THE OLD FARMHOUSE.
The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old
farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it had
ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it was
dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect.
The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite
alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right in
calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The time
was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed
with two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week by
an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. This
bereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he had
been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs.
Now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its
legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which
he began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances of
neighbors, and became what Robert called him--a miser.
How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vain
for stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popular
opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or
many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to
visit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believe
that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments
from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used
to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change
effected.
Such was the man about whom Robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much
curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit.
"I wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he
entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long
since disappeared. "He don't keep things looking very neat and trim,
that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate
litter which filled the yard. "Just give me this place, and his money
to 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 was
left 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'll
try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded
through the farmhouse.
But still no one came to the door. The fact was, that the old farmer had
gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a
stable-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 was
a bare, dismantled room.
"Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, he
don'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 first
place, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw
no one.
"The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can get
in."
The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised.
Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only
room 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, and
here he spent his solitary evenings.
Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. He
looked around him, with some curiosity.
"It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Time
hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short
laugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and
I've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used to
write?--'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. As
far as I know, I'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he
shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family."
It will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a
nephew of Paul Nichols. After a not very creditable youth, he had gone
to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his
native town.
He sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being
at 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 a
smooth-faced youth. Now I've got hair enough on my face, and the years
have made, their mark upon me, I suspect. Where is he, I wonder, and how
long have I got to wait for him? While I'm waiting, I'll take the
liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to
refresh the inner man. I didn't make much of a breakfast, and something
hearty wouldn't come amiss."
He rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. A small collection
of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing
eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. This was from the
baker, 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 the
stranger. "That isn't very tempting. I can't say much for my uncle's
fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere."
But, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and
his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the
stale loaf. He sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of
his reflections.
"My uncle must be more of a miser than I thought, if he stints himself
to such fare as this. It's rather a bad lookout for me. He won't be very
apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his
treasure. What's that the boy said? He don't trust any banks, but keeps
his money concealed in the earth. By Jove! It would be a stroke of luck
if I could stumble on one of his hiding places! If I could do that while
he was away, I would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off
with what I could find. I'll look about me, and see if I can't find some
of 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 his
treasure? Old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but
I don't believe Uncle Paul has got any without holes in them. He's more
likely to hide his gold under the hearth. That's a good idea, I'll try
the hearth first."
He kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a
view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed
recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to
time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. But
there was no indication of disturbance. The hearth bore a uniform
appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with.
"That isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "Perhaps there's a
plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is
buried in the cellar. I've a great mind to go down there."
He lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. But he
had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of
a wagon entering the yard.
"That must be my uncle," he said. "I'd better go up, and not let him
catch me down here."
He ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer
opened the door and entered.
On seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing
before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, Paul
Nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated:
"Thieves! Murder! Robbers!" in a quavering voice.