Five Hundred Dollars; or, Jacob Marlowe's Secret. Alger Horatio Jr.Читать онлайн книгу.
and–"
"What!" exclaimed Squire Marlowe, with an expression of horror and disgust on his face.
"You see I've got about five hundred dollars, which I think would be enough to stock it comfortably and–"
"But I thought you were a rich man," gasped Squire Marlowe. "Didn't you tell me you had a hundred thousand dollars in a Sacramento bank?"
"Yes, many years ago; but I bought mining stocks, and after a while they went down to nothing, and–"
"Then you are a pauper!" said the squire, harshly.
"No. I have five hundred dollars, and I hope with that to get started, so as to earn an honest living."
Words cannot describe the scorn and disgust that appeared on the faces of Percy and his mother at the old man's confession of poverty.
"Albert," said the wife, "may I speak with you outside a moment?"
"Certainly, my dear."
"Get rid of the old man as soon as you can!" she said, imperiously. "He doesn't eat another meal in my house!"
"Be easy, my dear," said the squire. "I'll manage it."
CHAPTER V.
UNCLE JACOB RECEIVES HIS WALKING PAPERS
Squire Marlowe returned to the breakfast room, wearing rather an embarrassed expression. Percy had followed his mother, and the old man found himself for a short time alone. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, which vanished on the reappearance of his nephew.
"I am sorry to have left you alone, Uncle Jacob," said the squire, civilly.
"Oh, don't treat me with any ceremony, Albert. Being as we are such near relations, we ought to be free and easy like."
"I am glad to hear you say so, for I shall be obliged to treat you unceremoniously."
"Eh?" said Uncle Jacob, inquiringly.
"I regret to say that my wife, who is of a very delicate organization, is taken suddenly ill, and I am afraid I shall have to ask you to cut your visit short, and come again some other time."
"I'm surprised to hear that, Albert. I thought Mrs. Marlowe looked in excellent health."
"You can't always tell by outward appearances. She is subject to severe headaches, and in that condition can't bear the least noise or excitement. That is why I can't invite you to stay any longer."
"I understand," said Uncle Jacob, with—it might have been—a little significance in his tone.
"I have no doubt," went on the squire, "that Mrs. Barton will be glad to have you pay her a short visit. I will get Percy to drive you down there."
"Thank you," answered the old man, dryly, "but it's only a little way, and I don't mind walking."
"Just as you prefer," said the squire, relieved by Uncle Jacob's declination of his offer, for he knew that Percy would not enjoy the trip.
"I'll get ready to go at once, Albert. Oh, about my plan of opening a cigar store in Lakeville?"
"I cannot advise you to do it," rejoined the squire, hastily. "You wouldn't make enough to pay your rent, or not much more."
"Don't the men in your factory smoke? There's a good many of them. If I could get their trade–"
"They smoke pipes for the most part," said the squire, hurriedly. "They'd find cigars too expensive."
"I meant to combine candy with cigars. That would be a help."
"They keep candy at the grocery store, Uncle Jacob."
"I see there isn't much show for me. Now if I only understood your business, you could give me something to do in the factory, Albert."
"But you don't, and, in fact, Uncle Jacob, it's too hard work for a man of your age."
"Then what would you advise me to do, Albert?" asked the old man, earnestly.
Squire Marlowe assumed a thoughtful look. In fact, he was puzzled to decide how best to get rid of the troublesome old man. To have him remain in Lakeville was not to be thought of. He would gladly have got rid of Mrs. Barton and her son, whose relationship to his family was unfortunately known, but there seemed to be no way clear to that without the expenditure of money. To have Uncle Jacob for a neighbor, in addition, would be a source of mortification, not only to himself, but even more to his wife and Percy, whose aristocratic ideas he well knew.
"I think you told me you had five hundred dollars," he said, after a pause.
"About that."
"Then I really think it would be the best thing you could do to go back to California, where you are known, and where you can doubtless obtain some humble employment which will supply your moderate wants. It won't cost you much for dress–"
"No, Albert; this coat and vest will do me for best five years longer."
"Just so! That is fortunate. So you see you've only got your board to pay."
"I might get sick," suggested Uncle Jacob, doubtfully.
"You look pretty healthy. Besides, you'll have part of your five hundred dollars left, you know."
"That's so! What a good calculator you are, Albert! Besides, if things came to the worst, there's that five hundred dollars I lent your father twenty-seven years ago. No doubt you'd pay me back, and–"
"I don't know what you refer to," said Squire Marlowe, coldly.
"Surely you haven't forgot the time when your father was so driven for money, when you were a lad of fifteen, and I let him have all I had except about fifty dollars that I kept for a rainy day."
"This is news to me, Uncle Jacob," said the squire, with a chilling frown. "You must excuse me for saying that I think you labor under a delusion."
Uncle Jacob surveyed his neighbor intently, with a gaze which disconcerted him in spite of his assurance.
"Fortunately, I am able to prove what I say," he rejoined, after a slight pause.
He drew from his pocket a wallet which bore the signs of long wear, and, opening it, deliberately drew out a folded sheet of note paper, grown yellow with age and brittle with much handling. Then, adjusting his spectacles, he added: "Here's something I'd like to read to you, Albert. It's written by your father:
My Dear Jacob:
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for lending me the five hundred dollars I so urgently need. I know it is very nearly, if not quite, all you possess in the world, and that you can ill spare it. It will save me from failure, and sometime I hope to repay it to you. If I cannot, I will ask my son Albert to do so when he is able. I don't want you to lose by your kindness to me.
Your affectionate brother,
"You can see the signature, Albert. You know your father's handwriting, don't you?"
Squire Marlowe reluctantly took the paper and glanced at it.
"It may be my father's writing," he said.
"May be!" repeated the old man, indignantly. "What do you mean by that?"
"I dare say it is. In fact, I remember his mentioning the matter to me before he died."
"What did he say?"
"That it was quite a favor to him, the loan, but that he repaid it within three years from the time he received it."
"What!" exclaimed Uncle Jacob, pushing his spectacles up, in his amazement. "Your father said that?"
"Yes, he did," answered Albert Marlowe, with unabashed effrontery.
"That he paid back the five hundred dollars I lent him?"
"That's what I said," repeated the squire, impatiently.
"Then it's a lie—not of my brother's, but of—somebody's. That money remains unpaid to this day."
Squire Marlowe shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt you think so," he said,