“I don’t believe that old tramp’s my great-uncle,” said Philip Ross to
himself, but he felt uneasy, nevertheless.
It hurt his pride to think that he should have such a shabby relation,
and he resolved to ascertain by inquiry from his mother whether there
were any grounds for the old man’s claim.
He came into the house just after Uncle Obed had been shown upstairs by
the servant, not to the spare room, but to a small, inconvenient
bedroom on the third floor, next to the one occupied by the two
servants.
“Mother,” asked Philip, “is it really true?”
“Is what really true?”
“That that shabby old man is any relation of ours?”
“I don’t know with certainty,” answered his mother. “He says he is, but
I shouldn’t have known him.”
“Did you have any uncle in Illinois?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Mrs. Ross admitted, reluctantly.
“You always said you were of a high family,” said Philip,
reproachfully.
Mrs. Ross blushed, for she did not like to admit that her pretensions
to both were baseless. She was not willing to admit it now, even to
Philip.
“It is true,” she replied, in some embarrassment; “but there’s always a
black sheep in every flock.”
Poor Obed! To be called a black sheep—a hard-working, steady-going man
as he had been all his life.
“But my mother’s brother, Obed, strange to say, was always rustic and
uncouth, and so he was sent out to Illinois to be a farmer. We thought
that the best place for him—that he would live and die there; but now,
in the most vexatious manner in the world, he turns up here.”
“He isn’t going to stay here, is he?” asked Philip, in dismay.
“No; we must get rid of him some way. I must say it was a very cool
proceeding to come here without an invitation, expecting us to support
him.”
This was a gratuitous assumption on the part of Mrs. Ross.
“I suppose he’s very poor. He doesn’t look as if he had a cent. I
presume he is destitute, and expects us to take care of him.”
“You’d better send him packing, mother.”
“I suppose we shall have to do something for him,” said Mrs. Ross, in a
tone of disgust. “I shall advise your father to buy a ticket for him,
and send him back to Illinois.”
“That’ll be the best way, mother. Start him off to-morrow, if you can.”
“I won’t keep him long, you may be sure of that.”
By this time Colonel Ross had reached home, and his wife communicated
to him the unwelcome intelligence of Uncle Obed’s arrival, and advised
him as to the course she thought best to pursue.
“Poor old man!” said the colonel, with more consideration than his wife
or son possessed. “I suppose he felt solitary out there.”
“That isn’t our lookout,” said Mrs. Ross, impatiently. “It’s right
enough to say poor old man. He looks as poor as poverty. He’ll be
better off in Illinois.”
“Perhaps you are right, but I wouldn’t like to send him off
empty-handed. I’ll buy his ticket, and give him fifty dollars, so that
he need not suffer.”
“It seems to me that is too much. Twenty dollars, or ten, would be
liberal.”
The cold-hearted woman seemed to forget the years during which her
uncle had virtually supported her.
“No, Lucinda; I shall give him fifty.”
“You should think of your son, Colonel Ross,” said his wife. “Don’t
impoverish him by your foolish generosity.”
Colonel Ross shrugged his shoulders.
“Philip will have all the money that will be good for him,” he said.
“Very well; as you please. Only get him off as soon as you can. It is
mortifying to me to have such a looking old man here claiming
relationship to me.”
“He is your uncle, Lucinda, and you must mention the plan to him.”
“Very well.”
It was a task which Mrs. Ross did not shrink from, for she had no fear
of hurting the feelings of Uncle Obed, or, rather, she did not care
whether he chose to feel hurt or not.
Uncle Obed was called down to supper, and took his seat at the handsome
tea table, with its silver service. Colonel Ross, to his credit be it
said, received his wife’s uncle much more cordially than his own niece
had done, and caused Uncle Obed’s face to beam with pleasure.
“Railly, Lucinda,” said Uncle Obed, as he looked over the table, “you
have a very comfortable home, I declare.”
“Yes, we try to have things comfortable around us,” answered Mrs. Ross,
coldly.
“Years ago, when you and your mother lived out in Illinoy, I didn’t
think you’d come to live in a house like this.”
“Yes, people live in an outlandish way out there,” said Mrs. Ross.
“But they have happy homes. When Mary lived, I enjoyed life, though the
old farmhouse seemed rough and plain, compared with your handsome home.
I’m glad to see my sister’s child living so well, with all the comforts
that money can buy.”
The old man’s tone was hearty, and there was a smile of genuine
pleasure on his rugged face. He was forced to admit that his niece was
not as cordial as he hoped, but, then, “Lucinda was always reserved and
quiet-like,” he said to himself, and so excused her.
It must be said for Colonel Ross that he knew comparatively little
about his wife’s early life, and didn’t dream of the large obligations
she was under to Uncle Obed. He was a rich man, and the consciousness
of wealth led him to assume airs of importance, but he was not as cold
or heartless as his wife, and would have insisted on his wife’s
treating her uncle better had he known the past. Even as it was, he was
much more gracious and affable than Mrs. Ross to the old man, whom he
had never seen before.
As for Philip, he was a second edition of his mother, and never
addressed a word to Uncle Obed. When the latter spoke to him, he
answered in monosyllables.
“Nancy, you may leave the room. I’ll call you if I want you.”
This was what Mrs. Ross said to the servant, fearing that Uncle Obed
might refer to her early poverty, and that the girl might talk about it
in the neighborhood.
Though Colonel Ross made conversation easy for him, Uncle Obed could
not help feeling the coldness of his niece.
“Lucindy might treat me better,” he thought, “after what I did for her
in her early days. But I see how it is; she’s ashamed of them, and I
won’t say anything to make her feel bad. I see I must look elsewhere
for a home. Lucindy don’t want me here, and I shouldn’t feel at home
myself. I wish Philip was more like that Harry Gilbert, who showed me
the way here.”
Supper was over, and Philip took up his hat to go out.
“Philip,” said his father, “you forget that your uncle is here. You
should stay to keep him company.”
“I’ve got an engagement,” said Philip, alarmed at the suggestion.
“Can’t you put it off?”
“Let the boy keep his engagement,” said Uncle Obed. “I like to see
young people particular about keeping their appointments.”
“Your uncle may like to walk out with you, and see something of the
village.”
Philip looked dismayed at the prospect of being seen in the company of
the rather shabby old man, who claimed to be his great-uncle.
“No, no,” said Uncle Obed. “I can find the way round by myself. A man
that’s used to the Western prairies doesn’t get lost easily.”
Philip breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time he began to think
that Uncle Obed had some sensible ideas.
Uncle Obed took his hat and cane, and walked out slowly, making his way
along the principal street.
“I wish I could see that boy Harry Gilbert,” he thought to himself—for
a new plan had occurred to him. “Why, bless me, there he is now,” he
said, as our hero turned the next corner.
“Good-evening, sir,” said Harry, cheerfully.
“Good-evening, Harry. You’re just the one I was wanting to see. I’ve
got something to say to you.”
What Uncle Obed had to say was of importance, but must be deferred to
the next chapter.