The Hidden Treasure

Or Found at Last

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "THE FOSTER-SISTERS," "WINIFRED," ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE GOLD MEDAL

II. THE SHEPHERD

III. THE SHEPHERD'S TALE

IV. SEED BY THE WAYSIDE

V. THE CHRISTIAN BROTHER

VI. A FALL AND A NEW FRIEND

VII. FATHER JOHN AT HOME

VIII. JACK GOES HOME FOR A VISIT

IX. A JOURNEY

X. HOME GOSSIP

XI. NEW PROJECTS

XII. AN EXPLANATION

XIII. "THEY THAT SOW IN TEARS."

XIV. ANNE AT HOME

XV. MARY BRENT'S LODGER

XVI. JACK'S ERRAND

XVII. HOLFORD AGAIN

XVIII. CONFIDENCES

XIX. A SORROWFUL PARTING

XX. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM

XXI. ANNE

XXII. THE TRIAL

XXIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

XXIV. CONCLUSION

THE HIDDEN TREASURE

CHAPTER I.

THE GOLD MEDAL.

It was growing toward evening on a mild day of early spring in the year 1527. The sun, which had been hidden all day, peeped out of a rent in the curtain of gray cloud, and did his best to make beautiful the town of Bridgewater, by gilding the tops of the houses and the tall tower of the beautiful church of St. Mary, lighting up the boats and vessels in the river, and sending his rays on all sorts of frolicsome errands through the streets and alleys of the sober old town.

In pursuance of these errands, a set of bright beams found out and entered the shop of John Lucas, the well-known master baker in Bridge Street, and finding therein abundance of well-scoured boards, bright earthenware and burnished pewter, did so disport themselves, that at last they attracted the attention of Master Lucas himself, who was knitting his brows over certain crabbed-looking accounts, apparently trying to extract some meaning from them, by the help of a huge pair of horn spectacles. The moment Master Lucas raised his head, the aforesaid frolicsome beams at once forsook, as it seemed, all their former playthings, to dance about his portly person, light up his gray hair, and make little mimic suns in his eyes and glasses. And certainly they might have gone a long way, and have seen nothing pleasanter than the old man's face.

"Heyday!" he exclaimed. "Here is the sun at last, to be sure, and a welcome sight after all the cloudy days we have had of late. Well, well! The sun always shines at last, that is one comfort. Eh, Mary Brent?" he added, addressing himself to a pale and poorly clad woman who had just entered the shop.

The poor woman shook her head sadly. "I suppose it does, somewhere," said she, "but little of it comes my way of late years."

"And that is true," said the baker kindly. "You have had your troubles and trials these many years; but your children will soon be growing up to help you, that is one comfort; and nobody ever had an ill word for you, that's another. You will be wanting one of my new brown loaves now. Here, Simon, a brown loaf for Dame Brent."

"Not so, Master Lucas," replied Mary Brent. "You are very good, but I dare not take the loaf. I owe you more now than I shall ever be able to pay—"

"Nonsense, woman!" interrupted the baker. "The children must eat."

"And I came to ask you if you would just wait on me a little longer. I hope my son will be home and bring me some money next month; he is a dutiful lad for all they say of him; and till then we must rub on somehow."

"Look here, dame!" said the baker, in a somewhat angry tone. "Have I ever asked you for my money?"

"No, Master Lucas, you have been very forbearing, but—"

"But me no buts!" interrupted Master Lucas. "Take the loaf and go your way, woman, unless you will stop to supper with us; and as for the money, when I want it, I will ask for it."

"I thank you with all my heart," said the woman, evidently relieved from some great anxiety. "My poor children must needs have gone supperless to bed, but for your bounty."

"How then?" demanded the baker. "Did you not get your share of the dole at the convent gate this morning? I saw old Margery carrying home a fine beef-bone, and surely you have as good a right as she—the old mumping beggar that she is!"

"Nay," replied poor Mary, smiling sadly. "I get nothing now from the convent, less or more. The fathers were so angry with poor Davy for preferring rather to go to sea than to become a lay brother, that they say they will do nothing for me. And that is not the worst either. They say my husband was a believer in the new doctrines, and accuse me of the same, though there is no one in Bridgewater who keeps her church more closely than I. New doctrines or not, he was a good husband to me, and never let me want, or lost a day's work through drink or idleness."

"And that is more than many of them can say," returned the baker. "Out on them one and all for a set of lazy crows, preying on other folks' substance!"

"Well, I am surprised to hear you say as much, Master Lucas. I had thought you were ever a favorer of the religious houses. Mistress Cicely told me that your Anne was to enter the convent where she had her schooling, and that she was a wonder for her gravity, her penances, and piety; and also that your son Jacky was likely to follow the same course."

Master Lucas shook his head. "It is by no good will of mine, dame, that Anne turns her thoughts towards the cloister. The girl is well enough, if she would but laugh or speak or do anything else in a natural way, and not go round like a waxen image or an animated corpse. As for Jack, poor fellow, I much fear he will not be long for this world in any vocation. Look at him now coming along the street, so pale and spiritless, never looking above or around him. When I was of his age, I should have raced all the way, and come in as hungry as a wolf. I much fear the lad will die in a waste like his mother before him."

"Why now, Jack, what ails thee?" he continued, as a delicate, pale boy of fifteen came slowly into the shop and dropped his strap-load of books on the counter. "Art thou ill, or have the examinations gone so much against thee? Fie, never take it to heart, lad! Better luck another time. One failure is no such great matter to break one's heart about. Many a man goes well enough through the world who never learned to know great A from little B."

"But I have not failed, dear father," said John, smiling, and, leaning on his father's broad shoulder, he drew from his breast a gold medal, and held it up before him. "See, I have gained the prize!"

"Gained the prize!" exclaimed the baker, starting. "Not the gold medal, and over the heads of all thy fellows! That can never be, surely!"

"But it is even so," replied Jack. "See, here it is. Sir William says in another year I shall be able to go to college."

"Bless the boy! And have you won the prize, and come home to tell of it with such a step as that?"

"I am so tired!" said Jack wearily. "I can think of nothing but resting just now. It seemed ten miles from the schoolhouse to the head of our street."

"And you are as pale as new-bolted flour," said his father. "Sit you down in my great chair. Here, Cicely—Anne—where are you? Bring the lad a glass of ale, Cicely—or, stay, wine be better. A glass of wine, Cicely; and Cicely, bring the smallest of the pies was baked this morning. Here, Anne, my girl, do you see what has happened? Your brother has won the gold medal."

Anne came slowly forward from the back room, where she had been sitting, busily engaged in needle work. She was a tall, fair girl, with regular features, blue eyes, and a face which would have been both handsome and engaging but for its formal, repressed, and self-conscious expression. She looked like one who would never make a natural or spontaneous movement, or speak a word without thinking over all its possible consequences at least twice beforehand. She presented the greatest possible contrast to her jolly, cheerful father, as well as to her maiden cousin Cicely, who now came bustling in, carrying a goodly pasty, which, if it were the smaller of two or three, spoke well for the size of Master Lucas' oven. She was thin and wrinkled as a last year's russet apple, but her somewhat hard features were lighted up with good-humored smiles, and the roses of her youth were well dried into her cheeks.

"Lackaday!" she exclaimed, in a clear, high-pitched voice. "And so our lad has gained the prize. Lady! But who would have thought it, and he so mum and quiet about it all the time! Well, well! Would his dear mother had lived to see the day! But doubtless it is better as it is. What shall I do with the pasty, Master Lucas?"

"Pop it in Mary Brent's basket, to be sure," replied the baker. "What better place could there be? Nay, dame, you must needs take it, or you and I shall fall out. Yourself and the young ones must keep Jack's feast—eh, my lad?"

Mary Brent said no more in opposition, but withdrew with a far brighter face than she came in.

"And that's just like you, Master Lucas, and a good deed too," said Cicely. "Poor woman, I fear she often has short commons at home these days."

"Well, I must say, I wonder my father should give so largely to her—a woman whose husband died without the sacrament, and suspected strongly of heresy," said Anne.

"And suppose her husband was a heretic, is that any reason his widow should starve?" demanded her father with some heat. "Or is there any reason why I should not do what I will with mine own, or why my own daughter should take me to task in the open shop?"

Anne colored deeply. "I meant no offence, father, only—"

"Only thou art a peevish wench, and I am a fool to be ruffled by thee," said the baker, recovering his good humor. "Come, look at Jack's medal."

Anne regarded the medal with a mournful expression, not as if she were at all interested in it, but as obeying a command of her father's. "Tis a great honor, no doubt," said she, "but the honors of this world are hardly worth striving after."

"By'r Lady! But they are," said her father. "Another such victory makes Jack an Oxford scholar, and that is worth striving after in more ways than one. But thou art ever a wet blanket," he muttered between his teeth, "taking no pleasure thyself, and doing all thou canst to damp that of other people. Come, son, drink your wine and eat this manchet therewith, to stay your appetite till supper. And do you, Cicely, provide us with right good cheer this night, and send the 'prentice boy to bid my old crony, Master Luttrell, and his wife, to sup with us. They will be glad to hear of Jack's good fortune—eh, my lad? But you look worse and worse. Cicely, bring some of the cordial I got from Captain Davis."

"I should like to go to bed, father, if you please," interrupted Jack, trying to rouse himself. "My head is so heavy and drowsy, I shall be no good company for anybody. I dare say I shall feel better after a good night's rest."

"To be sure, dear lad. Sleep is everything—worth all the doctors in the world. Anne, get your brother's room ready, and make his bed comfortably. Yes, go to bed, my son, and sleep well, with thy father's blessing upon thee," added Master Lucas, laying his broad hand on the boy's head, while an expression of gentle benignity made his honest, open face still more attractive. "This I will say for thee, that from the day of thy birth till now thou hast never wittingly grieved thy father's heart, or given him a moment's uneasiness."

Jack took his father's hand in his own thin fingers and kissed it. "I should be a wretch indeed, to grieve you, father. You have been father and mother both to me ever since my mother died. I only wish I could do more for you in return."

"Tut, tut, lad! What could any one expect of you more than you have done? Only get well and strong, and never fear but you will do enough. Anne, why do you not see to the lad's chamber, instead of standing there like an image of stone?"

"It is nearly time for evensong, father," replied Anne. "Betty can make Jack's bed as well as I."

"Tell me not of evensong, girl! It is quite time you should learn that your father's word is not to be disputed. Go and do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you. There, I meant not to be over-sharp, Anne, but you must learn, my maid, that so long as you are under your father's roof, his word is your law."

"Dear father, do not be sharp with poor Anne," pleaded Jack, when his sister had left the room. "She means no harm, poor girl, only they have taught her at the convent to think nothing is of any account in comparison with church observances; and they are right, for aught I know, if it is as the priests tell us."

"It was an evil day when I let her go to the convent at all," said the baker. "She has never been the same joyous girl since. And now, I warrant, you too will be thinking of the church—mayhap of the cloister—and I shall be left alone, a childless old man."

"Never, never, dear father!" exclaimed Jack, starting up and speaking with an energy which brought a flush to his pale cheeks. "Never will I leave you for the sake of becoming a lazy drone, like the monks yonder, or a proud priest like their prior, who rides abroad in such state upon his mule, and grinds the faces of poor men, and robs widows and orphans as he does. I would rather be a shepherd on the hillside all day like my old uncle Thomas, or a sailor like Davy Brent, or a miner underground, than live such a life!"

"Well, well, boy, I am glad on't with all my heart, but you need not speak so loud or put yourself in such a heat about it. The priests are not all alike neither. Never was a better man than our Sir William."

"That is so, father; and yet I would not be in his shoes. I hear the others are complaining that he preaches too much, and that he sets a bad example in not exacting all his dues. They say he would not take the last dues from Prudence Wither when her husband died, though she offered it. 'Nay, dame,' he said, 'it were more fitting I should give to you than you to me.' And he will take no christening gifts or marriage fees, because he says the sacraments should be free to all."

"'Tis a wonder if they do not accuse him of heresy before all is done!" muttered the baker.

"Well, here comes cousin Cicely to tell us that your room is ready, and I dare say she has brewed a fine posset for you—eh, old girl?"

"That have I, that have I, John Lucas!" replied the cheery old woman. "And made up his bed with clean well-lavendered sheets to boot. So come along, Jacky, if you will not sit up to supper—and truly your eyes are rarely heavy."

"You will spoil me among you," said Jack, gratefully. "I am not worth so much care. Well, good-night, dear father. I dare say I shall be well enough in the morning."

CHAPTER II.

THE SHEPHERD.

Jack's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. For many days, he tossed restlessly on his bed, or crept from it only to recline in the great armchair which had been placed in his room.

In vain did Cicely prepare her most tempting delicacies, and brew her choicest sleeping draughts—he could neither eat nor sleep. In vain did Anne, more awake to sublunary matters than she had been for a long time, try to divert him with legends of saints. He could not care for them any more than for the news of the school and the town which his playmates brought him.

He grew thinner and weaker day by day. The physician talked learnedly of degeneration of the animal spirits, and so on, but confessed that he could do no good. He feared there was a hereditary tendency to consumption, which nothing would counteract, and being a wise and humane man, he forbore to torment his patient with useless drugs.

One day, Sir William Leavett, the parish priest, came in to see him. Jack had been rather better for a day or two, and had managed, with his father's help, to creep down into the sunny shop, where he sat or rather reclined in his father's armchair, pleased with the change from his dull chamber and languidly amused by the bustle in the street and the people coming and going; for it was a market-day, and Bridge Street was unusually thronged.

"Why, this is well, my son," said the priest, kindly. "I am glad to see you down-stairs. Nay, sit still," he added, as Jack would have risen from his seat. "I will take the will for the deed."

So saying, he drew up a stool and sat down by the side of the sick boy. He was a kindly-looking middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair, and a face full of benevolence, but sad and somewhat puzzled in its expression. He took Jack's hand, felt its pulse, and questioned him as to his feelings.

"You have no pain, you say?"

"No father, at least very little," replied Jack. "I seem to be tired all the time. If I could only be rested, I should feel well."

"You are overwrought, my son. You worked too hard for the medal, I fear."

"I did not know how hard I was working, not till afterwards," said Jack. "No one was more surprised at my getting it than I was. I never thought it possible."

"So much the better, so much the better, my son!" said the priest. "You worked for the learning, which was its own reward, and which will last you, it may be, when this same bit of gold is rust and dust."

"Shall we then carry our learning with us into other world?" asked Jack, abruptly.

The priest smiled. "Who can tell that, my on? Yet it may be so. That which we truly earn becomes, as it were, amalgamated with our minds and a part of them, even as the food we eat becomes a part of our bodies. Have you not found it so?"

"Indeed I have, father," said Jack. "I cannot forget, if I would."

"Well, then, since our minds and souls are immortal, why should not this same learning, which has become a part of them, be immortal too? But these are deep themes, far beyond the reach of us mortals. This much I think we may rest assured of, that we shall forget nothing which it is profitable for us to remember. Master Lucas, good-day to you," as the baker entered the shop. "I am glad to see our young scholar better and able to be down-stairs."

"He is not much to boast of yet, poor child!" replied Master Lucas sadly. "I would give all his school learning to see his cheeks as round and rosy as yonder shepherd lad's. Nothing can make up for the want of health."

"Ay, ay!" said the priest musingly, looking over Jack's head into the street. "And speaking of shepherds, Master Lucas, why do you not send this lad out into the fields to try what country air and country fare can do for him? They work wonders sometimes. Has he no relations or friends to whose care you could commit him for the summer?"

"I have been thinking of that same thing, Sir William," replied the baker; "but where to send him I know not, unless it be to his mother's uncle, old Tommy Sprat at Holford. He is a good man, though plain and somewhat austere perhaps in his manners, and wonderful sparing of his words in general, as I think indeed shepherds are apt to be."

"Ay, their occupation, by its silence and solitariness, doth naturally dispose them, if they be at all men of parts or understanding, to contemplation and musing. Hence, perhaps, the favor shown them of old in making known to shepherds the first news of the Birth at Bethlehem. David, too, the great king and sweet singer of Israel, was a shepherd."

"Was he really?" asked Jack, much interested, "that King David who made the Psalms?"

The priest assented.

"And was he the same you told us of in school one day, the young lad who killed with his sling and stone the fierce giant who defied the king's armies so long?"

"Even so, my son," answered the priest, smiling at the boy's eager interest. "King David was for many years a shepherd lad, and wandered over the hills and plains with his father's flocks and herds, even that same David who wrote:"

"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"

"Our Lord, too, is called the shepherd of His people."

"'I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.'" "'My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me, and none is able to pluck them out of my hand.'" "'He shall feed flock like a shepherd, He shall carry the lambs in His bosom.'"