Brave and Bold; Or, The Fortunes of Robert Rushton Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE OLD FARMHOUSE.

  The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an oldfarmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it hadever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it wasdark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect.

  The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quitealone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right incalling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The timewas when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessedwith two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week byan epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. Thisbereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he hadbeen a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs.Now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of itslegitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, whichhe began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances ofneighbors, and became what Robert called him--a miser.

  How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vainfor stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popularopinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one ormany out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont tovisit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believethat it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie paymentsfrom those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he usedto go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the changeeffected.

  Such was the man about whom Robert's unknown passenger exhibited so muchcuriosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit.

  "I wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as heentered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had longsince disappeared. "He don't keep things looking very neat and trim,that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminatelitter which filled the yard. "Just give me this place, and his moneyto keep it, and I'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick."

  He stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker,sounded a loud summons.

  "He'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought.

  But the summons appeared to be without effect. At all events, he wasleft standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter.

  "He can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "I'lltry him again," and another knock, still louder than before, soundedthrough the farmhouse.

  But still no one came to the door. The fact was, that the old farmer hadgone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to astable-keeper living some five miles distant.

  "I'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger.

  He stepped to the front window, and looked in. All that met his gaze wasa bare, dismantled room.

  "Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, hedon't appear to be here; I'll go round to the back part of the house."

  He went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the firstplace, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but sawno one.

  "The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can getin."

  The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised.Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the onlyroom occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above,which he used as a bedchamber. Here he cooked and ate his meals, andhere he spent his solitary evenings.

  Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. Helooked around him, with some curiosity.

  "It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Timehasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a shortlaugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, andI've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used towrite?--'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' Well, I'm the rolling stone.In all that time my Uncle Paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone,and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. Asfar as I know, I'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why heshouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family."

  It will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was anephew of Paul Nichols. After a not very creditable youth, he had goneto sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in hisnative town.

  He sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of beingat home.

  "I wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized."Ten to one he won't know me. When we saw each other last I was asmooth-faced youth. Now I've got hair enough on my face, and the yearshave made, their mark upon me, I suspect. Where is he, I wonder, and howlong have I got to wait for him? While I'm waiting, I'll take theliberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something torefresh the inner man. I didn't make much of a breakfast, and somethinghearty wouldn't come amiss."

  He rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. A small collectionof crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothingeatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. This was from thebaker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread,had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker.

  "Nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered thestranger. "That isn't very tempting. I can't say much for my uncle'sfare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere."

  But, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, andhis appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon thestale loaf. He sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current ofhis reflections.

  "My uncle must be more of a miser than I thought, if he stints himselfto such fare as this. It's rather a bad lookout for me. He won't be veryapt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from histreasure. What's that the boy said? He don't trust any banks, but keepshis money concealed in the earth. By Jove! It would be a stroke of luckif I could stumble on one of his hiding places! If I could do that whilehe was away, I would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make offwith what I could find. I'll look about me, and see if I can't find someof his hidden hoards."

  No sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it.

  "Let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide histreasure? Old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, butI don't believe Uncle Paul has got any without holes in them. He's morelikely to hide his gold under the hearth. That's a good idea, I'll trythe hearth first."

  He kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with aview of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removedrecently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time totime, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. Butthere was no indication of disturbance. The hearth bore a uniformappearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with.

  "That isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "Perhaps there's aplank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold isburied in the cellar. I've a great mind to go down there."

  He lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. But hehad hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound ofa wagon entering the yard.

  "That must be my uncle," he said. "I'd better go up, and not let himcatch me down here."

  He ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmeropened the door and entered.

  On seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standingbefore him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, PaulNichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated:

  "Thieves! Murder! Robbers!" in a quavering voice.