Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.
“I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago,” said the old man, laying his hand on it. “Where are my glasses? But I guess you’ll find what I want, Lizzie.”
There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire’s first marriage, his wife’s letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, “well-nigh on fifty year ago.” Then there was a bundle of papers marked “Brother Reuben.”
“That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you’ll have to do it, Lizzie.”
There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was written, “Paid for my Joe,” and a date; on another, “Lent to my son. Parley, at the time he went west,” and several more of the same kind. The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.
“He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always,” said the squire. “He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn’t have it. I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly.”
He seemed to have forgotten Betsey’s presence, for he went on:
“I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn’t hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn’t a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed—the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn’t mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble.”
“Father, I will burn them now; that will be best,” said Elizabeth, eagerly.
“And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it.”