Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

There was one very pertinent question which Burgo did not fail to put to himself, namely, "What change is there in me, what have I done between the date of my first interview with her ladyship and now, to cause her so radically to reverse her tactics towards me? She was as undoubtedly hostile to me then as she undoubtedly wishes me to believe her my friend now. Why this extraordinary volte-face? There must be a motive at the bottom of it; what is that motive?" He could only shake his head, and murmur, "Ma chère tante, what your little game is I don't in the least profess to know, but I believe you to be a snake in the grass, and a venomous one to boot, and I decline to trust you farther than I can see you."

He had time enough and to spare in which to turn these and sundry other matters over in his mind during his long hours of watching.

On this third morning he found his coffee and rusks waiting for him as usual on reaching his own room. The rusks he left untouched, but the coffee he drank off almost at a draught. It was nearly broad daylight outside, but the curtains were closely drawn so as to exclude it, and a couple of candles were alight on the dressing-table. After swallowing his coffee he sat down to smoke "just one" cigarette before turning in. As he lay back in his chair watching the grey spirals of smoke curl slowly upward, his thoughts reverted to a subject which had engaged them more than once already. Not a word had escaped Sir Everard with reference to that first interview between his nephew and Lady Clinton, and yet it was absurd to suppose that the arrangement was not of his own making, although probably due to his wife's instigation, or that the result of it had not been made known to him in due course. The cheque had been of his own making out, and that it had been scornfully rejected and torn up by his nephew was a feature of the affair which there could be little doubt her ladyship would be only too pleased to paint for his behoof in the most exaggerated colours. And yet he had never so much as alluded to the affair. It could not be that he had forgotten it. For anything Burgo had seen to the contrary his memory was nearly as good as ever it had been. What, then, could be the reason of his silence? Was it possible that her ladyship had stated the case as against Burgo in far blacker terms than the facts warranted, and that as a consequence Sir Everard was waiting for his nephew to apologise? But Burgo, feeling that he had nothing to apologise for, and that, in point of fact, he was the person chiefly aggrieved, had already made up his mind that if the subject were to be broached at all, his uncle must be the one to take the initiative. Perhaps, in the course of a day or two, Sir Everard might bring himself to speak of it. Well, in that case he, Burgo, would be quite prepared to--what was it he would be prepared to do? (The thread of his argument had unaccountably escaped him.) Why, to defend his own action in the--in the what? (How stupid of him!) Why, in the affair, of course. Yes, yes--that was it. He would be quite prepared to----

Where was he? What had come over him? His eyelids felt as if they were being pressed down by invisible fingers; every limb seemed weighted with lead; a deadly numbness had taken hold on all his faculties--never had he felt like it before. Was he going to be ill? Had some fever got a grip of him? Was he--was he----But at this point his brain refused to do his further bidding. He rose to his feet somehow and stood for a few moments with his hands pressed to his head, swaying about like a drunken man. Then, with his arms outstretched, as though to help him to balance himself, he staggered across the floor, and falling prone along the bed, remembered nothing more.

When he awoke to consciousness he knew neither where he was nor what had happened to him. The first thing he was aware of, and it probably helped to recall him fully to himself, was that he had a splitting headache. It was a dull continuous throbbing, as though some piece of clockwork in his brain were marking off each second as it passed. He strained his eyes and he strained his ears, but the darkness and silence were intense--profound. He stretched out his arms and cast about with his fingers, and presently made out that he was lying fully dressed on his back on a bed--so much was certain. He must take that as a starting-point and work mentally backward. What was the last thing he could remember? It was a question not to be answered off-hand, more especially when a man's skull seemed to be opening and shutting twenty times a minute. When he tried to think he seemed to be groping in a fog as thick as wool. The last thing he---- Ah! now he had it. It was---- No, it had escaped him. He shut his eyes tight and pressed his burning head between his hands, which, strange to say, were cold and clammy. He lay thus immovable for some minutes, chasing through vacant caverns and tortuous passages a will-o'-the-wisp which still eluded him.

The last thing he could remember! He kept murmuring the words under his breath. And then suddenly it was revealed to him in a dazzling flash, and the same instant he sprang up in bed. Yes, every incident, down to the most trifling, arranged itself in order before him. He saw himself, as though it were another he was looking at, leave his uncle's room and make his way yawningly, and with hands deep buried in his pockets, to his own room. The curtains were drawn, the candles alight, his coffee and rusks in readiness for him. The latter he did not touch; but he was thirsty, and he swallowed the coffee gratefully at one long draught. He called to mind that the bed had looked very inviting, but that the temptation of a cigarette had proved too much for him. Then, a few minutes later, there had crept over him a strange leaden numbness and lethargy, both of mind and body, the like of which he had never experienced before. He had stood up, dazed and stupified, had staggered across the floor, and flung himself on the bed, and then had followed an absolute blank.

Yes, he saw it all now. His coffee had been drugged! No other explanation was possible. Of what devilish plot had he been made the victim? And what black purpose lurked at the bottom of it?

He stood up, feeling faint and giddy, and had to steady himself for a few moments by gripping the ironwork of the bedstead, before he durst venture to stir. Then he groped his way carefully and slowly, like a blind man, till he reached the window and drew aside the curtains. In the street outside the darkness was absolute; a thick fog pressed softly against the window, and wholly absorbed the light from the lamp over the way.

"It was seven o'clock in the morning when I quitted my uncle's room," muttered Burgo, "so that I must have slept through one day, and far into the next night." Then he took out his watch and put it to his ear. It had stopped for want of winding up. Evidently the thing most needed was a light. He called to mind that after lighting his cigarette, he had placed his silver matchbox on the table close by where he was sitting. He now groped his way from the window to the table in search of the box, but nowhere could he find it. Then he proceeded to search his pockets, but to no avail. Had the box been purposely removed in case he should wake up in the dark and want to strike a light? Nothing seemed more likely.

He now made his way to the door, only to find that he was locked in; but, judging from what had happened to him already, he had expected nothing less. He had been drugged, and was now a prisoner; all he could do was to wait with such patience as was possible to him for the break of day.