Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

"I am inclined to believe that there are certain features about it which puzzle him in some measure."

"Then why not----?"

"No, no, my boy, not another word on that score. Did I not say that I was satisfied? If Hoskins can't do me any good, nobody can."

For a little space silence reigned in the room. Sir Everard was still holding Burgo's hand, which the latter took as a sign that he did not want him to go, or to be left alone.

"My brain must be softening," resumed the sick man after a time. "I seem to be continually losing my reckoning. Your memory is doubtless better than mine. What day of the week and month is this?"

Burgo told him.

"So! I thought the year was at least a fortnight older than that. I shall not die till after the 12th of October. I shall live to see my sixty-fourth birthday." He spoke the words as if to himself. Burgo felt nearly sure that his uncle was unaware he had spoken aloud.

Nothing more was said. A minute later Sir Everard's hold of his nephew's hand relaxed. He had dropped off to sleep. Burgo went back to his easy-chair in the dressing-room.

Six Everard's last words, uttered half unconsciously, had struck a chill to his heart. What did they portend? What meaning save one could they have? He had by no means forgotten what "old Garden" had told him--that if his uncle should live to see his sixty-fourth birthday, he would inherit the legacy of £15,000 bequeathed him by his cousin, the eccentric Mrs. Macdona. Coupling this fact with the words last spoken by his uncle, it seemed to Burgo that but one conclusion could be deduced therefrom, to wit, that the baronet, unknown to his own lawyer, had made a will in which the whole, or the greater part of whatever he might die possessed of, was left to his wife, and that, consequently, if he outlived his sixty-fourth birthday, Mrs. Macdona's legacy would come into the settlement. Therefore was there a very potent reason why his lamp of life, however low it might now seem to burn, should not be allowed to flicker out till the 12th of October should have come and gone. After that, who could say what might not happen? Even now was not the ground being prepared? Was not the plot developing itself slowly but surely towards a preordained end? Were not his uncle's mysterious illness and gradually growing feebleness but the skilfully arranged stepping-stones to a conclusion long determined on, so that, when at length the end came, it would seem to all concerned merely the natural, but inevitable outcome of all that had gone before? Oh, if it were indeed so, as Sir Everard's own words seemed to clearly imply, it was horrible--horrible!

What was to be done? What could be done? As far as Burgo could see--nothing. It was true that he was here, under his uncle's roof, and that unlimited access to the sick man had been granted him by Lady Clinton, with an absence of any apparent arrière pensèe, which, considering the circumstances, was in itself suspicious; but what then? He could not be by his uncle's side through every hour of the day and night. Sir Everard must be waited on and have his medicine measured out for him by other hands than those of his nephew, and whatever nefarious design might be afoot, could be persevered in and carried out to the tragic finale despite all Burgo's vigilance. His hands were tied; he was bound and helpless; and Lady Clinton knew it far better than he. When she found that circumstances had brought uncle and nephew together again, she had doubtless seen her way to treat the circumstance as one of little or no consequence--perhaps even to turn it to account for her own purposes. Should Sir Everard die, it might be to her advantage to be able to point to the fact that his nephew had helped to nurse him; besides which, Mr. Brabazon would be one witness the more to her own untiring devotion in the dual rôle of wife and nurse.