The Battlefield treasure

It was late in the day, and the sun shone on the north side of Battlefield Church, having gone beyond the west window, in which now only a few panes shone golden with his lingering rays. The air was soft and warm; the small birds were twittering ere they went to rest, and the great rooks hovered, cawing loudly, over their homes in yonder high elms. There were not many other sounds disturbing that July evening calm; from a farm near came lowing of cows, and baaing of lambs, and moaning of pigeons; and from the fields occasional murmurs of human voices, mingled with laughter, and barking of dogs.

The old man who sat on a little mound, with his face towards Shrewsbury, was in keeping with the scene around him. He was over seventy years of age, to judge by his looks; for he was bent, and thin, and pale, with long white hair flowing down almost to his shoulders, and mingling with his long white beard. His features were regular and clear-cut, his skin pallid, his eyes of a deep blue. In his hand was a thin stick, with which he absently stirred the loose earth at his feet, as his thoughts wandered aimlessly through the long-ago past.

The voice of a boy and the bark of a dog came nearer; came through an opening in the hedge to the right of the old man, and then came close beside him.

The boy, after the manner of boys, would have passed shyly without looking at the old man, but the dog, after the manner of dogs, was at once interested in the stranger, and desirous to know why the stick was at work in the loose earth. Probably some idea of rats crossed the canine mind.

"Poor dog! good dog!" said a weak low voice; and a thin and white hand patted the head of the rough Scotch terrier.

"Bonnie!" cried the boy, with the full brisk tones of youth; "here, come along!"

But Bonnie did not obey his master; the old man was still an interesting object.

"Is this your dog, young sir?" inquired the old man.

The lad turned back and approached. "Yes, sir," with a touch of his cap; "he won't hurt you, he's quiet enough."

"I am not afraid," rejoined the old man, smiling; "perhaps your dog knows me. I am Roger Corbet, and I live at the white cottage with the magnolia-tree; I daresay Bonnie knows me."

"I don't think he does," said the boy, "because he lives close to the town. I don't often bring him this way."

"When he comes this way he must pass my house; and you should often bring him this way, young sir."

"Why should I?"

"Because this is one of the most interesting spots in all Shropshire, nay, in all England."

"Oh, I know that," the boy replied loftily; "of course I know about the battle fought here. They take care to teach us that at school."

"You go to Shrewsbury Grammar School?" asked the old gentleman, with a sudden flash of light in his eyes.

"Yes. My father is Mr. Warren, the doctor; we live at Acton House."

"I know; he is said to be a good man. Young Warren, I went to Shrewsbury Grammar School when I was your age."

"I am fifteen, sir."

Mr. Corbet nodded. "I went there until I was seventeen. Fifty-five years ago! Half a century ago!"

After a pause, during which the old man's eyes grew dreamy, young Warren felt the silence becoming awkward, and said suddenly, "I am a day-boy."

The blue eyes came back to the present time; "I, too, was a day-boy. Half a century ago! But, my boy, four centuries and eighty years have passed since the great battle was fought on this ground."

"It was in 1403," said young Warren, glancing round at the church; "the date is there."

"Yes, the date is there. Beneath that church were buried the slain. When we sit there on Sundays, praying and singing and listening to the sermon, and all is so cool and quiet, is it not strange to think of those who lie beneath us? Henry's men, and Hotspur's men, and Douglas's men, and Glendower's men; ay, and many of Jack Falstaff's ragged regiment, which was 'well-peppered' in that memorable fray."

"My name is Jack," said the boy.

Mr. Corbet went on, "Perhaps on this very spot where now I so idly sit, fat Jack Falstaff played that foolish trick of his, pretending that he had killed the gallant Hotspur. Perhaps where you stand, young Henry, Prince of Wales, fought his brave fight. Jack Warren, the prince was not fifteen years of age."

"Younger than I am!" exclaimed the lad.

"Ay; it is not age that always does great deeds. No one is too young to do great deeds; no one too old. Boy, you are young now; I trust that half a century hence, if you live so long, you will not look back on a life utterly useless, utterly valueless--nothing done in it, nothing done by it."

Mr. Corbet again pushed his stick into the earth and disturbed the roots of the grass. Bonnie had been sitting with his face turned towards Shrewsbury, one ear standing up stiffly, the other lying down.

A chilly breeze blew across the battlefield. "It is time to go," said Mr. Corbet; "kindly give me a hand."

Jack Warren assisted the old man to rise. The sky was full of a dull red glow, and from the ground was rising a slight mist; through a gap in the trees the spires of the Shrewsbury churches showed indistinct, only their tips clear, while a smoky murky grayness hid the town at their feet.

The old man, the boy, and the dog, stumbled across the broken ground, and so out into the fields, which were thick with corn turning from green to gold. They did not talk much. When they came to the stile Jack Warren helped his new friend to climb it, and they came out on the road between Shrewsbury and Hadnall.

Looking back as they walked, Mr. Corbet said, "Hotspur came over Haughmond Hill. Douglas fled that way, and was taken."

Now, to tell the truth, Jack Warren thought it hardly fair of his new acquaintance to talk History of England. Jack drew a sharp distinction between school and everything else; all that was spoken of in school was to him "lessons," and lessons should only be taught in school. He had not yet learnt to care for the History of England, and he could not understand why Mr. Corbet should care for it, or talk about it.

The old man and the boy walked together along the dusty high-road. They were a contrast; the one rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed, black-haired, life and strength in every limb, impatient, eager, careless, hopeful, a thorough boy; the other pale, dim-eyed, white-haired, feeble, pensive, and with a voice so strangely soft and weak that often it sounded far-away, and Jack could hardly hear the words it spoke.

Presently they came to the white cottage, of which the front was covered by the large glossy leaves of a magnolia-tree whose great creamy blossoms sent out a heavy yet delicious scent.

"Will you come into my little house?" said Mr. Corbet to his companion; "my housekeeper, Mrs. Clive, will give you supper of home-made bread, raspberry jam, melon, and milk. I know we have these things in the house."

"No, thank you," said Jack.

"I like you," said Mr. Warren; "I should like to talk to you. I want to tell you all about Battlefield and Hotspur."

"No, thank--" Jack began quickly, but checked himself, wishing to act politely.

"Master Warren, put your ear to my mouth."

Jack did so, half alarmed at the old man's mysterious manner.

"Have you ever found anything? Have you ever come across Roman pottery, Saxon coins? Anything of that kind?"

"No, sir," Jack replied in a whisper.

"Try and do something to distinguish yourself. Look at me, a failure! If I were to tell you the story of my life you would earnestly resolve not to be a failure as I have been. Other men have succeeded in many ways. Even ploughmen have discovered treasures. But not I. Yet I am a Corbet; yes, one of the Corbets. What profession do you think of, my boy?"

"I am going to be a doctor," said Jack, "like my father."

"Good. I am a barrister; bad. I should like to tell you the story of my life. I should like to write it, or get some one else to write it. It would be a warning to idle young men. If I could see my name in one of the glass cases in the museum I should be contented. But to die, to go into the open presence of the Creator, of Him Who has made all things, and Who does all things, and to have to say, 'I am a failure, I have done nothing,'--boy, I am ashamed."

Jack was rather frightened, as much by Mr. Corbet's strange manner and subdued whisper as by his words.

"Good night, sir," said Jack.

The door of the cottage was now opened by a stout elderly woman, who said, "Time for you to come in, sir."

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Corbet in his usual voice. "Master Jack Warren, will you come and dine with me to-morrow?"

"No, thank you," said Jack; "to-morrow is Sunday."

"I know it is. We could go to church together, and then you might dine with me. There will be cold roast beef, salad, and raspberry and currant tart."

"No, thank you," said Jack.

"Come in, Mr. Corbet," said the housekeeper crossly; "you'll be catching cold. You've only got on your alpaca coat, and there's a heavy dew falling."

"Well, I'm sorry," sighed Mr. Corbet. "I wish you would come to dinner; I know so few young people."

"I will ask my father," said Jack, just to satisfy the old man.

"Ay, do; and if he gives you leave, come."

"Yes, thank you;" and away went Jack. A few paces from the gate Jack saw a big, loose-made, awkward, youngish working-man; the foolish face which surmounted this ungainly figure wore a stupid, yet cunning smile. There was nothing remarkable in this person; but there was with him another person who was remarkable in Jack's eyes. A man of very dark skin, with black hair, and singularly bright black eyes, and with white teeth, which positively shone when he opened the lips hidden among a thick black heard. As Jack passed these two, the commonplace man said to his companion, "Ay, worth pounds and pounds."

The dark man said something which sounded like "Hush! not so loud."

Having gone a few steps further Jack thought to himself, "That is a queer gypsy-looking fellow," and turned his head to glance at him again. As he did so he just caught the gypsy in a similar action--his head turned to gaze at Jack, his dirty thumb pointing at the boy, and one of his shiny black eyes winking at his companion.

The companion's face wore a broad grin, such as a stupid person assumes when he wishes to appear as if he understood the hints of another cleverer than himself. When the two men saw that they were noticed they walked off; the stupid one went into Mr. Corbet's gate, the dark one crossed the road and vaulted over a fence into a field.

Then Jack went to his home, a big house well filled by Mr. Warren, his wife, and their nine children. He went into the drawing-room, where his eldest sister was playing the piano, while Mr. Warren read the newspaper, and Mrs. Warren darned socks.

"Where have you been?" asked Mr. Warren.

"To Battlefield. Father, do you know Mr. Roger Corbet?"

"A little. An eccentric man, living on a small private income. There is some sad story about his having failed at the bar. I don't know the whole of it."

"May I go with him to Battlefield Church tomorrow, and dine with him afterwards?"

Mrs. Warren looked up from her work. "Has he invited you?"

"Yes, Mother."

"How do you come to know him?" inquired Mr. Warren, rather amused.

"He was there just now, and we talked--at least he did--all a lot of old rubbish about Hotspur and fellows in the History of England; and he wants to talk to me about Roman coins and Saxon crockery--oh!"

"I have heard," said Mr. Warren, "that the old gentleman is a bit of an antiquarian, always haunting the museums. Well, you may go if you like."

"I don't like," said Jack.

"Elsie, stop playing," said Mrs. Warren. "Don't you think, Jack, that perhaps you might please the old man by going to see him to-morrow?"

"Oh, yes," answered Jack; "he would like it."

"Then--will you not go?"

Jack reflected a minute. "Yes, I'll go. Perhaps he won't talk History of England on Sundays."

"History of the Jews, perhaps, instead," said Mr. Warren dryly.

"Yes, I'll go," Jack yawned.

"You had better go to bed," said Elsie; "you are sleepy."

"Not more sleepy than you are."

"I am sleepy," said the girl. "Good-night! Where is Bonnie?"

"He went to the kitchen for his supper. Goodnight!" And the boy and the girl, having dutifully kissed their parents, went away to their rooms.

Mr. Warren laid down his newspaper. "Poor old Roger Corbet!" said he. Mr. Warren was a busy and successful man.

"Is he married?" asked Mrs. Warren.

"No, he has never married. I believe he went to London as a young man, studied for the bar, made a fair start--something quite uncommon, I have heard. Then he failed, I don't know how, came back to Shrewsbury, and has lived ever since on his little income in that cottage."

"Poor old man!" said Mrs. Warren.

While they were pitying him, Mr. Corbet sat in his tiny sitting-room with a large red-bound book open before him. It was the History of Shrewsbury, illustrated--a very fine and noble work. As he turned the leaves he was thinking of his past life, and of how much of it he would tell the boy, whom he expected to see next day. When his eye fell on a page showing a large number of Saxon coins he forgot all about Jack Warren and gave himself up to the fancies which the engravings suggested.

But presently the Dutch clock in the kitchen struck ten, and Mrs. Clive came to the door, saying: "Clive is tired and is going to bed, and I am tired; and if you are not tired, sir, you ought to be. If we shut up the house, can you turn out the lamp safely?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Corbet meekly.

"Then good-night! To-morrow is Sunday."

"Good-night, Mrs. Clive!"

As soon as the door closed Mr. Corbet put Shrewsbury on a high shelf and took down a Bible; and half an hour later he turned out his lamp and went to his room, and all was rest and peace in Magnolia Cottage.