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,
CHARLES MARLOWE.
"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,
"but you are growing old, and old people are forgetful. That is the most
charitable view to take of your statement."
"I wouldn't have believed this, Albert," said the old man, sorrowfully.
"And you a rich man, too! I don't mind the money. I can get along
without it. But to be told that I am claiming what has already been
repaid!"
"I don't lay it up against you," went on the squire, smoothly. "I've no
doubt you have forgotten the payment of the debt, and----"
"I don't forget so easily, though I am sixty-five. Don't fear that I
shall ask for it again--indeed, I haven't asked for it at all--but I
shall not forget how you have treated my claim. Of course it amounts to
nothing in law--it's outlawed long ago--but I only wish my poor brother
were alive to disprove your words."
Even Albert Marlowe was shamed by the old man's sorrowful dignity.
"We can't agree about that, Uncle Jacob," he said; "but if ever you get
very hard up, let me know, and I'll see if I can't help you--in a small
way."
"You are very kind," answered the old man, "but I don't think that time
will come. As you say, my wants are few, and I am still able to work.
I'll go up to my room and get my valise, and then I'll go over to Mary
Barton's."
"Thank Heaven! I've got rid of him," mused the squire, as from the
doorway he saw Uncle Jacob walking slowly down the street. "I was afraid
he'd mention that money he lent father. With twenty-seven years'
interest it would amount to a good deal of money--more than I could well
spare. I don't think I shall hear from it again."
"Has he gone, Albert?" asked Mrs. Marlowe, returning to the
breakfast-room.
"Yes; I told him you were indisposed, and couldn't stand excitement."
"No matter what you told him, as long as we are rid of him."