With tender care they lifted the body in their arms and bore it to the cottage, where they laid it on the bed, and, sitting down beside it, conversed for some time in low sad tones.
“Bax,” said Guy, pulling the sealed packet from his breast-pocket, “had you not better open this? It may perhaps contain some instructions having reference to his last resting-place.”
“True,” replied Bax, breaking the seals. “Dear old Jeph, it is sad to lose you in this sudden way, without a parting word or blessing. What have we here?” he continued, unrolling several pieces of brown paper. “It feels like a key.”
As he spoke a small letter dropt from the folds of the brown paper, with an old-fashioned key tied to it by a piece of twine. Opening the letter he read as follows:—
“Dear Bax,—When you get this I shall be where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. There is a hide in the north-west corner of my room in the old house, between the beam and the wall. The key that is enclosed herewith will open it. I used to hide baccy there in my smugglin’ days, but since I left off that I’ve never used it. There you will find a bag of gold. How much is in it I know not. It was placed there by an old mate of mine more than forty years ago. He was a great man for the guinea trade that was carried on with France in the time of Boney’s wars. I never rightly myself understood that business. I’m told that Boney tried to get all the gold out o’ this country, by payin’ three shillings more than each guinea was worth for it, but that seems unreasonable to me. Hows’ever, although I never could rightly understand it, there is no doubt that some of our lads were consarned in smugglin’ guineas across the channel, and two or three of ’em made a good thing of it. My mate was one o’ the lucky ones. One night he came home with a bag o’ gold and tumbled it out on the table before me. I had my suspicions that he had not come honestly by it, so would have nothin’ to do with it. When I told him so, he put it back into the bag, tied it up, and replaced it in the hide, and went away in a rage. He never came back. There was a storm from the east’ard that night. Two or three boats were capsized, and my mate and one or two more lads were drowned. The guineas have lain in the hide ever since. I’ve often thought o’ usin’ them; but somehow or other never could make up my mind. You may call this foolish, mayhap it was; anyhow I now leave the gold to you;—to Tommy, if you never come back, or to Guy if he don’t turn up. Bluenose don’t want it: it would only bother him if I put it in his way.
“This is all I’ve got to say: The old house ain’t worth much, but such as it is, it’s yours, or it may go the same way as the guineas.
“Now, Bax, may God bless you, and make you one of His own children, through Jesus Christ. My heart warms to you for your own sake, and for the sake of her whose name you bear. Farewell.—Your old friend and mate, Jeph.”
Bax stooped over the bed, and pressed his lips to the dead man’s forehead, when he had finished reading this letter. For some time the two friends sat talking of old Jeph’s sayings and doings in former days, forgetful of the treasure of which the epistle spoke. At last Bax rose and drew a table to the corner mentioned in the letter. Getting upon this, he found an old board nailed against the wall.
“Hand me that axe, Guy; it must be behind this.”
The board was soon wrenched off, and a small door revealed in the wall. The key opened it at once, and inside a bag was found. Untying this, Bax emptied the glittering contents on the table. It was a large heap, amounting to five hundred guineas!
“I congratulate you, Bax,” said Guy; “this removes a great difficulty out of your way. Five hundred guineas will give you a fair start.”
“Do you suppose that I will appropriate this to myself?” said Bax. “You and Tommy are mentioned in the letter as well as me.”