Chapter 3

UNCLE JENICO.

That same evening Uncle Jenico arrived. I was just put to bed at the
time, but he came and stood by me a little before I went to sleep and
dreamt of him. He was not the least grown from his place in my
memory--only, to my wonder, a little more shabby-looking than I seemed
to recollect. The round gold spectacles were there, and the big beaver
hat, and the blue frock coat, and the nankeen trousers, and the
limp--all but the first and last a trifle the worse for wear. His
smile, however, was as cherubic, his despatch-box as glossy, his
walking-stick as stout as ever; and he nodded at me like a benevolent
Mandarin.

“Only we two left, my boy,” he said. “Poor papa, dear papa! He’s
learnt by now the secret of perpetual motion.”

It was an odd introduction. I cried a little, and, moved by his
kindness, clung to him.

“There!” he said, soothing me. “That’s all right. We are going to be
famous friends, _we_ are. _We’ll_ invent things; _we’ll_ set the
Thames on fire, _we_ will.”

Whether from exhaustion or from the dreamy contemplation of this
amazing feat to be performed by us, I fell asleep in his arms, lulled
for the first time out of my grief, and did not awake till bright
morning. The fog was gone; the birds were singing to us to carry my
father to his rest under the blue sky.

By-and-by we set out, Uncle Jenico very grave, in black, with a long
weeper round his hat. Mr. Quayle, and one or two more, who had
lingered a day behind the Assizes to do honour to the dead, came with
us; and others, including the judge, sent flowers. It was a simple,
pathetic service, in a green corner of the churchyard. I felt more
than understood its beauty, and when once I caught a glimpse of Uncle
Jenico busily and stealthily writing something with a pencil on the
inside lining of his hat, I accepted the fact naturally as a detail of
the ceremony.

But it was on the way home in the carriage that he disillusioned me by
removing his hat, and showing me a little drawing of a gravestone he
had made therein.

“Just an idea that occurred to me,” he said, “to perpetuate the memory
of poor papa. We want to do something better than keep it _green_, you
see. The weather and the lichen pay us all _that_ compliment. So I
suggest having the inscription very small, on a stone something the
shape of a dining-room clock, and over it a magnifying glass boss,
like one of those paperweights, you know, that have a little view at
the back. The tooth of Time could never touch that. What do you think
now?”

I thought it a very pleasant and kind idea, and told him so, at which
he was obviously pleased. But it was never carried out, no more than
many another he developed; and in the end--but that was long
afterwards--a simple headstone, of my own design, commemorated my
beloved father’s virtues.

The few mourners returned with us to the hotel, where, in a private
room, we had cake and sherry wine. Afterwards Mr. Quayle, when all but
he were gone, asked the favour of a final word with Uncle Jenico.

He appeared to find it a word difficult of utterance, walking up and
down, and puffing, and getting a little red in the face, while Uncle
Jenico sat beaming in a chair, his legs crossed and finger-tips
bridged.

At length Mr. Quayle stopped before him.

“Mr. Paxton,” said he, “when time’s short formalities are best
eschewed, eh?”

Uncle Jenico nodded.

“Surely,” said he. “I ask nothing less.”

“Then,” said Mr. Quayle, stuttering a little, “you are prepared to
accept our friend’s trust, _for all it’s worth_?”

Uncle Jenico nodded again, though I thought his countenance fell a
trifle over the emphatic qualification. However, he recovered in an
instant, and rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“Capital, sir,” he said; “a little capital. That’s all Richard and I
need to make our fortunes.”

He spoke as if we had been long partners, but hampered by insufficient
means.

“Ah!” said Mr. Quayle, decisively; “but that’s just the point.”

“Just the point,” echoed Uncle Jenico, still nodding, but weakly, and
with a dew of perspiration on his forehead.

“Just the point,” repeated Mr. Quayle. “I stood close to our friend. I
know something of his affairs--and habits. He was--d’ye understand
French, Mr. Paxton?”

“Yes, certainly,” answered my uncle, proudly.

“Well, listen to this, then: ‘Il a été un joueur invétéré celui
là; c’est possible qu’il a mangé son blé en herbe.’”

He drew back, to let his words take effect.

“God bless me!” said Uncle Jenico, weakly. “You have reason to know?”

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Quayle, “I know how some of us occupy our
time on circuit when we’d be better abed. I know a punter when I see
one. I may be right; I may be wrong; and for your sake I hope I’m
wrong. But the point is this: A good deal of our friend’s paper has
come my way; and I want to know if, supposing I take it to market with
bad results to the estate, you are going to swear off your trust?”

Then Uncle Jenico did an heroic thing; how heroic I could not realise
at the time, though even then I think a shadow of the truth was
penetrating my bewilderment. He got to his feet, looking like an
angel.

“Mr. Quayle,” he said, “you’ve spoken plainly, and I don’t conceal
your words are a disappointment. But if they are also a prophecy, rest
assured, sir, that Richard and I stand or fall together. We are the
surviving partners of an honourable firm, and there is that in there,
sir” (he pointed to his inseparable despatch-box), “to uphold our
credit with the world.”

Mr. Quayle seized his hand, with an immense expression of relief on
his face.

“You’re a good soul,” he said. “Without that assurance I should have
felt like robbing the orphan. I hope it may turn out better than we
suppose.”

“I hope so, too,” said Uncle Jenico, rather disconsolately.