Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

All these things Burgo Brabazon apprehended clearly, but what he did not discern was a way by which his uncle could be extricated from the deadly net which too evidently was being woven about him. To broach the subject to him was out of the question so long as he had nothing but vague suspicions wherewith to back up his words. Neither could he repeat to his uncle those last words which the latter had let fall before dropping asleep, and ask him the meaning of them. It was quite evident that they had not been intended for his, Burgo's, ear. Clearly, it would be the height of folly to imperil his position under his uncle's roof by speaking of things about which he was supposed to know nothing, and which, it was just possible, might, after all, have no real basis of fact. All he could do just now was to watch and wait and keep a close tongue, while being especially careful not to give Lady Clinton any cause for suspecting that he saw more under the surface than it was intended he should see. Meanwhile he had time before him. Sir Everard himself had averred that his life was safe till the 12th of October should have come and gone.

At four o'clock the sick man was still sleeping. Burgo did not disturb him, but sat by his side and waited. It was nearly an hour later before he awoke. "I seem to have overslept my time," he said with a smile as he glanced at the clock on the chimney-piece, the figures of which were large enough for him to read as he lay in bed. "It's not often I do that. The difficulty with me is to get more than about half as much sleep as I should like. It seems strange to see you here, Burgo, my boy," he added, while the latter proceeded to pour out his medicine. "I'm so used to being waited upon through the night by my wife, that for a second or two after opening my eyes I could not put this and that together. Ugh! awfully nasty stuff this last mixture Hoskins has sent me," he added, as he gave the glass back to his nephew.

Lying back on his pillow, and speaking in the quiet, contemplative way of a man whose dictum is open to no dispute, he presently went on: "I think I have already told you what an affectionate wife and devoted nurse Giulia is. Yes. What would have become of me through all this wearying illness had it not been for her loving care and untiring sacrifice of herself to the needs and whims of her sick husband! But for her I should not be here now. It is she who has kept me alive. From the first she refused to let any hireling come between herself and me. How much I owe her I alone could tell."

Burgo stared, as well he might. What was he to think? What believe? Which mood of his uncle represented the real man? Could it be that his mind was failing him?--that no weight ought to be attached to anything he might give utterance to, and that his moods, in whatever direction they pointed, were merely those of the passing moment? Burgo found himself in a position at once perplexing and unsatisfactory.

But while he was asking himself these questions his uncle's eyelids drooped and closed, and a minute later his low regular breathing told that he was asleep.

As Burgo turned to leave the room he involuntarily started. He saw, or believed that he saw, a slight movement of the inner door, as though it might have been open for an inch or two, and suddenly closed at the instant he turned. He took no further notice, but walked straight out of the bedroom into the dressing-room. But, trivial as the incident was, he could not get it out of his mind. Had her ladyship been an unseen auditor of what had just passed between his uncle and himself? It was a question which, although he had no means of answering it, led up to another and a much more startling one: Had his uncle--for the senses of sick people are often almost preternaturally acute--become in some way aware that his wife was making an unseen third at the interview? and had he said what he did in praise of her with the deliberate intention that it should be overheard by her, and so serve to lull to sleep any suspicions which his nephew's presence under his roof might otherwise have given birth to?

Here was food enough for cogitation to last him till seven o'clock or longer, on the stroke of which hour the punctual Vallance knocked at the dressing-room door, and brought his first night's vigil to an end.

[CHAPTER X.]

A SLEEP AND AN AWAKING.

Burgo had not got as far as his own room before he was accosted by one of the servants. "Lady Clinton's compliments, and would Mr. Brabazon like a little light breakfast at once?"