Kitabı oku: «Five Hundred Dollars; or, Jacob Marlowe's Secret», sayfa 3

CHAPTER VII.
UNCLE JACOB LEAVES LAKEVILLE

On his way home to dinner the next day, Bert fell in with Percy Marlowe.

"I saw you out driving last evening," remarked Percy.

"Yes," answered Bert composedly.

"You had Houghton's best team?"

"Yes."

"How much did you have to pay?"

"I believe Uncle Jacob paid two dollars."

"He must be crazy to pay two dollars for a ride. Why, he's almost a pauper."

"I think that is his business, Percy. As to being a pauper, I don't believe he will ever be that."

"Don't be too sure of it. Why, he told father he had only five hundred dollars. How long do you think that's going to last him if he throws away his money on carriage rides?"

"It's only for once, and, as I said, that isn't our business."

"I don't know about that, either. When he has spent all his money he'll be coming upon father to support him."

"I don't believe he will," said Bert, to whom it was disagreeable to hear the kind old man spoken of slightingly.

"You see if he doesn't. But it won't do any good. Father says as he makes his bed he must lie on it. And I say, Bert Barton, it isn't very creditable to you and your mother to help the old man squander his money."

"I don't thank you for your advice, Percy Marlowe," retorted Bert, with spirit. "If ever Uncle Jacob does come to want, I'll work for him, and help him all I can."

"You! why you're as poor as poverty itself!" exclaimed Percy, with a mocking laugh.

"Good morning!" said Bert shortly, provoked, but not caring to prolong the discussion.

When he reached home, he gave Uncle Jacob an account of his conversation with Percy.

The old man laughed.

"So Albert says that as I make my bed I must lie upon it?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir; but I hope you won't be troubled at that. You will always be welcome here."

Uncle Jacob's eyes grew moist, and he regarded Bert with affection.

"You are a good boy and a true friend, Bert," he said, "and I shall not forget it."

"I don't know but Percy was right, Uncle Jacob. It does seem extravagant paying such a price for a ride."

"It's only for once in a way, Bert. You mustn't grudge the old man a little enjoyment in his vacation. I shall be going to work next week."

"You will? Where?" asked Bert eagerly.

"In New York. An old California friend of mine, who is in charge of a mine that has been put on the New York market, will give me a clerkship and a small salary which will support me in comfort. So you see I am all right."

"I am very glad to hear it, Uncle Jacob," said Bert joyfully. "I was afraid you wouldn't find anything to do, and would have to spend all your money on living."

"Come, Bert, that isn't much of a compliment to my ability. If I am sixty-five, I am able to earn a living yet, and though twelve dollars a week isn't much–"

"If I could earn twelve dollars a week I should feel rich, Uncle Jacob."

"True, but you are only fifteen."

"Almost sixteen."

"I forgot that," said Uncle Jacob, smiling. "Well, even at sixteen, a boy can hardly expect to earn as much as twelve dollars a week. By the way, how much does Albert pay you?"

"Four dollars a week."

"Is that about the usual price for boys employed as you are?"

"Most shoe bosses pay more. The squire pays low wages all round."

"Then why don't the men go elsewhere?"

"Because they live here, and it is better to work cheaper here than to move. Some have gone away."

"Well, keep up your courage, Bert, and the time will come when you will be earning twelve dollars a week like your rich old uncle. If the office were only in Lakeville, so that I could board with your mother–"

"I wish it was, Uncle Jacob."

"Well, Mary, I shan't have to open a cigar store in Lakeville," remarked Uncle Jacob, as his niece entered the room.

Mrs. Barton looked an inquiry, and Bert exclaimed: "Uncle Jacob has secured a clerkship in New York at twelve dollars a week."

"I am really glad!" said Mrs. Barton, with beaming face.

"Come, Mary, did you too think, like Bert here, that I was headed for the poorhouse?"

"I felt a little anxious for you, Uncle Jacob, I admit."

"You see that your fears were idle."

"Will you have to work very hard?" asked Mrs. Barton.

"No; my employer is an intimate friend."

"When do you commence work?"

"Next Monday, so that I must leave you on Saturday."

"Bert and I will both miss you; but as it is for your good, we won't complain. Now, Uncle Jacob, I hope you won't take it amiss if I urge you not to be too free with your money, but to try to save up some of your salary so that you can add to your little fund."

"Thank you, Mary. I suppose you are afraid I will be driving fast horses in Central Park, eh?"

"I am more afraid you will be too generous with your money, and give away more than you can afford."

"Well thought of, Mary! So far from that, I am going to turn miser and hoard up every cent I can."

"I don't think there is much danger of that."

"Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be if I try. However, as I shall be acting according to your advice, you can't find fault with me."

"I see you don't mean to follow my advice, Uncle Jacob."

"Still I am glad you gave it. It shows that you feel a real interest in your shabby old uncle. Some time—I can't promise how soon—I shall invite you and Bert to come and spend the day in New York. I will get a day off from the office, and we'll have a nice excursion somewhere."

On Friday, Uncle Jacob called on Squire Marlowe; not at the house, however, but at the factory.

"I've come to bid you good-by, Albert," he said.

"Are you going back to California?" asked the Squire.

"No, I am going to New York."

"It is expensive living in New York."

"I have obtained a situation there."

"Ah, indeed! That is different. What sort of a position?"

"I shall be a clerk in a mining office."

"What pay will you get?"

"Twelve dollars a week."

"Very fair! I congratulate you. You ought to live on that and save money besides."

"That's what Mary Barton says."

"Then she gives you very sensible advice. It will be a great deal better than opening a cigar store in Lakeville."

"I wouldn't do that after what you said on the subject," returned Uncle Jacob in a deferential tone, though there was a twinkle in his eye.

"I am glad you recognize the fact that I counseled you for your good," said the Squire pompously. "As an experienced business man, my judgment is worth something, I apprehend."

"Quite so, Albert; quite so! Is your wife feeling better?"

(Uncle Jacob had seen Mrs. Marlowe riding out the day before, apparently in full health.)

"She is somewhat improved, but still delicate," said Squire Marlowe guardedly. "I am sorry I cannot invite you to dine with us again before you go to the city."

"I should hardly be able to do so, as I go away to-morrow."

"Just so! I will say good-by for you, and that will do just as well."

"That's a load off my mind!" soliloquized the squire, after Uncle Jacob had left him. "I was afraid the old man would squander all his money, and then come upon me for that old loan. I hope he'll keep away from Lakeville in the future."

The next day Uncle Jacob left town. As he quitted the house, he put a sealed envelope into Mary Barton's hand.

"If you are ever in trouble, and cannot communicate with me," he said, "open this envelope. Take good care of it!"

"I will, Uncle Jacob. I will put it away in my trunk."

"Well, good-by, Mary, and God bless you!"

A minute later and Uncle Jacob was gone. Mrs. Barton went back to covering balls and Bert to his place in the shoe shop. Their united earnings enabled them to live comfortably, and they were content, though they had nothing to spare. But trouble was close at hand, though they did not suspect it.

What that trouble was will be disclosed in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.
DISCHARGED

Three days later, while on his way to the factory, Bert overtook Luke Crandall, who was employed like himself in pegging shoes.

"Have you heard the news, Bert?" asked his friend.

"No; what is it?"

"All the peggers are to be discharged; you and I, and the two other boys."

"Is that true?" asked Bert, stopping short, and surveying his friend with a look of dismay.

"Yes; I wish it wasn't."

"What is the reason?"

"The squire has bought a pegging machine, and he has hired a man from out of town to run it. So he will have no need of us."

"How soon is he going to put it in?" asked Bert, with a sinking heart.

"Next Monday. At the end of this week we shall be discharged."

"What are you going to do?" Bert inquired, after a pause.

"I shall be all right. I have an uncle who keeps a store in Bradford, and I am going there to tend in the store, and shall board in the family. What shall you do?"

"I don't know," answered Bert soberly. "This has come on me so suddenly, that I haven't had time to think."

"There's precious little chance for a boy in Lakeville, unless he goes to work on a farm."

"I don't even know if there is a chance to do that. All the farmers are supplied with help. Besides, they generally pay a boy in his board and clothes, and I need money to help support my mother."

"Isn't old Marlowe your uncle?"

"No, but he is my mother's cousin."

"Then he ought to do something for you out of relationship."

"I don't expect it," answered Bert. "He appears to feel very little interest in us."

They had reached the factory, and entering, were soon at work. Before noon the bad news was confirmed, and the boys were informed that their services would not be required after Saturday night.

At dinner Bert informed his mother, and she too was dismayed. It was a calamity she had never dreamed of. She supposed Bert was sure of continued employment in pegging till he was old enough to be employed in some other part of the business.

"I don't see what we shall do, Bert," she said. "There is no other shop in Lakeville. If there were, you might get a chance there."

"There is no business of any kind here outside of Marlowe's shop."

"True. What are the other boys going to do?"

"Luke Crandall is going into his uncle's shop at Bradford, and the other two boys talk of leaving town."

"I do think Albert Marlowe might find some place for you. We are near relations, and he knows how I depend on your earnings."

"He isn't a man to consider that, mother."

Mrs. Barton was silent, but she determined to make an application to her cousin in Bert's behalf. Accordingly, in the evening, she said to him. "Bert, I am going out to make a call. I would like to have you look after the house while I am gone."

"Yes, mother."

Mrs. Barton did not venture to let Bert know of her intention, for he would have done his best to prevent her applying to the squire for a special favor. Perhaps he was too proud, but it was an honorable pride. Besides, he knew very well that the appeal was likely to prove ineffectual.

With a faltering step Mrs. Barton advanced and rang the bell of her cousin's handsome house. It was a call from which she shrank, but she was spurred by necessity.

"Is Mr. Marlowe in?" she inquired.

"I will see, ma'am."

Squire Marlowe was at home, and she was ushered into his presence.

Albert Marlowe was not, on the whole, surprised to see his cousin. He guessed the errand that brought her, and he frowned slightly as she entered the room.

"Good evening," he said, in a distant tone. "I hope you are well."

"Well in health, but anxious in mind, Albert," she said. "Bert tells me that he has been discharged from the shop."

"Yes, but he is not the only one. There are three other boys."

"It has come upon us like a thunderbolt. I had no idea that he was in any danger of losing his place."

"I have nothing against your son, Mrs. Barton. It is a business necessity that compels me to dispense with his services."

"Why a business necessity?"

"You may have heard that I intend to introduce a pegging machine. It will do the work cheaper and more effectually than under the present system."

"Oh, why couldn't you have let matters remain as they were? You may gain something, but you are depriving the boys of their livelihood."

"You don't regard the matter in a business light, Mrs. Barton. I must keep up with the times. Other manufacturers are making the change, and I should stand in my own light if I adhered to the old-fashioned system."

"I don't pretend to know about business, Albert, but I do know that in dismissing Bert you deprive us of more than half our income, and Heaven knows we need it all."

"Your son can find something else to do."

"What is there for him to do in Lakeville? I shall be grateful if you will suggest anything."

"No doubt he can get a chance to work on a farm."

"I know of no farmer who needs his services, and even if there were one he would not get money for his services, and that is what we want."

"Of course farming isn't the only thing," said the squire vaguely. "If he looks round sharp he will come across something–"

Mrs. Barton shook her head.

"You know how little business there is in Lakeville," she answered. "Isn't there some other department in the factory in which you can employ him?"

Squire Marlowe shook his head.

"He is too young for any other work," he said.

"Then what are we to do?"

"Oh, you'll think of something," said the squire indefinitely. "He is to be in the shop the rest of the week, and that will give you time to think the matter over."

"Then you can't hold out any hope!" said Mrs. Barton mournfully.

"No, but you mustn't be despondent. Something will turn up."

Mrs. Barton was silent, and her sad face made the squire vaguely uncomfortable. He wished she would go.

"Mrs. Marlowe is not feeling well this evening," he said awkwardly, "or I would invite you to meet her. Some other evening–"

"I am not in the mood to meet any one to-night, Albert," she said. "I will be going," and she rose from her chair and moved toward the door.

"Good-evening, then. I am glad to have seen you."

Mrs. Barton did not reply to the compliment. Her heart was too full of sorrow to respond to what she knew to be insincere and unmeaning. She understood very well that Albert Marlowe was glad to be rid of her.

"How unreasonable women are!" muttered Squire Marlowe, impatiently, as he closed the door upon his unwelcome guest. "Mary Barton would have had me postpone all improvements in my shop for the sake of keeping that boy of hers in his place. Business considerations are as nothing to women. They are so unpractical."

Mrs. Barton walked homeward slowly, musing bitterly on her cousin's want of feeling.

"How cold-hearted he is!" she murmured. "He evidently cares nothing for our needs, or the prospect of our hardships. He lives in a fine house, and rears his family in luxury, while Bert and I are likely to want even the necessaries of life."

Perhaps Mrs. Barton was a little too despondent. Perhaps she ought to have had more trust in Providence; but there had been sorrows in her life which had robbed her of her natural hopefulness, and she was no longer as courageous in the face of threatening misfortune as she had once been.

She had nearly reached home when, from out of the darkness, a man's figure advanced from the roadside and laid his hand upon her arm.

"Who are you!" she asked faintly, suppressing a scream.

"Don't be frightened, Mary," was the reply, "I am your husband, Simeon Barton."

CHAPTER IX.
MRS. BARTON'S SECRET

Mrs. Barton staggered, and would have fallen, had not the other held her up. "You here," she exclaimed, in amazement, "after being absent so many years?"

"Yes; it has been a cruel exile. We have been very unfortunate."

"Where have you been these last ten years, Simeon?"

"For the last eight years in Canada."

"And you did not write me?"

"No; I feared it would set officers on my track. I have heard from you now and then, indirectly. Have you suffered much?"

"It has been a weary time. It would have been easier to bear if I had heard from you."

"A letter from Canada would have been sure to attract attention and invite comment. Besides, I had no money to send you. Misfortune has pursued me, and I have only been able to support myself. When I think of the probable author of my misfortunes, I own it has made me feel revengeful."

"To whom do you refer, Simeon?"

"To Albert Marlowe."

"What do you mean? How is he responsible for your—misfortune?"

"I will tell you. I believe that it was he who stole the bonds, the loss of which was imputed to me."

"Is it possible that you have any proof of this?" asked Mary Barton eagerly. "The bond that was found in your possession–"

"Was placed in my overcoat pocket for the express purpose of throwing suspicion upon me. You remember that it was a bond for five hundred dollars, while the amount stolen was six thousand."

"Yes."

"Albert and I were both at work in the same establishment. We were on a level, so far as means are concerned."

"Yes."

"Now he is a rich man," added Simeon Barton significantly.

"Yes; he is considered worth thirty thousand dollars."

"It was the stolen money that gave him his start, I verily believe."

"He did not start in business for himself for more than a year after—the trouble."

"No; for he thought it would invite suspicion. I have reason to think that he disposed of the bonds in Canada, and with the proceeds started in as a manufacturer. How otherwise could he have done so? He was only earning two dollars a day when we were working together, and it cost him all of that to support his family."

"I have often wondered where he obtained money to go into business."

"I don't think there is any mystery about it."

"And you have been compelled to bear the consequences of his wrong-doing while he has been living in luxury?" said Mary Barton bitterly.

"Yes; but mine is not a solitary case. Wickedness often flourishes in this world. We must look to the future for compensation."

"Do you think you will ever be able to prove your innocence, Simeon?"

"It is all that I live for. If I can do that, we can live together again. But tell me, before I go any further, how are you and the boy getting along?"

"We are comfortable," answered Mary Barton briefly. She did not care to add to her husband's anxieties by speaking of Bert's discharge.

"I wish I had some money to give you, but I only had enough to bring me here and return."

"You had an object in coming?"

"Yes; there was a man who was employed by Weeks Brothers at the time of the loss of the bonds. I learned some months since—it is not necessary to explain how—that he could throw light on the long unsolved mystery—that he knew the real thief. I am in search of him. Some time I hope to find him, and make clear my innocence by the aid of his testimony."

"Oh, Simeon, if you only could!" exclaimed Mrs. Barton, clasping her hands.

"I shall try, at all events."

"I wonder if it would not be well to consult Uncle Jacob?"

"Uncle Jacob!" repeated Simeon Barton in surprise.

"Yes; I have not told you. He has returned from California, and is now in New York."

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes; he spent a week at our house."

Mrs. Barton went on to give the particulars of Uncle Jacob's visit.

"He is a poor man," she concluded. "As I understand, he brought home but five hundred dollars, but he is lucky enough to be employed in an office in New York at a salary of twelve dollars a week."

"If I were earning that, and could hold up my head an honest man, without a stain—an undeserved stain—upon my name, I should be happy."

"Can you tell me Uncle Jacob's address?" he asked, after a pause. "I don't think I shall venture to call upon him, for I am subject to arrest on the old charge, as you know, and the New York detectives are sharp, but I might write to him and ask his advice. But stay! he thinks me dead, does he not?"

"Yes."

"And Bert—is that what you still call him?—he still thinks that he has no father living?"

"You wished it so, Simeon."

"Yes; but the time may come when the secret can be revealed to him. I may disclose myself to Uncle Jacob. I don't remember him very well, but–"

"He is the best and kindest of men. I wish, he could have found employment here."

"Did he visit Albert?"

"Yes; he remained at his house one night."

"Was he well received?"

"At first; for, coming from California, Albert supposed him rich. When he found he had but five hundred dollars, he lost no time in turning him out of the house."

"Poor Uncle Jacob! It must have hurt the old man's feelings."

"I feared it would, but he only seemed amused—not at all offended."

"He has seen so much of the world that he probably expected it. The old man seemed in good spirits, then?"

"Yes; he declared that he was well able to earn his own living still, though he is sixty-five, and was as gay and cheerful as a young man. He insisted on paying his board while he was with us."

"There is nothing mean about Uncle Jacob."

"No; and it is a mystery to me why such men as he, who would make so good use of riches, should almost always be poor."

"And men like Albert Marlowe are rich."

"Yes."

"There are a good many things that are difficult to make out. Where are you going to stay to-night, Simeon?" she asked, after a pause.

"I—don't know."

"I wish I could invite you to the house where you have the best right to be."

"I wish so, too."

"Bert doesn't know that you are alive. Perhaps I might introduce you as an old friend of his father."

"If you think it would do. He would not speak of your having a visitor?"

"Not if I told him not to do so."

"You have tempted me strongly, Mary. I should like to see our boy, to see with my own eyes how he is looking at fifteen. And it would be a comfort to rest once more beneath the same roof as the wife from whom I have been so long separated."

"I think we can risk it, Simeon. I must introduce you under another name."

"Call me Robinson. That is the name I have borne for some years past."

"Mother!" was heard from a little distance.

"Bert has come out in search of me, being alarmed by my long absence. Now, be on your guard."

"Is that you, mother? Where have you been so long? I got quite anxious about you."

"I met an old friend of your father, Bert, and in talking with him I forgot how time was passing. Mr. Robinson, this is my son Herbert."

Bert greeted the stranger politely. As his hand rested for a moment in the hand of Mr. Robinson, he felt the latter tremble.

"Do you remember your father, Herbert?" asked the supposed stranger.

"Not very well. He died when I was quite a young boy."

"True! It was indeed a long time since," murmured Robinson, with a sigh.

"Bert, I have invited Mr. Robinson to stay with us to-night. It is long since I have seen him and we may not meet again for some time. He will share your room."

"Certainly, mother."

They went together to the cottage. Mrs. Barton prepared some tea, and they sat down to a slight meal.

"Oh, if it could only continue thus!" thought Simeon Barton, as he looked wistfully at the wife and son from whom he had been so long separated. "It is like a sight of the promised land."

"Do you know my mother's cousin, Albert Marlowe?" asked Bert, during the evening.

"I used to know him some years ago."

"Shall you call upon him? He is a rich man now."

"I think not I never—liked—him much."

Bert laughed.

"Ditto for me!" he said. "He is a cold, selfish man. He is not popular with his workmen."

"By the way, Bert," said his mother, "you need not mention Mr. Robinson's visit. His business requires secrecy."

"All right, mother! I'll bear it in mind."