But my father would not hear of that. He had no mind to throw away his money in law, but he would not yield a yard of the land his fathers had left him. He must fight Rupert Watson on this point, whatever it cost.
A few nights after that we were sitting round the fire in my mother’s parlour, and my father was telling us of some incident at the market, from which he had just come, when one of our maids came in and said that Jacob Trusty was in the kitchen, and wanted to speak to the master. My father would have risen and gone to him, but just then Jacob himself appeared and stood within the doorway, having first pushed the girl out and closed the door.
“Master and mistress,” said Jacob, “there are some things best said without hearers, so I make bold to come in here where are no lads and lasses to hear us, save only your own, which have a right to hear all.”
“Sit down, Jacob,” said my father. “Say thy say, man.”
Jacob, however, remained standing, leaning on his thick staff. “Master,” said he, “I have been thinking about this matter of the land. Also the other day Lawyer Hook met me on the turnpike, and asked me some questions, and I could see that he had little confidence. Now it came to me to ask you if there are no papers. Papers always go with land, so I’ve heard.”
“Whatever I have, Jacob, are with Mr. Hook,” said my father. “And old as they are, they are no good on this point.”
“That brings me to what I want to say,” said Jacob. “I served your grandfather first when I was a lad ten years old. There were four of us, Tom Hodge, Anthony Boone, Dick Simpson, and myself, all slept in that chamber against the apple loft. There was an old chest in that chamber full of books and papers, and as never a one of us could read we used to wonder at them. Why not look in there, master?”
“The box is still there,” said my mother.
“But the papers were taken out when I was a lad,” said my father. “Mr. Hook has them now. However, ’tis good counsel, Jacob, and I’ll look in the box again.”
While Jacob went into the kitchen to drink a mug of ale, my father told me to get a candle and accompany him upstairs to the chamber mentioned, which was quite in accordance with my desires. So we ascended to the chamber, which was in a remote corner of the house, and had long been given up to the storing away of ancient lumber. Thus there was in it old saddles of curious fashion, and rusty bits and stirrup-irons, together with quaintly-carved chairs, broken and whole, and many other odds and ends accumulated in a house which has stood the brunt of some three hundred years. Amidst this mass of dust-covered lumber stood the oak chest spoken of by Jacob Trusty.
“It is empty, I fear, Will,” said my father, pulling it into the middle of the floor; “but we will examine it to please old Jacob, who means well. Ah! you see there is nothing at all in it.”
Nor was there, as far as we could see, for the interior was bare and empty, save for a thick coat of dust. I looked at the ancient chest curiously, holding the candle where the light would fall on its quaint carvings and the grotesque figures on the ends.
“My great-grandfather kept his papers and valuables in this chest, Will,” said my father. “See, here are drawers to put money in. And there is a secret drawer. See if thou canst find it, lad.”
But I could not, and did not make out where it was until my father drew out a drawer which had a false bottom, and this being removed, a small receptacle was laid bare.
“It is not very large,” said my father, “but it sufficed to store anything especially worth the keeping.”
Having admired the ingenious manner of the contrivance, I essayed to put the drawer in its place again, but found that it would not fit into the cavity prepared for it. Something seemed to lie in the way, and prevent the drawer from fitting properly. Putting my hand into the hole to discover the reason, my fingers encountered a thin packet of paper which I immediately drew out and held up to my father’s wondering gaze.
“What is this, lad?” said he. “Papers? They must have been placed in the secret drawer or behind it, and slipped underneath. ’Tis an ancient-looking packet, too.”
That indeed it was, for the cover was yellow with age, and the handwriting upon it was of such an ancient fashion that neither my father nor myself could decipher it. So we carried it downstairs, and having called Jacob Trusty into the parlour to see what his counsel had procured for us, my mother took the packet to see what she could make out of it. Having stripped off the cover, she found some large papers with seals attached to them, but despite her clerkship she could make naught out of any of them, save that on the margin of one there was somewhat written which appeared to be of more recent date than the body of the writing. This, after some pains, she made out to be as follows: “Ye cloase lying next to Wattson’s land at Castle Hill ys myne by this deede. W. D. 1510.” Which we took to show that one of our ancestors at least had something more than supposition to rest on when claiming the narrow strip of land. My father fastened up the papers again, and having
