Jack was too much excited with the discovery he supposed himself to have made, to feel hungry; but he was one who could put his own feelings aside for the sake of other people. He consented to eat some supper to satisfy Mary's hospitable thought, and found, as young people are apt to, that he was hungry enough to do full justice to the savory fare she had provided.
He then stole back to the sick man's chamber, where a cheerful little fire was already burning, while a pile of wood and fagots offered the means of replenishing it during the night. Mary Brent moved about gently putting matters in order, and covering a little table in one corner with refreshments for the watcher as well as the invalid. Finally she beckoned Jack aside and, with rather a mysterious air, opened a little cupboard, hidden by a piece of tapestry:
"Here are some books which belonged to my poor husband," said she. "I found them when I was putting the house to rights, and hid them away that the children might not see them, for I cannot read, and know not whether they be good books or no. But I dare say they will not hurt you, and they may serve to help you keep awake."
Jack looked over the books, which were partly written and partly printed. They formed an odd collection of Canterbury tales, lives of saints, and one or two old romances. He turned them over and at last discovered, hidden under the disguise of a volume of ballads, a manuscript book carefully written out. He took it to the fire to examine it, and read on the title—
"This boke ys the boke of the prophet Isiach, written out by me from a boke of the Scripture which a man had in Antwerp, and ys doubtless ye trew word of ye livinge God."
Underneath was written in the same hand—
"O Lord, how long."
Jack was overjoyed at the discovery. He had never seen any part of the Old Testament except the Psalms, and could hardly believe in his good fortune. He looked the books over once more, and found a part of St. John's Gospel, evidently copied by the same hand.
Both books had been carefully studied, as was evident from the marks and marginal notes they contained. Jack understood at once the secret of David Brent's refusal to see the priest, and his dying, as his wife said, without the sacraments, yet as peaceful and calm as a babe. He felt, as he looked at the books written out with so much care by a hand evidently unused to holding a pen, like one who comes unexpectedly on the writing of a dear friend long dead; and he vowed that as long as he lived, David Brent's children should never want anything that he could do for them.
He trimmed the shaded lamp and sat down to read, but even the interest of his new discovery could not divert his attention from the sick man. Was he really Sir John Brydges's long-lost son? And if so, what was to be done to restore him to his parents? Could he be persuaded to return to his father's house? That would be best for all.