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 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 , 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 , 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 . 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 , 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 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 way, h 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 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 . 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 .
 
Meantime, Colester society had been much exercised over the discovery of Leo's 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 of Colester were not prepared to credit him. Mrs Bathurst was particularly in her denunciations of the .
 
"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 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 . But the dear child has escaped the 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 well what she meant. Failing the wealthy Pratt, who had been proved a scoundrel, the curate had a chance of becoming Mrs Bathurst's son-in-law. And Raston was not . 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[219] 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 name, so as to be prepared for an emergency of this sort. "Go to her and take with you a mother's ."
 
Thus burdened, Raston sought out Peggy, and then and there told her that all was well. They could love one another without let or . 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 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 pharmacopœia of James."
 
"Why does she go on the moor?" said Peggy. "I thought it was the 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 , 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 ."
 
"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 ............