“Here I am, your ladyship, at your service,” called out the librarian, as the girl’s voice sounded nearer and nearer.
At the same moment he opened the old chest he had been ransacking, and thrust the document he had been reading deep down among a mass of other old papers, from which the dust rose in a cloud as his hand moved them. To Lady Marion’s delight, he had dropped the last page on the ground. But she had scarcely congratulated herself on the fact when, turning, he perceived the missing leaf, and, not having time to put it into the chest with the rest, dropped it into his pocket. Then he hastened out of his corner to meet the young girl, and addressed her in his usual suave, respectful and dignified manner:
“What can I do for your ladyship?”
“I want you to help me with my Latin exercise. There are some dreadfully hard words in it this time.”
“I shall be delighted,” said he, as he followed the young girl downstairs.
But in his grave and beautifully modulated voice Lady Marion detected a tone of impatience at the trivial cause of this interruption. She was by this time already in the nook under the stairs, making the most of her time, for she guessed that it would not be long before Amos would find an excuse for returning to the occupation which had absorbed him so deeply. She flung open the chest with violence, which caused its old hinges to creak and little splinters to fly off the worm-eaten wood, while she, half choked by the dust, groped blindly among the mass of mouldering, musty parchments, pamphlets and papers. It was some minutes before the air was clear enough, and her eyes sufficiently used to the obscurity of the ill-lighted corner, for her to begin her search in earnest. Deep down into the withered-looking heap she dived, and, after many a futile plunge, fished up at last a crumpled paper, which she felt sure was the one on which Amos had been engaged.
It was part of an old letter, undated, but bearing every sign, in its yellowish paper, faded ink, old-fashioned handwriting, and voluminous style, of having been written long before the introduction of the penny post. The page containing the signature was missing, but the commencement, “My dear Oswin,” showed that it was written to one of her ancestors—Oswin being a family name—and internal evidence proved that it was from one intimate friend to another.
The writer began by regretting that his own health was so bad, not having been improved by a long voyage he had recently taken to improve it, that he was unable to come to see his friend Oswin, who, he was sorry to hear, was also far from well. He wrote in the strain of a man who thinks the end of his own life approaching.
“And now,” so the letter went on, “before the end of my own days shall come, I have somewhat on my mind which I would fain impart to you. Of late, being unable to follow my accustomed pursuits, and compelled to endure a sedentary life which suits me but ill, I have been studying the history of our own land, and more especially such part of it as concerns the reign of our late martyred King Charles, of blessed memory. In the course of my researches (if I may bestow on my poor studies so honorable a name) I have read much of the valiant defence of your own fair Castle of Carstow, that now lies ruined, and have noted a thing that may have escaped your eyes. You know, doubtless, being well versed in the history of this notable and loyal fortress, that shortly before the siege by the rebels, under Essex, the Queen Henrietta Maria did send to her own country of France a trusty messenger, charged straightly to entreat the king for help for her and her lord, and also bearing certain rich jewels of hers for sale in the Netherlands, that the proceeds thereof might be used for payment of troops. And it is known that this messenger did return in safety to England, and that he did reach Carstow, and was there detained by the siege on his way to join the king. But what became further of that noble, the Lord Hugh of Thirsk, never was known, nor was ever aught heard of the treasure he brought back or of the treasure he carried away with him. Yet was he as valiant, and trusty, and honorable a knight and gentleman as ever drew sword, nor was capable of any treachery nor unfair dealing whatsoever. But no mention of moneys reaching the king about this time was ever made, but that he was hard pressed and had to borrow and beg from his faithful courtiers is certain. Now, we know that there has always been among men, during all time, a great and most marvellous avidity for lost treasure, which appeals to the imagination most strangely, and that little of such treasure has ever been recovered. Yet, since we know that here is plain evidence of a knight, bearing treasure, reaching your Castle of Carstow; and since we have no evidence whatsoever of his being seen thereafter, or the riches he carried, is it not just to suppose that such treasure may never have left the precincts of the castle, which was then so close besieged, but that it may have been concealed from the besiegers, and thereafter either forgotten, or, the concealer being killed, its existence not known? You, with your grave discernment, not carried away by impulse, may judge my plan fantastic and unworthy your thought. But I pray you consider the suggestion I have to set before you. It is founded on a study of the castle as I made it minutely some years ago, and may lead, I think, to a discovery of importance. You will remember that, on passing under the great gateway, with its square tower to the south, you have before you a wide open space, now grass-grown, which——”
Here the bottom of the second sheet was reached, and here Marion, who was devouring the MS. with its crooked and sprawling handwriting, in the same state of feverish excitement as the librarian had suffered, was forced to a standstill.