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.
