Part 69

Marmaduke put down his cigar and stared: "Uncommonly attentive and polite of you to inquire," he said at last, with a dubious smile, which showed a row of very white teeth, "whoever you are. If it will relieve your mind at all to know, young man, I'm happy to say I am tolerably comfortable, thanks."

"I--I concluded as much," said Paul, nearly choked with rage.

"You've been very nicely brought up," said Uncle Marmaduke, "I can see that at a glance. So you've come in here, like me, eh? because the children bore you, and you want a quiet gossip over the world in general? Sit down then, take a cigar, if you don't think it will make you very unwell. I shouldn't recommend it myself, you know, before supper--but you're a man of the world and know what's good for you. Come along, enjoy yourself till you find yourself getting queer--then drop it."

Mr. Bultitude had always detested the man--there was an underbred swagger and familiarity in his manner that made him indescribably offensive; just now he seemed doubly detestable, and yet Paul by a strong effort succeeded in controlling his temper.

He could not afford to make enemies just then, and objectionable as the man was, his astuteness made him a valuable ally; he determined, without considering the risk of making such a confident, to tell him all and ask his advice and help.

"Don't you know me, Paradine?"

"I don't think I have the privilege--you're one of Miss Barbara's numerous young friends, I suppose? and yet, now I look at you, you don't seem to be exactly got up for an evening party; there's something in your voice, too, I ought to know."

"You ought," said Paul, with a gulp. "My name is Paul Bultitude!"

"To be sure!" cried Marmaduke. "By Jove, then, you're my young nephew, don't you know; I'm your long-lost uncle, my boy, I am indeed (I'll excuse you from coming to my arms, however; I never was good at family embraces). But, I say, you little rascal, you've never been asked to these festivities, you ought to be miles away, fast asleep in your bed at school. What in the name of wonder are you doing here?"

"I've--left school," said Paul.

"So I perceive. Sulky because they left you out of all this, eh? Thought you'd turn up in the middle of the banquet, like the spectre bridegroom--'the worms they crawled in, and the worms they crawled out,' eh? Well, I like your pluck, but, ahem--I'm afraid you'll find they've rather an unpleasant way of laying your kind of apparitions."

"Never mind about that," said Paul hurriedly; "I have something I must tell you--I've no time to lose. I'm a desperate man!"

"You are," Paradine assented with a loud laugh, "oh, you are indeed! 'a desperate man.' Capital! a stern chase, eh? the schoolmaster close behind with the birch! It's quite exciting, you know, but, seriously, I'm very much afraid you'll catch it!"

"If," began Mr. Bultitude in great embarrassment, "if I was to tell you that I was not myself at all--but somebody else, a--in fact, an entirely different person from what I seem to you to be--I suppose you would laugh?"

"I beg your pardon," said his brother-in-law politely, "I don't think I quite catch the idea."

"When I assure you now, solemnly, as I stand here before you, that I am not the miserable boy whose form I am condemned to--to wear, you'll say it is incredible?"

"Not at all--by no means, I quite believe you. Only (really it's a mere detail), but I should rather like to know, if you're not that particular boy, what other boy you may happen to be. You'll forgive my curiosity."

"I'm not a boy at all--I'm your own unhappy brother-in-law, Paul! You don't believe me, I see."

"Oh, pardon me, it's perfectly clear! you're not your own son, but your own father--it's a little confusing at first, but no doubt common enough. I'm glad you mentioned it, though."

"Go on," said Paul bitterly, "make light of it--you fancy you are being very clever, but you will find out the truth in time!"

"Not without external assistance, I'm afraid," said Paradine calmly. "A more awful little liar for your age I never saw!"

"I'm tired of this," said Paul. "Only listen to reason and common sense!"

"Only give me a chance."

"I tell you," protested Paul earnestly, "it's the sober awful truth--I'm not a boy, it's years since I was a boy--I'm a middle-aged man, thrust into this, this humiliating form."

"Don't say that," murmured the other; "it's an excellent fit--very becoming, I assure you."

"Do you want to drive me mad with your clumsy jeers?" cried Paul. "Look at me. Do I speak, do I behave, like an ordinary schoolboy?"

"I really hope not--for the sake of the rising generation," said Uncle Marmaduke, chuckling at his own powers of repartee.

"You are very jaunty to-day--you look as if you were well off," said Paul slowly. "I remember a time when a certain bill was presented to me, drawn by you, and appearing to be accepted (long before I ever saw it) by me. I consented to meet it for my poor Maria's sake, and because to disown my signature would have ruined you for life. Do you remember how you went down on your knees in my private room and swore you would reform and be a credit to your family yet? You weren't quite so well off, or so jaunty then, unless I am very much mistaken."