Part 70

These words had an extraordinary effect upon Uncle Marmaduke; he turned ashy white, and his quick eyes shifted restlessly as he half rose from his chair and threw away his unfinished cigar.

"You young hound!" he said, breathing hard and speaking under his breath. "How did you get hold of that--that lying story? Your father must have let it out! Why do you bring up bygones like this? You--you're a confounded, disagreeable little prig! Who told you to play an ill-natured trick of this sort on an uncle, who may have been wild and reckless in his youth--was in fact--but who never, never misused his relation towards you as--as an uncle?"

"How did I get hold of the story?" said Paul, observing the impression he had made. "Do you think if I were really a boy of thirteen I should know as much about you as I do? Do you want to know more? Ask, if you dare! Shall I tell you how it was you left your army coach without going up for examination? Will you have the story of your career in my old friend Parkinson's counting-house, or the real reason of your trip to New York, or what it was that made your father add that codicil, cutting you off with a set of engravings of the 'Rake's Progress,' and a guinea to pay for framing them? I can tell you all about it, if you care to hear."

"No!" shrieked Paradine, "I won't listen. When you grow up, ask your father to buy you a cheap Society journal. You're cut out for an editor of one. It doesn't interest me."

"Do you believe my story or not?" asked Paul.

"I don't know. Who could believe it?" said the other sullenly. "How can you possibly account for it?"

"Do you remember giving Maria a little sandal-wood box with a small stone in it?" said Paul.

"I have some recollection of giving her something of that kind. A curiosity, wasn't it?"

"I wish I had never seen it. That infernal stone, Paradine, has done all this to me. Did no one tell you it was supposed to have any magic power?"

"Why, now I think of it, that old black rascal, Bindabun Doss, did try to humbug me with some such story; said it was believed to be a talisman, but the secret was lost. I thought it was just his stingy way of trying to make the rubbish out as something priceless, as it ought to have been, considering all I did for the old ruffian."

"You told Maria it was a talisman. Bindabun what's-his-name was right. It is a talisman of the deadliest sort. I'll soon convince you, if you will only hear me out."

And then, in white-hot wrath and indignation, Mr. Bultitude began to tell the story I have already attempted to sketch here, dwelling bitterly on Dick's heartless selfishness and cruelty, and piteously on his own incredible sufferings, while Uncle Marmaduke, lolling back in his armchair with an attempt (which was soon abandoned) to retain a smile of amused scepticism on his face, heard him out in complete silence and with all due gravity.

Indeed, Paul's manner left him no room for further unbelief. His tale, wild and improbable as it was, was too consistent and elaborate for any schoolboy to have invented, and, besides, the imposture would have been so entirely purposeless.

When his brother-in-law had come to the end of his sad history, Paradine was silent for some time. It was some relief to know that the darkest secrets of his life had not been ferreted out by a phenomenally sharp nephew; but the change in the situation was not without its drawbacks--it remained to be seen how it might affect himself. He already saw his reign in Westbourne Terrace threatened with a speedy determination unless he played his cards well.

"Well," he said at last, with a swift, keen glance at Paul, who sat anxiously waiting for his next words; "suppose I were to say that I think there may be something in this story of yours, what then? What is it you want me to do for you?"

"Why," said Paul, "with all you owe to me, now you know the horrible injustice I have had to bear, you surely don't mean to say that you won't help me to right myself?"

"And if I did help you, what then?"

"Why, I should be able to recover all I have lost, of course," said Mr. Bultitude. He thought his brother-in-law had grown very dull.

"Ah, but I mean, what's to become of me?"

"You?" repeated Paul (he had not thought of that). "Well, hum, from what I know and what you know that I know about your past life, you can't expect me to encourage you to remain here?"

"No," said Uncle Marmaduke. "Of course not; very right and proper."

"But," said Paul, willing to make all reasonable concessions, "anything I can do to advance your prospects--such as paying your passage out to New York, you know, and so on--I should be very ready to do."

"Thank you!" said the other.

"And even, if necessary, provide you with a small fund to start afresh upon--honestly," said Paul; "you will not find me difficult to deal with."

"It's a dazzling proposition," remarked Paradine drily. "You have such an alluring way of putting things. But the fact, is, you'll hardly believe it, but I'm remarkably well off here. I am indeed. Your son, you know, though not you (except as a mere matter of form), really makes, as they say of the marmalade in the advertisements, an admirable substitute. I doubt, I do assure you, whether you yourself would have received me with quite the same warmth and hospitality I have met with from him."

"So do I," said Paul; "very much."

"Just so; for, without your admirable business capacity and extraordinary firmness of character, you know, he has, if you'll excuse my saying so, a more open guileless nature, a more entire and touching faith in his fellow-man and brother-in-law, than were ever yours."

"To say that to me," said Paul hotly, "is nothing less than sheer impudence."