It was a sultry summer evening in the old days, when Walter Wyatt
came to the house of his forefathers. It was in a quiet valley of
Sussex, with the woods standing very steeply on the high hillsides.
Among the woods were pleasant stretches of pasture, and a little
stream ran hidden among hazels beside the road; here and there were
pits in the woods, where the men of ancient times had dug for iron,
pits with small sandstone cliffs, and full to the brim of saplings and
woodland plants. Walter rode slowly along, his heart full of a happy
content. Though it was the home of his family he had never even seen
Restlands--that was the peaceful name of the house. Walter's father
had been a younger son, and for many years the elder brother, a morose
and selfish man, had lived at Restlands, often vowing that none of his
kin should ever set foot in the place, and all out of a native malice
and churlishness, which discharged itself upon those that were nearest
to him. Walter's father was long dead, and Walter had lived a very
quiet homely life with his mother. But one day his uncle had died
suddenly and silently, sitting in his chair; and it was found that he
had left no will. So that Restlands, with its orchards and woods and
its pleasant pasture-lands, fell to Walter; and he had ridden down to
take possession. He was to set the house in order, for it was much
decayed in his uncle's time; and in a few weeks his mother was to
follow him there.
He turned a corner of the road, and saw in a glance a house that he
knew must be his; and a sudden pride and tenderness leapt up within
his heart, to think how fair a place he could call his own.
An avenue of limes led from the road to the house, which was built of
ancient stone, the roof tiled with the same. The front was low and
many-windowed. And Walter, for he was a God-fearing youth, made a
prayer in his heart, half of gratitude and half of hope.
He rode up to the front of the house, and saw at once that it was
sadly neglected; the grass grew among the paving-stones, and several
of the windows were broken. He knocked at the door, and an old
serving-man came out, who made an obeisance. Walter sent his horse to
the stable; his baggage was already come; and his first task was to
visit his new home from room to room. It was a very beautiful solidly
built house, finely panelled in old dry wood, and had an abundance of
solid oak furniture; there were dark pictures here and there; and that
night Walter sate alone at his meat, which was carefully served him by
the old serving-man, his head full of pleasant plans for his new life;
he slept in the great bedroom, and many times woke wondering where he
was; once he crept to the window, and saw the barns, gardens, and
orchards lie beneath, and the shadowy woods beyond, all bathed in a
cold clear moonlight.
In the morning when he had breakfasted, the lawyer who had charge of
his business rode in from the little town hard by to see him; and when
Walter's happiness was a little dashed; for though the estate brought
in a fair sum, yet it was crippled by a mortgage which lay upon it;
and Walter saw that he would have to live sparely for some years
before he could have his estate unembarrassed; but this troubled him
little, for he was used to a simple life. The lawyer indeed had
advised him to sell a little of the land; but Walter was very proud of
the old estate, and of the memory that he was the tenth Wyatt that had
dwelt there, and he said that before he did that he would wait awhile
and see if he could not arrange otherwise. When the lawyer was gone
there came in the bailiff, and Walter went with him all over the
estate. The garden was greatly overgrown with weeds, and the yew
hedges were sprawling all uncut; they went through the byre, where the
cattle stood in the straw; they visited the stable and the barn, the
granary and the dovecote; and Walter spoke pleasantly with the men
that served him; then he went to the ploughland and the pastures, the
orchard and the woodland; and it pleased Walter to walk in the
woodpaths, among the copse and under great branching oaks, and to feel
that it was all his own.
At last they came out on the brow of the hill, and saw Restlands lie
beneath them, with the smoke of a chimney going up into the quiet air,
and the doves wheeling about the cote. The whole valley was full of
westering sunshine, and the country sounds came pleasantly up through
the still air.
They stood in a wide open pasture, but in the centre of it rose a
small, dark, and thickly grown square holt of wood, surrounded by a
high green bank of turf, and Walter asked what that was. The old
bailiff looked at him a moment without speaking and then said, "That
is the Red Camp, sir." Walter said pleasantly, "And whose camp is it?"
but it came suddenly into his head that long ago his father had told
him a curious tale about the place, but he could not remember what the
tale was. The old man answering his question said, "Ah, sir, who can
say? perhaps it was the old Romans who made it, or perhaps older men
still; but there was a sore battle hereabouts." And then he went on in
a slow and serious way to tell him an old tale of how a few warriors
had held the place against an army, and that they had all been put to
the sword there; he said that in former days strange rusted weapons
and bones had been ploughed up in the field, and then he added that
the Camp had ever since been left desolate and that no one cared to
set foot within it; yet for all that it was said that a great treasure
lay buried within it, for that was what the men were guarding, though
those that took the place and slew them could never find it; "and that
was all long ago," he said.
Walter, as the old man spoke, walked softly to the wood and peered at
it over the mound; it was all grown up within, close and thick, an
evil tangle of plants and briars. It was dark and even cold looking
within the wood, though the air lay warm all about it. The mound was
about breast high, and there was a grass-grown trench all round out of
which the earth had been thrown up. It came into Walter's head that
the place had seen strange things. He thought of it as all rough and
newly made, with a palisade round the mound, with spears and helmets
showing over, and a fierce wild multitude of warriors surging all
round; the Romans, if they had been Romans, within, grave and anxious,
waiting for help that never came. All this came into his mind with a
pleasant sense of security, as a man who is at ease looks on a picture
of old and sad things, and finds it minister to his content. Yet the
place kept a secret of its own, Walter felt sure of that. And the
treasure, was that there all the time? buried in some corner of the
wood, money lying idle that might do good things if it could but get
forth? So he mused, tapping the bank with his stick. And presently
they went on together. Walter said as they turned away, "I should like
to cut the trees down, and throw the place into the pasture," but the
old bailiff said, "Nay, it is better left alone."
The weeks passed very pleasantly at first; the neighbours came to see
him, and he found that an old name wins friends easily; he spent much
of the day abroad, and he liked to go up to the Red Camp and see it
stand so solitary and dark, with the pleasant valley beneath it. His
mother soon came, and they found that with her small jointure they
could indeed live at the place, but that they would have to live very
sparely at first; there must be no horses in the stable, nor coach to
drive abroad; there must be no company at Restlands for many a year,
and Walter saw too that he must not think awhile of marriage, but that
he must give all his savings to feed the estate.
After awhile, when the first happy sense of possession had gone off,
and then life had settled down into common and familiar ways, this
began to be very irksome to Walter; and what made him feel even more
keenly his fortune was that he made acquaintance with a squire that
lived hard by, who had a daughter Marjory, who seemed to Walter the
fairest and sweetest maiden he had ever seen; and he began to carry
her image about with him; and his heart beat very sharply in his
breast if he set eyes on her unexpectedly; and she too, seemed to have
delight in seeing Walter, and to understand even the thoughts that lay
beneath his lightest word. But the squire was a poor man, and Walter
felt bound to crush the thought of love and marriage down in his
heart, until he began to grow silent and moody; and his mother saw all
that was in his heart and pitied him, but knew not what to do; and
Walter began even to talk of going into the world to seek his fortune;
but it was little more than talk, for he already loved Restlands very
deeply.
Now one day when Walter had been dining with the Vicar of the parish,
he met at his table an old and fond man, full of curious wisdom, who
took great delight in all that showed the history of the old races
that had inhabited the land; and he told Walter a long tale of the
digging open of a great barrow or mound upon the downs, which it
seemed had been the grave of a great prince, and in which they had
found a great treasure of gold, cups and plates and pitchers all of
gold, with bars of the same, and many other curious things. He said
that a third of such things by rights belonged to the King; but that
the King's Grace had been contented to take a rich cup or two, and had
left the rest in the hands of him whose land it was. Then the old
scholar asked Walter if it were not true that he had in his own land
an ancient fort or stronghold, and Walter told him of the Red Camp and
the story, and the old man heard him with great attention saying, "Ay,
ay," and "Ay, so it would be," and at the last he said that the story
of the treasure was most likely a true one, for he did not see how it
could have grown up otherwise; and that he did not doubt that it was a
great Roman treasure, perhaps a tribute, gathered in from the people
of the land, who would doubtless have been enraged to lose so much and
would have striven to recover it. "Ay, it is there, sure enough," he
said.
Walter offered to go with him to the place; but the old Vicar, seeing
Walter's bright eye, and knowing something of the difficulties, said
that the legend was that it would be ill to disturb a thing that had
cost so many warriors their lives; and that a curse would rest upon
one that did disturb it. The old scholar laughed and said that the
curses of the dead, and especially of the heathen dead, would break no
bones--and he went on to say that doubtless there was a whole
hen-roost of curses hidden away in the mound upon the downs; but that
they had hurt not his friend who had opened it; for he lived very
delicately and plentifully off the treasure of the old prince, who
seemed to bear him no grudge for it. "Nay, doubtless," he said, "if we
but knew the truth, I dare say that the old heathen man, pining in
some dark room in hell, is glad enough that his treasure should be
richly spent by a good Christian gentleman."
They walked together to the place; and the old gentleman talked very
learnedly and showed him where the gates and towers of the fort had
been--adding to Walter, "And if I were you, Mr. Wyatt, I would have
the place cleared and trenched, and would dig the gold out; for it is
there as sure as I am a Christian man and a lover of the old days."
Then Walter told his mother of all that had been said; and she had
heard of the old tales, and shook her head; indeed when Walter spoke
to the old bailiff of his wish to open the place, the old man almost
wept; and then, seeing that he prevailed nothing, said suddenly that
neither he nor any of the men that dwelt in the village would put out
a hand to help for all the gold of England. So Walter rested for
awhile; and still his impatience and his hunger grew.
Walter did not decide at once; he turned the matter over in his mind
for a week. He spoke no more to the bailiff, who thought he had
changed his mind; but all the week the desire grew; and at last it
completely overmastered him. He sent for the bailiff and told him he
had determined to dig out the Camp; the bailiff looked at him without
speaking. Then Walter said laughing that he meant to deal very fairly;
that no one should bear a hand in the work who did not do so
willingly; but that he should add a little to the wages of every man
who worked for him at the Camp while the work was going on. The
bailiff shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. Walter went and
spoke to each of his men and told them his offer. "I know," he said,
"that there is a story about the place, and that you do not wish to
touch it; but I will offer a larger wage to every man who works there
for me; and I will force no man to do it; but done it shall be; and if
my own men will not do it, then I will get strangers to help me." The
end of it was that three of his men offered to do the work, and the
next day a start was made.
The copse and undergrowth was first cleared, and then the big trees
were felled and dragged off the place; then the roots were stubbed up.
It was a difficult task, and longer than Walter had thought; and he
could not disguise from himself that a strange kind of ill-luck hung
about the whole affair. One of his men disabled himself by a cut from
an axe; another fell ill; the third, after these two mishaps, came and
begged off. Walter replaced them with other workers; and the work
proceeded slowly, in spite of Walter's great impatience and haste. He
himself was there early and late; the men had it in their minds that
they were searching for treasure and were well-nigh as excited as
himself; and Walter was for ever afraid that in his absence some rich
and valuable thing might be turned up, and perhaps concealed or
conveyed away secretly by the finder. But the weeks passed and nothing
was found; and it was now a bare and ugly place with miry pools of
dirt, great holes where the trees had been; there were cart tracks all
over the field in which it lay, the great trunks lay outside the
mound, and the undergrowth was piled in stacks. The mound and ditch
had all been unturfed; and the mound was daily dug down to the level,
every spadeful being shaken loose; and now they came upon some few
traces of human use. In the mound was found a short and dinted sword
of bronze, of antique shape. A mass of rusted metal was found in a
corner, that looked as if it had been armour. In another corner were
found some large upright and calcined stones, with abundance of
wood-ashes below, that seemed to have been a rude fireplace. And in
one part, in a place where there seemed to have been a pit, was a
quantity of rotting stuff, that seemed like the remains of bones.
Walter himself grew worn and weary, partly with the toil and still
more with the deferred hope. And the men too became sullen and
ill-affected. It surprised Walter too that more than one of his
neighbours spoke with disfavour of what he was doing, as of a thing
that was foolish or even wrong. But still he worked on savagely, slept
little, and cared not what he ate or drank.
At last the work was nearly over; the place had been all trenched
across, and they had come in most places to the hard sandstone, which
lay very near the surface. In the afternoon had fallen a heavy
drenching shower, so that the men had gone home early, wet and
dispirited; and Walter stood, all splashed and stained with mud, sick
at heart and heavy, on the edge of the place, and looked very gloomily
at the trenches, which lay like an ugly scar on the green hilltop. The
sky was full of ragged inky clouds, with fierce lights on the horizon.
As he paced about and looked at the trenches, he saw in one place
that it seemed as if the earth was of a different colour at the side
of the trench; he stepped inside to look at this, and saw that the
digging had laid bare the side of a place like a pit, that seemed to
have been dug down through the ground; he bent to examine it, and then
saw at the bottom of the trench, washed clear by the rain, something
that looked like a stick or a root, that projected a little into the
trench; he put his hand down to it, and found it cold and hard and
heavy, and in a moment saw that it was a rod of metal that ran into
the bank. He took up a spade, and threw the earth away in haste; and
presently uncovered the rod. It was a bar, he saw, and very heavy; but
examining it closely he saw that there was a stamp of some sort upon
it; and then in a moment looking upon a place where the spade had
scratched it, he saw that it was a bright yellow metal. It came over
him all at once, with a shock that made him faint, that he had
stumbled upon some part of the treasure; he put the bar aside, and
then, first looking all round to see that none observed him, he dug
into the bank. In a moment his spade struck something hard; and he
presently uncovered a row of bars that lay close together. He dragged
them up one by one, and underneath he found another row, laid
crosswise; and another row, and another, till he had uncovered seven
rows, making fifty bars in all. Beneath the lowest row his spade
slipped on something round and smooth; he uncovered the earth, and
presently drew out a brown and sodden skull, which thus lay beneath
the treasure. Below that was a mass of softer earth, but out of it
came the two thigh-bones of a man.
The sky was now beginning to grow dark; but he dug out the whole of
the pit, working into the bank; and he saw that a round hole had been
dug straight down from the top, to the sandstone. The bones lay upon
the sandstone; but he found other bones at the sides of where the gold
had lain; so that it seemed to him as though the gold must have been
placed among dead bodies, and have rested among corruption. This was a
dim thought that lurked in an ugly way in his mind. But he had now dug
out the whole pit, and found nothing else, except a few large blurred
copper coins which lay among the bodies. He stood awhile looking at
the treasure; but together with the exultation at his discovery there
mingled a dark and gloomy oppression of spirit, which he could not
explain, which clouded his mind. But presently he came to himself
again, and gathering the bones together, he threw them down to the
bottom of the pit, as he was minded to conceal his digging from the
men. While he did so, it seemed to him that, as he was bending to the
pit, something came suddenly behind him and stood at his back, close
to him, as though looking over his shoulder. For a moment the horror
was so great that he felt the hair of his head prickle and his heart
thump within his breast; but he overcame it and turned, and saw
nothing but the trenches, and above them the ragged sky; yet he had
the thought that something had slipped away. But he set himself
doggedly to finish his task; he threw earth into the holes, working in
a kind of fury; and twice as he did so, the same feeling came again
that there was some one at his back; and twice turning he saw nothing;
but the third time, from the West came a sharp thunder-peal; and he
had hardly finished his work when the rain fell in a sheet, and
splashed in the trenches.
Then he turned to the treasure which lay beside him. He found that he
could not carry more than a few of the bars at a time; and he dared
not leave the rest uncovered. So he covered them with earth and went
stealthily down to the house; and there he got, with much precaution,
a barrow from the garden. But the fear of discovery came upon him; and
he determined to go into the house and sup as usual, and late at night
convey the treasure to the house. For the time, his trove gave him no
joy; he could not have believed it would have so weighed on him--he
felt more like one who had some guilty secret to conceal, than a man
to whom had befallen a great joy.
He went to the house, changed his wet clothes, and came to supper with
his mother. To her accustomed questions as to what they had found, he
took out the coins and showed them her, saying nothing of the gold,
but with a jesting word that these would hardly repay him for his
trouble. He could scarcely speak at supper for thinking of what he had
found; and every now and then there came upon him a dreadful fear that
he had been observed digging, and that even now some thief had stolen
back there and was uncovering his hoard. His mother looked at him
often, and at last said that he looked very weary; to which he replied
with some sharpness, so that she said no more.
Then all at once, near the end of the meal, he had the same dreadful
fear that he had felt by the pit. It seemed to him as though some one
came near him and stood close behind him, bending over his shoulder;
and a kind of icy coldness fell on him. He started and looked quickly
round. His mother looked anxiously at him, and said, "What is it, dear
Walter?" He made some excuse; but presently feeling that he must be
alone, he excused himself and went to his room, where he sate, making
pretence to read, till the house should be silent.
Then when all were abed, at an hour after midnight, he forced himself
to rise and put on his rough clothes, though a terror lay very sore
upon him, and go out to the garden, creeping like a thief. He had with
him a lantern; and he carried the barrow on his shoulders for fear
that the creaking of the wheel should awake some one; and then
stumbling and sweating, and in a great weariness, he went by woodpaths
to the hilltop. He came to the place, and having lit his lantern he
uncovered the bars, and laid them on the barrow; they were as he had
left them. When he had loaded them, the same fear struck him suddenly
cold again, of something near him; and he thought for a moment he
would have swooned; but sitting down on the barrow in the cool air he
presently came to himself. Then he essayed to wheel the barrow in the
dark. But he stumbled often, and once upset the barrow and spilled his
load. Thus, though fearing discovery, he was forced to light the
lantern and set it upon the barrow, and so at last he came to the
house; where he disposed the bars at the bottom of a chest of which he
had the key, covering them with papers, and then went to bed in a kind
of fever, his teeth chattering, till he fell into a wretched sleep
which lasted till dawn.
In his sleep he dreamed a fearful dream; he seemed to be sitting on
the ground by the Camp, holding the gold in his arms; the Camp, in his
dream was as it was before he had cleared it, all grown up with trees.
Suddenly out from among the trees there came a man in rusty tarnished
armour, with a pale wild face and a little beard, which seemed all
clotted with moisture; he held in his hand a pike or spear, and he
came swiftly and furiously upon Walter as though he would smite him.
But it seemed as though his purpose changed; for standing aside he
watched Walter with evil and piercing eyes, so that it seemed to
Walter that he would sooner have been smitten. And then he woke, but
in anguish, for the man still seemed to stand beside him; until he
made a light and saw no one.
He arose feeling broken and ill; but he met his mother with a smile,
and told her that he had determined to do what would please her, and
work no more at the Camp. And he told the men that he would dig no
more, but that they were to level the place and so leave it. And so
they did, murmuring sore.
The next week was a very miserable one for Walter; he could not have
believed that a man's heart should be so heavy. It seemed to him that
he lay, like the poor bones that he had found beneath the treasure,
crushed and broken and stifled under the weight of it. He was tempted
to do wild things with the gold; to bury it again in the Camp, to drop
it into the mud of the pool that lay near the house. In fevered dreams
he seemed to row himself in a boat upon a dark sea, and to throw the
bars one by one into the water; the reason of this was not only his
fear for the treasure itself, but the dreadful sense that he had of
being followed by some one, who dogged his footsteps wherever he went.
If ever he sate alone, the thing would draw near him and bend above
him; he often felt that if he could but look round swiftly enough he
would catch a glimpse of the thing, and that nothing that he could see
would be so fearful as that which was unseen; and so it came to pass
that, as he sate with his mother, though he bore the presence long
that he might not startle her, yet after a time of patient agony he
could bear it no more, but looked swiftly behind him; he grew pale and
ill, and even the men of the place noticed how often he turned round
as he walked; till at last he would not even walk abroad, except early
and late when there would be few to see him.
He had sent away his labourers; but once or twice he noticed, as he
went by the Camp, that some one had been digging and grubbing in the
mire. Sometimes for an hour or two his terrors would leave him, till
he thought that he was wholly cured; but it was like a cat with a
mouse, for he suffered the worse for his respite, till at last he fell
so low that he used to think of stories of men that had destroyed
themselves, and though he knew it to be a terrible sin to dally with
such thoughts, he could not wholly put them from him, but used to plan
in his mind how he could do the deed best, that it might appear to be
an accident. Sometimes he bore his trouble heavily, but at others he
would rage to think that he had been so happy so short a while ago;
and even the love that he bore to Marjory was darkened and destroyed
by the evil thing, and he met her timid and friendly glances sullenly;
his mother was nearly as miserable as himself, for she knew that
something was very grievously amiss, but could not divine what it was.
Indeed, she could do nothing but wish it were otherwise, and pray for
her son, for she knew not where the trouble lay, but thought that he
was ill or even bewitched.
At last, after a day of dreadful gloom, Walter made up his mind that
he would ride to London and see to the disposing of the treasure. He
had a thought often in his mind that if he replaced it in the Camp, he
would cease to be troubled; but he could not bring himself to that; he
seemed to himself like a man who had won a hard victory, and was asked
to surrender what he had won.
His intention was to go to an old and wise friend of his father's, who
was a Canon of a Collegiate Church in London, and was much about the
court. So he hid the treasure in a strong cellar and padlocked the
door; but he took one bar with him to show to his friend.
It was a doleful journey; his horse seemed as dispirited as himself;
and his terrors came often upon him, till he was fearful that he might
be thought mad; and indeed what with the load at his heart and the
short and troubled nights he spent, he believed himself that he was
not very far from it.
It was with a feeling of relief and safety, like a ship coming into
port, that he stayed his horse at the door of the college, which stood
in a quiet street of the city. He carried a valise of clothes in which
the bar was secured. He had a very friendly greeting from the old
Canon, who received him in a little studious parlour full of books.
The court was full of pleasant sunshine, and the city outside seemed
to make a pleasant and wholesome stir in the air.
But the Canon was very much amazed at Walter's looks; he was used to
read the hearts of men in their faces like a wise priest, and he saw
in Walter's face a certain desperate look such as he had seen, he said
to himself, in the faces of those who had a deadly sin to confess. But
it was not his way to make inquisition, and so he talked courteously
and easily, and when he found that Walter was inclined to be silent,
he filled the silence himself with little talk of the news of the
town.
After the meal, which they took in the Canon's room--for Walter said
that he would prefer that to dining in the Hall, when the Canon gave
him the choice--Walter said that he had a strange story to tell him.
The Canon felt no surprise, and being used to strange stories,
addressed himself to listen carefully; for he thought that in the most
difficult and sad tales of sin the words of the sufferer most often
supplied the advice and the way out, if one but listened warily.
He did not interrupt Walter except to ask him a few questions to make
the story clear, but his face grew very grave; and at the end he sate
some time in silence. Then he said very gently that it was a heavy
judgment, but that he must ask Walter one question. "I do not ask you
to tell me," he said very courteously, "what it may be; but is there
no other thing in which you have displeased God? For these grievous
thoughts and fears are sometimes sent as a punishment for sin, and to
turn men back to the light."
Then Walter said that he knew of no such sin by which he could have
vexed God so exceedingly. "Careless," he said, "I am and have been;
and, father, I would tell you anything that was in my heart; I would
have no secrets from you--but though I am a sinner, and do not serve
God as well as I would, yet I desire to serve Him, and have no sin
that is set like a wall between Him and me." He said this so honestly
and bravely, looking so full at the priest, that he did not doubt him,
and said, "Then, my son, we must look elsewhere for the cause; and
though I speak in haste, and without weighing my words, it seems to me
that, to speak in parables, you are like a man who has come by chance
to a den and carried off for his pleasure the cubs of some forest
beast, who returns and finds them gone, and tracks the robber out. The
souls of these poor warriors are in some mansion of God, we know not
where; if they did faithfully in life they are beaten, as the
Scripture says, with few stripes; but they may not enjoy His blessed
rest, nor the sweet sleep of the faithful souls who lie beneath the
altar and wait for His coming. And now though they cannot slay you,
they can do you grievous hurt. The Holy Church hath power indeed over
the spirits of evil, the devils that enter into men. But I have not
heard that she hath power over the spirits of the dead, and least of
all over those that lived and died outside the fold. It seems to me,
though I but grope in darkness, that these poor spirits grudge the
treasure that they fought and died for to the hands of a man who hath
not fought for it. We may think that it is a poor and childish thing
to grudge that which one cannot use; but no discourse will make a
child think so; and I reckon that these poor souls are as children
yet. And it seems to me, speaking foolishly, as though they would not
be appeased until you either restored it to them, or used it for their
undoubted benefit; but of one thing I am certain, that it must not be
used to enrich yourself. But I must ponder over the story, for it is a
strange one, and not such as has ever yet come before me."
Then Walter found fresh courage at these wary and wise words, and
told him of his impoverished estate and the love he had to Marjory;
and the priest smiled, and said that love was the best thing to win in
the world. And then he said that as it was now late, they must sleep;
and that the night often brought counsel; and so he took Walter to his
chamber, a little precise place with a window on the court; and there
he left him; but he first knelt down and prayed, and then laid his
hand on Walter's head, and blessed him, and commended him to the
merciful keeping of God; and Walter slept sweetly, and was scared that
night by no dismal dreams; and in the morning the priest took him to
the church, and Walter knelt in a little chapel while the old man said
his mass, commending therein the burden of Walter's suffering into the
merciful hands of God; so that Walter's heart was greatly lightened.
Then after the mass the priest asked Walter of his health, and whether
he had suffered any visitation of evil that night; he said "no," and
the priest then said that he had pondered long over the story, which
was strange and very dark. But he had little doubt now as to what
Walter should do. He did not think that the treasure should be
replaced now that it was got up, because it was only flying before the
evil and not meeting it, but leaving the sad inheritance for some
other man. The poor spirit must be laid to rest, and the treasure used
for God's glory. "And therefore," he said, "I think that a church must
be built, and dedicated to All Souls; and thus your net will be wide
enough to catch the sad spirit. And you must buy a little estate for
the support of the chaplain thereof, and so shall all be content."
"All but one," said Walter sadly, "for there goes my dream of setting
up my own house that tumbles down."
"My son," said the old priest very gravely, "you must not murmur; it
will be enough for you if God take away the sore chastening of your
spirit; and for the rest, He will provide."
"But there is more behind," he said after a pause. "If you, with an
impoverished estate, build a church and endow a priest, there will be
questions asked; it will needs be known that you have found a
treasure, and it will come, perhaps, to the ears of the King's Grace,
and inquisition will be made; so I shall go this morning to a Lord of
the Court, an ancient friend of mine, a discreet man; and I will lay
the story before him, if you give me leave; and he will advise."
Walter saw that the priest's advice was good; and so he gave him
leave; and the priest departed to the Court; but while he was away, as
Walter sate sadly over a book, his terrors came upon him with fresh
force; the thing drew near him and stood at his shoulder, and he could
not dislodge it; it seemed to Walter that it was more malign than
ever, and was set upon driving him to some desperate deed; so he rose
and paced in the court; but it seemed to move behind him, till he
thought he would have gone distraught; but finding the church doors
open, he went inside and, in a corner, knelt and prayed, and got some
kind of peace; yet he felt all the while as though the presence waited
for him at the door, but could not hurt him in the holy shrine; and
there Walter made a vow and vowed his life into the hands of God; for
he had found the world a harder place than he had thought, and it
seemed to him as though he walked among unseen foes. Presently he saw
the old priest come into the church, peering about; so Walter rose and
came to him; the priest had a contented air, but seemed big with news,
and he told Walter that he must go with him at once to the Court. For
he had seen the Lord Poynings, that was his friend, who had taken him
at once to the king; and the king had heard the story very curiously,
and would see Walter himself that day. So Walter fetched the bar of
gold and they went at once together; and Walter was full of awe and
fear, and asked the priest how he should bear himself; to which the
priest said smiling, "As a man, in the presence of a man." And as they
went Walter told him that he had been visited by the terror again, but
had found peace in the church; and the priest said, "Ay, there is
peace to be had there."
They came down to the palace, and were at once admitted; the priest
and he were led into a little room, full of books, where a man was
writing, a venerable man in a furred gown, with a comely face; this
was the Lord Poynings, who greeted Walter very gently but with a
secret attention; Walter shewed him the bar of gold, and he looked at
it long, and presently there came a page who said that the king was at
leisure, and would see Mr. Wyatt.
Walter had hoped that the priest, or at least the Lord Poynings, would
accompany him; but the message was for himself alone; so he was led
along a high corridor with tall stands of arms. The king had been a
great warrior in his manhood, and had won many trophies. They came to
a great doorway, where the page knocked; a voice cried within, and the
page told Walter he must enter alone.
Walter would fain have asked the page how he should make his
obeisance; but there was no time now, for the page opened the door,
and Walter went in.
He found himself in a small room, hung with green arras. The king was
sitting in a great chair, by a table spread out with parchments.
Walter first bowed low and then knelt down; the king motioned him to
rise, and then said in a quiet and serene voice, "So, sir, you are the
gentleman that has found a treasure and would fain be rid of it
again." At these gentle words Walter felt his terrors leave him; the
king looked at him with a serious attention; he was a man just passing
into age; his head was nearly hairless, and he had a thin face with a
long nose, and small lips drawn together. On his head was a loose
velvet cap, and he wore his gown furred; round his neck was a jewel,
and he had great rings on his forefingers and thumbs.
The king, hardly pausing for an answer, said, "You look ill, Master
Wyatt, and little wonder; sit here in a chair and tell me the tale in
a few words."
Walter told his story as shortly as he could with the king's kind eye
upon him; the king once or twice interrupted him; he took the bar from
Walter's hands, and looked upon it, weighing it in his fingers, and
saying, "Ay, it is a mighty treasure." Once or twice he made him
repeat a few sentences, and heard the story of the thing that stood
near him with a visible awe.
At last he said with a smile, "You have told your story well, sir,
and plainly; are you a soldier?" When Walter said "no," he said, "It
is a noble trade, nevertheless." Then he said, "Well, sir, the
treasure is yours, to use as I understand you will use it for the
glory of God and for the peace of the poor spirit, which I doubt not
is that of a great knight. But I have no desire to be visited of him,"
and here he crossed himself. "So let it be thus bestowed--and I will
cause a quittance to be made out for you from the Crown, which will
take no part in the trove. How many bars did you say?" And when Walter
said "fifty," the king said, "It is great wealth; and I wish for your
sake, sir, that it were not so sad an inheritance." Then he added,
"Well, sir, that is the matter; but I would hear the end of this, for
I never knew the like; when your church is built and all things are in
order, and let it be done speedily, you shall come and visit me
again." And then the king said, with a kindly smile, "And as for the
maiden of whom I have heard, be not discouraged; for yours is an
ancient house, and it must not be extinguished--and so farewell; and
remember that your king wishes you happiness;" and he made a sign that
Walter should withdraw. So Walter knelt again and kissed the king's
ring, and left the chamber.
When Walter came out he seemed to tread on air; the king's gracious
kindness moved him very greatly, and loyalty filled his heart to the
brim. He found the priest and the Lord Poynings waiting for him; and
presently the two left the palace together, and Walter told the priest
what the king had said.
The next day he rode back into Sussex; but he was very sorely beset
as he rode, and reached home in great misery. But he wasted no time,
but rather went to his new task with great eagerness; the foundations
of the church were laid, and soon the walls began to rise. Meanwhile
Walter had the gold conveyed to the king's Mint; and a message came to
him that it would make near upon twenty thousand pounds of gold, a
fortune for an earl. So the church was built very massive and great,
and a rich estate was bought which would support a college of priests.
But Walter's heart was very heavy; for his terrors still came over him
from day to day; and he was no nearer settling his own affairs.
Then there began to come to him a sore temptation; he could build his
church, and endow his college with lands, and yet he could save
something of the treasure to set him free from his own poverty; and
day by day this wrought more and more in his mind.
At last one day when he was wandering through the wood, he found
himself face to face in the path with Marjory herself; and there was
so tender a look in her face that he could no longer resist, so he
turned and walked with her, and told her all that was in his heart.
"It was all for the love of you," he said, "that I have thus been
punished, and now I am no nearer the end;" and then, for he saw that
she wept, and that she loved him well, he opened to her his heart, and
said that he would keep back part of the treasure, and would save his
house, and that they would be wed; and so he kissed her on the lips.
But Marjory was a true-hearted and wise maiden, and loved Walter
better than he knew; and she said to him, all trembling for pity,
"Dear Walter, it cannot be; this must be given faithfully, because you
are the king's servant, and because you must give the spirit back his
own, and because you are he that I love the best; and we will wait;
for God tells me that it must be so; and He is truer even than love."
So Walter was ashamed; and he threw unworthy thoughts away; and with
the last of the money he caused a fair screen to be made, and windows
of rich glass; and the money was thus laid out.
Now while the church was in building--and they made all the haste
they could--Walter had days when he was very grievously troubled; but
it seemed to him a different sort of trouble. In the first place he
looked forward confidently to the day when the dark presence would be
withdrawn; and a man who can look forward to a certain ending to his
pain can stay himself on that; but, besides that, it seemed to him
that he was not now beset by a foe, but guarded as it were by a
sentinel. There were days when the horror was very great, and when the
thing was always near him whether he sate or walked, whether he was
alone or in company; and on those days he withdrew himself from men,
and there was a dark shadow on his brow. So that there grew up a kind
of mystery about him; but, besides that, he learnt things in those
bitter hours that are not taught in any school. He learnt to suffer
with all the great company of those who bear heavy and unseen burdens,
who move in the grip of fears and stumble under the load of dark
necessities. He grew more tender and more strong. He found in his hand
the key to many hearts. Before this he had cared little about the
thoughts of other men; but now he found himself for ever wondering
what the inner thoughts of the hearts of others were, and ready if
need were to help to lift their load; he had lived before in careless
fellowship with light-hearted persons, but now he was rather drawn to
the old and wise and sad; and there fell on him some touch of the holy
priesthood that falls on all whose sadness is a fruitful sadness, and
who instead of yielding to bitter repining would try to make others
happier. If he heard of a sorrow or a distress, his thought was no
longer how to put it out of his mind as soon as he might, but of how
he might lighten it. So his heart grew wider day by day.
And at last the day came when the church was done; it stood, a fair
white shrine with a seemly tower, on the hill-top, and a little way
from it was the college for the priests. The Bishop came to consecrate
it, and the old Canon came from London, and there was a little
gathering of neighbours to see the holy work accomplished.
The Bishop blessed the church very tenderly; he was an old infirm man,
but he bore his weakness lightly and serenely. He made Walter the
night before tell him the story of the treasure, and found much to
wonder at in it.
There was no part of the church or its furniture that he did not
solemnly bless; and Walter from his place felt a grave joy to see all
so fair and seemly. The priests moved from end to end with the Bishop,
in their stiff embroidered robes, and there was a holy smell of
incense which strove with the sharp scent of the newly-chiselled wood.
The Bishop made them a little sermon and spoke much of the gathering
into the fold of spirits that had done their work bravely, even if
they had not known the Lord Christ on earth.
After all was over, and the guests were departed, the old Canon said
that he must return on the morrow to London, and that he had a message
for Walter from the king,--who had not failed to ask him how the work
went on,--that Walter was to return with him and tell the king of the
fulfilment of the design.
That night Walter had a strange dream; he seemed to stand in a dark
place all vaulted over, like a cave that stretched far into the earth;
he himself stood in the shadow of a rock, and he was aware of some one
passing by him. He looked at him, and saw that he was the warrior that
he had seen before in his dream, a small pale man, with a short beard,
with rusty armour much dinted; he held a spear in his hand, and walked
restlessly like a man little content. But while Walter watched him,
there seemed to be another person drawing near in the opposite
direction. This was a tall man, all in white, who brought with him as
he came a strange freshness in the dark place, as of air and light,
and the scent of flowers; this one came along in a different fashion,
with an assured and yet tender air, as though he was making search for
some one to whom his coming would be welcome; so the two met and words
passed between them; the warrior stood with his hands clasped upon his
spear seeming to drink in what was said--he could not hear the words
at first, for they were spoken softly, but the last words he heard
were, "And you too are of the number." Then the warrior kneeled down
and laid his spear aside, and the other seemed to stoop and bless him,
and then went on his way; and the warrior knelt and watched him going
with a look in his face as though he had heard wonderful and beautiful
news, and could hardly yet believe it; and so holy was the look that
Walter felt as though he intruded upon some deep mystery, and moved
further into the shadow of the rock; but the warrior rose and came to
him where he stood, and looked at him with a half-doubting look, as
though he asked pardon, stretching out his hands; and Walter smiled at
him, and the other smiled; and at the moment Walter woke in the dawn
with a strange joy in his heart, and rising in haste, drew the window
curtain aside, and saw the fresh dawn beginning to come in over the
woods, and he knew that the burden was lifted from him and that he was
free.
In the morning as the old Canon and Walter rode to London, Walter
told him the dream; and when he had done, he saw that the old priest
was smiling at him with his eyes full of tears, and that he could not
speak; so they rode together in that sweet silence which is worth more
than many words.
The next day Walter came to see the king: he carried with him a paper
to show the king how all had been expended; but he went with no fear,
but as though to see a true friend.
The king received him very gladly, and bade Walter tell him all that
had been done; so Walter told him, and then speaking very softly told
the king the dream; the king mused over the story, and then said, "So
he has his heart's desire."
Then there was a silence; and then the king, as though breaking out of
a pleasant thought, drew from the table a parchment, and said to
Walter that he had done well and wisely, and therefore for the trust
that he had in him he made him his Sheriff for the County of Sussex,
to which was added a large revenue; and there was more to come, for
the king bade Walter unhook a sword from the wall, his own sword that
he had borne in battle; and therewith he dubbed him knight, and said
to him, "Rise up, Sir Walter Wyatt." Then before he dismissed him, he
said to him that he would see him every year at the Court; and then
with a smile he added, "And when you next come, I charge you to bring
with you my Lady Wyatt."
And Walter promised this, and kept his word.