IN our small lives that day was eventful when another uncle was to
come down from town, and submit his character and qualifications
(albeit unconsciously) to our careful criticism. Earlier uncles had
been weighed in the balance, and—alas!—found grievously wanting. There
was Uncle Thomas—a failure from the first. Not that his disposition
was malevolent, nor were his habits such as to unfit him for decent
society; but his rooted conviction seemed to be that the reason
of a child’s existence was to serve as a butt for senseless adult
jokes—or what, from the accompanying guffaws of laughter, appeared
to be intended for jokes. Now, we were anxious that he should have
a perfectly fair trial; so in the tool-house, between breakfast and
lessons, we discussed and examined all his witticisms one by one,
calmly, critically, dispassionately. It was no good: we could not
discover any salt in them. And as only a genuine gift of humour could
have saved Uncle Thomas—for he pretended to naught besides—he was
reluctantly writ down a hopeless impostor.
Uncle George—the youngest—was distinctly more promising. He accompanied
us cheerily round the establishment—suffered himself to be introduced
to each of the cows—held out the right hand of fellowship to the
pig—and even hinted that a pair of pink-eyed Himalayan rabbits might
arrive—unexpectedly—from town some day. We were just considering
whether in this fertile soil an apparently accidental remark on the
solid qualities of guinea-pigs or ferrets might haply blossom and
bring forth fruit, when our governess appeared on the scene. Uncle
George’s manner at once underwent a complete and contemptible change.
His interest in rational topics seemed, ‘like a fountain’s sickening
pulse,’ to flag and ebb away; and though Miss Smedley’s ostensible
purpose was to take Selina for her usual walk, I can vouch for it that
Selina spent her morning ratting, along with the keeper’s boy and me;
while if Miss Smedley walked with any one, it would appear to have been
with Uncle George.
But, despicable as his conduct had been, he underwent no hasty
condemnation. The defection was discussed in all its bearings, but
it seemed sadly clear at last that this uncle must possess some
innate badness of character and fondness for low company. We who
from daily experience knew Miss Smedley like a book—were we not only
too well aware that she had neither accomplishments nor charms—no
characteristic, in fact, but an inbred viciousness of temper and
disposition? True, she knew the dates of the English kings by heart;
but how could that profit Uncle George, who, having passed into the
army, had ascended beyond the need of useful information? Our bows and
arrows, on the other hand, had been freely placed at his disposal;
and a soldier should not have hesitated in his choice a moment. No:
Uncle George had fallen from grace, and was unanimously damned. And
the non-arrival of the Himalayan rabbits was only another nail in his
coffin. Uncles, therefore, were just then a heavy and lifeless market,
and there was little inclination to deal. Still it was agreed that
Uncle William, who had just returned from India, should have as fair a
trial as the others; more especially as romantic possibilities might
well be embodied in one who had held the gorgeous East in fee.
Selina had kicked my shins—like the girl she is!—during a scuffle in
the passage, and I was still rubbing them with one hand when I found
that the uncle-on-approbation was half-heartedly shaking the other. A
florid, elderly man, quite unmistakably nervous, he let drop one grimy
paw after another, and, turning very red, with an awkward simulation
of heartiness, ‘Well, h’are y’all?’ he said, ‘Glad to see me, eh?’ As
we could hardly, in justice, be expected to have formed an opinion on
him at that early stage, we could but look at each other in silence;
which scarce served to relieve the tension of the situation. Indeed,
the cloud never really lifted during his stay. In talking things over
later, some one put forward the suggestion that he must at some time or
other have committed a stupendous crime. But I could not bring myself
to believe that the man, though evidently unhappy, was really guilty
of anything; and I caught him once or twice looking at us with evident
kindliness, though, seeing himself observed, he blushed and turned away
his head.
When at last the atmosphere was clear of his depressing influence, we
met despondently in the potato-cellar—all of us, that is, but Harold,
who had been told off to accompany his relative to the station; and the
feeling was unanimous, that, as an uncle, William could not be allowed
to pass. Selina roundly declared him a beast, pointing out that he
had not even got us a half-holiday; and, indeed, there seemed little
to do but to pass sentence. We were about to put it to the vote, when
Harold appeared on the scene; his red face, round eyes, and mysterious
demeanour, hinting at awful portents. Speechless he stood a space:
then, slowly drawing his hand from the pocket of his knickerbockers,
he displayed on a dirty palm one—two—three—four half-crowns! We could
but gaze—tranced, breathless, mute. Never had any of us seen, in the
aggregate, so much bullion before. Then Harold told his tale.
[Illustration: “WHEN AT LAST THE ATMOSPHERE WAS CLEAR OF HIS DEPRESSING
INFLUENCE, WE MET DESPONDENTLY IN THE POTATO-CELLAR”]
‘I took the old fellow to the station,’ he said, ‘and as we went
along I told him all about the stationmaster’s family, and how I had
seen the porter kissing our housemaid, and what a nice fellow he was,
with no airs or affectation about him, and anything I thought would
be of interest; but he didn’t seem to pay much attention, but walked
along puffing his cigar, and once I thought—I’m not certain, but I
_thought_—I heard him say, “Well, thank God, that’s over!” When we
got to the station he stopped suddenly, and said, “Hold on a minute!”
Then he shoved these into my hand in a frightened sort of way, and
said, “Look here, youngster! These are for you and the other kids. Buy
what you like—make little beasts of yourselves—only don’t tell the old
people, mind! Now cut away home!” So I cut.’
A solemn hush fell on the assembly, broken first by the small
Charlotte. ‘I didn’t know,’ she observed dreamily, ‘that there were
such good men anywhere in the world. I hope he’ll die to-night, for
then he’ll go straight to heaven!’ But the repentant Selina bewailed
herself with tears and sobs, refusing to be comforted; for that in her
haste she had called this white-souled relative a beast.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Edward, the master-mind, rising—as
he always did—to the situation: ‘We’ll christen the piebald pig after
him—the one that hasn’t got a name yet. And that’ll show we’re sorry
for our mistake!’
‘I—I christened that pig this morning,’ Harold guiltily confessed; ‘I
christened it after the curate. I’m very sorry—but he came and bowled
to me last night, after you others had all been sent to bed early—and
somehow I felt I _had_ to do it!’
‘Oh, but that doesn’t count,’ said Edward hastily; ‘because we weren’t
all there. We’ll take that christening off, and call it Uncle William.
And you can save up the curate for the next litter!’
And the motion being agreed to without a division, the House went into
Committee of Supply.
[Illustration]