CHAPTER I.
THE MERRY PARTY AT THE “BLACK BULL”—THE STRANGE HORSEMAN AND RAMBLING BOB.
The incidents of this strange and exciting story occurred more than a hundred years ago.
It was in the month of December, and all the country was covered with snow to the depth of more than a foot.
The moon shone brightly over the pure white landscape, and, as far as the eye could range, nought was to be seen but leafless trees, which bowed and shook in a stiff north-west breeze, and their melancholy flutterings seemed to be like gentle moans and sighings at the white death-like pall which covered nature far and wide.
The pretty and picturesque village of Darlington was near the sea, and not more than fifty or sixty miles from London, and was situated in a pleasant valley on the main road, through which mail coaches were wont to pass both night and day.
The inhabitants had been long a-bed, for the chimes of the village church had tolled the solemn hour of midnight, and not a light could be seen anywhere save at the “Black Bull,” for on that memorable night some few of the villagers were celebrating the Christmas holidays at the comfortable inn with a merry country dance among themselves.
The sounds of fiddles and a flute, and the skipping of feet, could be heard, both in the parlours and tap-room.
Merry laughter and boisterous jollity resounded on all sides, and the light-hearted shouts of both men and maidens were caught up and echoed by the passing breeze.
The night, though clear and bright, was bitter, bitter cold, and every door and window of the “Black Bull” was firmly closed, and many fires were crackling within.
On a bench outside the tavern, and in part concealed by the deep shadows of its old, overhanging thatch-covered eaves, sat a powerful-looking youth with stick and bundle.
He sat there listening to the music inside, and more than once heaved a deep sigh.
It was almost impossible to see his features, but what little could be discerned showed that he was a handsome-looking and powerfully built rustic youth of about eighteen years of age.
He seemed desirous of remaining concealed in the deep shadows of the house, for he crouched close under the shadow of the overhanging roof.
If any one had been close enough to observe him they would have perceived that this country-looking youth not only frequently sighed but that more than once he hastily, and in an angry manner, dashed away from his eye a stray tell-tale tear-drop that trickled down his sun-burnt cheek.
He listened to the merriment within, and more than once a faint sickly smile lit up his handsome features.
The noise of loud laughter continued within, but all at once a labourer’s voice was heard, who shouted out, in stentorian tones—
“Come, lads and lasses, I’ll give ye all a toast! Fill up yer glasses to the brim, and do justice to it.”
“Hear! hear!”
“What is it, Mr. Chairman?” said one and another.
“Let’s have it, Hodge.”
“Well,” said Hodge, rising in his chair, glass in hand, whose shadow the young stranger could see reflected on the parlour blind; “well, lads and lasses all, here’s long life and good luck to our good, kind old master, Farmer Bertram! his health with three times three.”
The toast was responded to with a boisterous “three times three,” which shook the glasses on the table till they jingled, and made the windows tremble again.
The young man, when he heard this toast proposed, rose from his seat, and, picking up his bundle and stick, walked hastily away, with downcast head.
He had not gone far along the beaten snow track in the middle of the road ere he turned his head, and saw the figure of a single horseman approaching at a hard gallop!
The horseman rode a splendid coal-black mare, which seemed to fly over the ground with wonderful grace and ease.
The rider, himself, was elegantly dressed, and muffled up to the chin in a stylish great-coat, while his three-cornered hat was drawn over his eyes, and shaded his features so much that no one could scarce see his face distinctly.
When he approached the “Black Bull,” he stopped for a minute, as if undecided whether he would dismount or not.
After a time, however, he put spurs to his horse once more, and soon overtook the youth with his stick and bundle, who was slowly and thoughtfully walking along.
“Bitter cold night, friend,” said the horseman, checking his steed into a slow walk.
“Yes, it is,” was the sullen answer of the youth.
“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves there in fine style. What made you leave so early?”
“Wasn’t there at all, if youmustknow.”
“Not invited, I suppose?”
“No; nor didn’t want to be.”
“Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?”
“Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for any money.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.”
“Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?”
“Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth, with a sigh.
“He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting drunk, or poaching?”
“Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.”
“You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?”
“Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley, as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.”
“You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I perceive.”
“I do. Who should know ’em better thanme?”
“Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick glance.
“They call me Rambling Bob, but Bob Bertram is my real name.”
“Bob Bertram?” said the stranger, with a glitteringeye. “What, the only son of Farmer Bertram of Four Ash Farm?”
“Right, sir. Do ye know him?”
“Me? Bless the man, no!” said the horseman. “I don’t know any one hereabouts. I am on my way to a neighbouring village on urgent business.”
“More’s the pity then,” said Bob. “You might travel a long way afore you’d find a nicer or kinder old gentleman than Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall.”
“So I’ve heard; and he’s very rich also, I am told.”
“There’s no mistake about that, sir. He’s a magistrate in the city of London, and is director of one of the best banks there. He adopted two orphan boys, and brought ’em up as his own sons. One’s in the London bank; but young Wildfire Ned, as we call him, won’t do nothing but go to sea. If they only mind themselves they are sure to fall into all Sir Richard’s money. If they don’t, though, and should go astray, they will have the door slammed in their face, as I had to-day.”
“You? by your father, Farmer Bertram?”
“Yes; and all because some time ago I picked up with a poor village lass as I loved as dearly as I love my life, and promised for to marry.”
“And did your father turn you out of house and home on that account?”
“He didn’t turn me out ’zactly,” said Bob. “I left, and went to sea for a few months. I was wrecked on the coast here a week back, without money or anything ’cept what I stand up in, and these leggings were given me this very day by Sir Richard’s gamekeeper as knows me, so I should go up to the farm and see the old man decent like.”
“And what did Farmer Bertram say to you?”
“Why, cause I had made up my mind to marry the lass I loved best, and father the child sleeping at her breast, he slammed the door in my face, and refused to give me a shilling.”
“That’s rather hard for a father to do,” said the horseman, with a cunning glance. “And what do you intend to do with yourself to-night? You can’t sleep in the open air, it would freeze you alive. Why don’t you try to get a situation of some kind?”
“That’s what I want to do; but my clothes are so shabby I don’t like to call on any one I knows. I shall creep into the old man’s house, and sleep there to-night, somehow, when all is quiet; but for an hour or two I shall stay in yonder old barn beside the road.”
“Oh! it’s a very hard case,” said the stranger; “particularly when you are the only son, and the old man is rich.”
“Ha, stranger; but better times are coming, I hope.”
“I’m glad you think so. Well, good night. Here’s a piece of silver to help you along,” said the horseman, offering money to the seedy and needy farmer’s son.
“No thank you,” said Rambling Bob, with a look of offended pride. “I’m not come to begging yet. I am strong enough to work for my daily bread without charity from strangers.”
“What! so poor, and refuse money? Ha! ha! quite a stoic, I perceive. Well, Mr. Bertram, if you will not take money, I’ve another offer to make. I have taken a fancy to that heavy, knobby stick you carry. Will you sell it?”
“I don’t mind that,” said Bob.
A bargain was soon concluded; the bludgeon changed hands for a guinea, and the stranger went his way.
That pleasant-speaking young horseman, muffled up to the eyes, wasa deep designing villain!
He knew well all about Farmer Bertram’s affairs, and his son’s also.
Had Rambling Bob only known him at the moment, and fathomed his deep, dark designs, he would have been spared much misery in after life, and others also.
But of this young stranger we shall quickly hear more.
Let us follow him.
He rode direct to see Farmer Bertram at Four Ash Farm.
As he approached the old farm-house, standing some distance from the road, he stepped under a cluster of trees.
In a very mysterious manner he pulled out of his belt a pair of pistols and examined them.
“They are all right,” he said, with a bitter smile. “It is best to be prepared, I may want to use them.”
Having done this, he rode up a lane and in a few moments stood rapping at the farm-house door with his riding-whip.
“House ho!” he shouted, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.
In a second the door was opened by an aged woman.
The horseman dismounted, and entered the house.
As he did so, the watch dogs began to howl in a most horrible and hideous manner!
The stranger heard it.
His face turned to an ashy paleness, as he thought——
“That dismal howling, I have been told, is always looked upon by superstitious country people as an omen of death!”
Itwasan omen of death!