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Five Hundred Dollars; or, Jacob Marlowe's Secret, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 23. Bert Forms A Resolution |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII. BERT FORMS A RESOLUTION "Mother," said Bert abruptly, as he entered the cottage at the close of his engagement with the farmer, "when did father die?" Mrs. Barton sank into a chair, and looked searchingly in her son's face. "Why--do--you--ask?" she said slowly. "I have been told to-day that he was living only a year since." "Who told you?" "Phineas Wilson, the farmer's son." "Did he see him a year ago?" "Yes, in some town in Canada--near Toronto, I believe. But, mother, you don't seem surprised." "No, Bert, for I knew your father was living." "Then why don't he come home. Why don't he live with us? Is there some mystery?" "Yes, Bert, and a painful one for your unfortunate father. It is the fear of a prison that has kept him away from home." "Surely, mother," said Bert, painfully shocked, "my father was not a criminal?" "No, but circumstances made him appear such." "Tell me the story." "It is time that you heard it. Ten years ago your father and Albert Marlowe were employed by Weeks Brothers, large shoe manufacturers in a Massachusetts town. Both were skilled workmen----" "Did Squire Marlowe work at the bench?" "Yes, his position was precisely the same as your father's, no worse and no better. Both received the same pay--two dollars a day." "Does Percy know this?" "Probably not. Albert Marlowe is not fond of speaking of his early days when he was a common workman. At that time our families were intimate and associated on equal terms. Our circumstances and ways of living were the same. We lived in a double house, Albert occupying one tenement, we the other." "Were you and Mrs. Marlowe friendly then?" "Yes; she had not yet become a fine lady, but did her own work, dispensing with a servant. We lived plainly, and, if anything, your father was the more prosperous of the two, as we managed to save from fifty to seventy-five dollars a year, while I don't believe Albert saved anything. But one day a terrible thing happened. Mr. Weeks, the senior partner, was a trustee and guardian for some minor children. A part of their property was invested in United States bonds, 5-20's as they are called. He kept them in his safe in the factory. One morning when he opened the safe they were missing. You can imagine the dismay of the guardian and his indignation against the unknown thief. The loss was publicly proclaimed, and a reward of one hundred dollars was offered to any one who could and would give any information that would lead to the discovery of the thief. Some one--a young man named Harding--entered the office of the firm and informed them that he had seen your father thrusting a paper, looking like a government bond, into the inside pocket of his overcoat--it was in the middle of winter. The workmen kept their coats in a small room near the entrance of the factory. Of course the room was visited, your father's coat was examined, and in one of the pockets was found one of the missing bonds, one for five hundred dollars. Your father was summoned, charged with the theft, and required to tell what he had done with the remaining bonds. He was thunder-struck at the accusation, and denied in the most positive terms any knowledge of the stolen property. His statement was not credited. He was arrested, tried for the offense, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment." "Bert's face flushed with indignation, and he clinched his fist almost unconsciously. "Did he go to prison?" he asked hoarsely. "No; some of his friends, who believed in his innocence, helped him to escape, and supplied him with funds to get out of the country. Now you know why he has remained absent all these years." "But why was I never told of this, mother? Why did I not know at the time?" "You were only six years of age, and were sent away during the excitement to the house of a friend living at some distance. I moved away from the town in which my misfortunes were known, and eventually came here, learning that Albert Marlowe had established himself in business here. You readily believed that your father was dead." "I understand now, mother. But is it not terrible that the happiness of a family should be broken up in this way?" "Yes, Bert. Providence permits it for some wise purpose, no doubt, though it is hard for us to understand why it should be." "One thing I don't understand, mother. You say that Squire Marlowe was a common workman, like my father, and a poor man?" "Yes, Bert." "How is it that he is now a rich manufacturer? Where did he get the necessary capital?" "Nobody knew. He took all his friends by surprise when he went into business for himself on a large scale. Whatever the amount of his capital, he has never been financially embarrassed, and has gone on prospering." "Till now he is a rich man, living in luxury, while we are living from hand to mouth, and poor father is an exile somewhere." "Yes, Bert." "Don't you receive letters from father?" "If I should, it would draw attention to him, and might imperil his safety." "I might meet him sometime, and not know him." "Have you no recollection of him?" "Not the least? Haven't you any picture of him, mother?" "Yes, I have a daguerreotype upstairs--an old-style picture." "Why have you never shown it to me?" "Because it would have led you to ask questions which would have been embarrassing for me to answer. You might have mentioned the existence of the picture before some visitor, and compelled me to produce it. Suppose this had been the case, and it had been recognized, it might have got your father into trouble." "Now that I know all the circumstances, won't you show me the picture, mother?" "Yes, Bert; the only objection I had is now removed." Mrs. Barton went upstairs, and soon returned with one of those old-fashioned pictures of which many of my readers may have specimens in their homes--a daguerreotype. Bert scanned it attentively, and he first looked bewildered, then surprised. "I have seen a face like that," he said after a pause. "Where, Bert?" "I don't remember. Is it possible that I can remember so far back?" "It may be an accidental resemblance." "No, the face is like in every respect. Can't you explain it to me, mother?" "Think a little, Bert. Perhaps you will recall where you saw a face like this." "I have it now," said Bert, his face brightening up. "It is like Mr. Robinson--the friend of father, who called here a few weeks since." "Bert," said his mother slowly, "Mr. Robinson was not your father's friend. It was your father himself." Bert looked the picture of astonishment. "Why did you not tell me, mother?" "How could I? You did not even know that he was alive. Ever since then I have been seeking an opportunity to tell you the truth." "I am glad to know. What did father have to say?" "He thinks he has found out--at any rate he has strong suspicions--who was the real thief for whom he suffered." "Who is it, mother? Is it any one I ever knew?" "Yes, Bert." "Tell me quick." "Then you must promise to keep it secret till we are in a condition to prove the truth of our suspicions. It was Albert Marlowe." "The squire?" "Yes." "That must explain his being able to go into business for himself." "Yes. Your father is on the track of a man who was his accomplice, or rather his tool, in the matter--the young man named Harding, on whose information your father was arrested. Of course he is placed under a disadvantage in making these inquiries, being under the ban of the law." "Mother," said Bert solemnly, "I am going to solve the mystery, if possible, make my father's evidence clear, and expose the real criminal. I am only a boy, and I don't know how I shall accomplish it, but I won't rest till I have done it." "May Heaven grant you success, my dear boy!" responded Mrs. Barton fervently. _ |
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