CHAPTER II.
FARMER BERTRAM RECEIVES A VISIT FROM BOLTON—BOLTON’S TREACHERY.
Farmer Bertram was in bed when the stranger entered, having had a fall from his horse while hunting.
The horseman said his business was of such pressing importance that he must see the farmer at once.
Bertram recognized the name, and directed his old servant to admit the stranger to his chamber at once.
“From Mr. Redgill, I believe?” said the farmer. “Are you his son? Excuse me not rising to receive you, but I am unwell. I intended to go to London in a day or two, and settle with Mr. Redgill at once, for I have collected all my rents, and sold my crops to advantage, so that I have got a good bit of ready money by me, much more than will pay off the last instalment of the mortgage he holds against me. Let me see,” said the farmer, opening a writing-desk near his bedside, “Let me see, here are the receipts; yes, one signed for £300, a second for £200, and a third for £1,000, and now I owe him £2,000 more. What a striking likeness there is between you and Mr. Redgill, though; now I come to look at you in a clear light, I would have sworn that you were his son.”
“Indeed!” laughed the young stranger, in an uneasy manner. “You have detected a likeness; most people say the same; but I amnothis son, and, what is more, no relation either. You haveheard of young Bolton, Mr. Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk? Well,Iam he.”
“And is Redgill in such a hurry for his money that he has sent you to collect it? Why, he expressly told me to use my own time, and call myself with it whenever I liked. I’m sure I have always been punctual with him.”
“I donotcome for the money by any means,” said Bolton; “Mr. Redgill would not so insult you as to distrust your well-known honesty.”
“Because, if even youdidcall for the money, I should not have given it to you,” said the old man, smiling, “£2,000 can’t be trusted in everybody’s hands, you know, and although you may be as you say, Mr. Bolton, Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk,Iam not to know that;Ihave never seen you before, as I know of.”
“True,” said the stranger, smiling blandly; “I commend your prudence, Farmer Bertram; but the truth is, I was travelling to Portsmouth on business for Mr. Redgill, and stopped to bait my horse at the ‘Black Bull,’ and found some of your labourers enjoying themselves.”
“Yes, I gave them a treat to-night as it’s my birthday. I would have gone among them myself, only I felt very much upset by the wild behaviour of my only son Robert.”
“Exactly, and it’s abouthimthat I have come so far out of my way, in order to inform you of him, and towarnyou.”
“Warnme!” said the farmer, suddenly changing colour, and with looks of distrust at the stranger’s uneasiness of voice and manner.
“You have had a quarrel with him to-day, and slammed the door in his face.”
“I did. Who told you?” the old man asked. “No one but him and I were present.”
“I overheard him say as much to another in a whispered conversation.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he knows that you have a large sum of money in the house, and is determined to rob you of it, and then run off with the slut he calls his sweetheart.”
“Rob me! his own father!”
“It is as true as gospel. That I am correct is plain, or how could I have learned so much of his and your affairs unless I overheard him?”
“Mr. Bolton, I’m sure you are right, and very kind to come here and warn me!”
“Oh, no thanks; it is a duty we owe one to another as men and Christians,” said Bolton, with a very pious air. “I was well armed myself, and though I am much pressed for time, I thought I would call and see you; fore-warned is fore-armed.”
“True, sir, true; and what would you have me do?”
“Do? that depends. Have you any servants about you that you can arm?”
“Not one, save an old woman I keep as housekeeper, more out of charity than anything else; all the rest are at the ‘Black Bull,’ having a dance and supper.”
“I see, I see,” said Bolton, biting his lip. “Well, you don’t want your son’s guilt exposed before the whole village, do you?”
“No! true, sir, true; he is my son, and, with all his faults, I don’t want to heap more shame on his head and mine.”
“Then I’ll tell you what to do.”
“What?”
“Send your old servant down to the two village constables with a private message, telling them all about the intended robbery; they will then come up and remain with you all night, and all will be well.”
“But the village is two miles or more by the road, and the old servant would take an hour or two to go and return. Bob might come in the meantime, find me all alone, and rob me of every penny I have in the world.”
“But he doesn’t know where you keep it, surely?” said Bolton, with a dry, cunning smile.
“Yes, he does; he knows I always keep my gold in that chest yonder by the window; but no one, save my friend Redgill, has any idea where I keep my bank notes,” said the farmer, with a sickly smile.
The stranger did.
He had heard Mr. Redgill speak of it as a capital joke that Farmer Bertram always concealed his bank notes in the inner lining of his boots!
But of this he said not a word.
“Ah! it’s a sad case,” said Bolton. “I am very sorry I cannot remain with you until the constables come, but business of pressing importance calls me away.”
Betty, the old servant, was instantly summoned, and toddled off to the village in all haste, much amazed at the message she had to tell to the constables.
Despite all the old farmer’s entreaties Mr. Bolton would not stay, but left at the same moment old Betsy did.
Both of them went down the lane together.
When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,
“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?”
“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.
“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.
“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.”
“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.”
“I will, kind gentleman.”
“Make haste. Good night.”
Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away.
He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view.
Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than ten minutes.
He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached the back door of the farm-house again.
All was darkness save a ray of light which issued from the farmer’s chamber.
Not a sound was heard except the mournful sighing of keen December night winds among the leafless trees.
Now and then, ’tis true, watch dogs shook their chains, and howled most dolefully and dismally, in tones unnatural, ominous and death-like.
Silently and softly did Bolton approach the house.
“He is alone,” he thought, “and too weak to leave his chamber. Now is my time, while all are away. His treasure must be mine!”
He tried the back door.
It was locked!
“It was not locked when I left,” the villain thought.
He tried it again.
The door chain rattled!
A window above was suddenly and violently slammed too, as if by the wind.
This startled Bolton.
He crawled round to the parlour window.
It was open!
He got in, and pulled off his boots.
He softly opened the door, and found himself in the large, dark entrance hall.
The slow and solemn ticking of the old hall clock seemed to strike his heart with pangs of remorse and horror.
He held his breath, and cold sweat oozed from his brow.
He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes peering up the broad dark staircase.
“All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s room.
Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness.
But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound.
He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to recover his breath.
Onward he went.
He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s bed-room.
There remained now but one more flight of stairs.
The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which sounded like the cocking of a gun!
Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness around him.
His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from every pore.
A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.
He felt as if some unnatural and hideous being was watching him, and dogging his noiseless footsteps.
What could it be?
He knew not.
Some dreadful fear compelled him to crouch down low upon the landing from sheer exhaustion.
Bang! bang! suddenly burst out upon his astonished ears, and awoke loud echoes in the old farm-house.
A double-barrelled gun had been discharged at him, loaded with buck-shot, and by some one concealed at the head of the stairs.
A loud groan followed the flashes and report.