nearing the porch did he slacken speed, for his mother – so he called her – might be looking out of some window. If so, she would assuredly accuse him of ill-using his horse. Mrs Gabriel rarely minced matters in her dealings with Leo. He was never perfectly sure whether she loved or hated him.
Mindful of this, he rode gently round to the stables, and, after throwing his reins to a groom, walked into the castle by a side door. As he had been absent all the morning, he was not very sure of his reception, and, moreover, he had eaten no luncheon. The butler informed him that Mrs Gabriel had asked that he should be sent to her the moment he returned. At once Leo sought her on the south terrace, where she was walking in the hot June sunshine. He augured ill from her anxiety to see him. A memory of his debts and other follies – pardonable enough – burdened his conscience.
"Here I am, mother," he said as he walked on to the terrace, looking a son of whom any woman would have been proud. Perhaps if he had really been her son, instead of her nephew, Mrs Gabriel might have been more lenient towards him. As it was she treated him almost as harshly as Roger Ascham did Lady Jane Grey of unhappy memory.
"It is about time you were here," she said in her strong, stern voice. "As you are so much in London, I think you might give me a few hours of your time when you condescend to stay at the castle."
Leo threw himself wearily into a stone seat and played with his whip. This was his usual greeting, and he knew that Mrs Gabriel would go on finding fault and blaming him until she felt inclined to stop. His only defence was to keep silent. He therefore stared gloomily on the pavement and listened stolidly to her stormy speech. "No reverence for women – after all I have done for you – clownish behaviour," etc.
Some wit had once compared Mrs Gabriel to Agnes de Montfort, that unpleasant heroine of the Middle Ages. The comparison was a happy one, for Mrs Gabriel was just such another tall, black-haired, iron-faced Amazon. She could well have played the rôle of heroine in holding the castle against foes, and without doubt would have been delighted to sustain a siege. The present days were too tame for her. She yearned for the time when ladies were left in charge of the donjon keep, while their husbands went out to war. More than
