"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."