Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: He looked hastily and angrily round. There stood Anne,
with a lamp in her hand. _Frontispiece._]
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."