Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

"Then, for calm, Miss Roylance, your perspicacity is at fault," retorted Burgo, laughingly. "Just then my thoughts were far differently engaged, I assure you."

She knew that as well as he--she had read it in his eyes--but she was not going to let him think so. "Perhaps, as there is no place to stand it on but the floor, you will take charge of my lamp for me during the very few minutes to which my stay must be limited."

This brought them closer together than they had yet been, and so enabled Burgo to scan more clearly the features of his fair visitor, framed as they now were by the aperture in the door.

And fair she undoubtedly was, her complexion by that half-light giving her features the appearance of being carved out of ivory; but never, except in some rare moments of excitement, did more than the faintest tinge of colour glow through the clear pallor of her cheeks. But it was the pallor of perfect health, as no one with eyes to see could doubt, although Miss Roylance did walk with a crutch.

She had blue-gray eyes, large and luminous, in which, sometimes as in a mirror, her every changing mood and emotion would be faithfully reflected--but only sometimes. Hard necessity--the atmosphere of falsehood and double-dealing, in which a considerable part of her young life had been spent--had taught her how to discharge her eyes of all expression without detracting in any degree from their brilliancy. At such times they betrayed nothing. An impalpable film seemed to have been drawn over their inner depths. You gazed into them, and you beheld there--yourself.

Miss Roylance's hair, of which she had a great quantity, was of the colour of dead gold. There were some people who went so far as to call it red, which merely went to prove, either that they were partially colour-blind, or else that they belonged to that unpleasant but numerous class of people with whom envy and detraction go hand-in-hand. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were some shades darker than her hair--of the darkest chestnut they might be termed--and claimed to be clearly-defined items in the ensemble of her features.

But of her face, as a whole, what shall be said? Merely that it owed whatever charm it possessed--and for many people it had a quite peculiar charm--less to any chiselled contour of features, or to any depth and glow of colour, than to its expression of mingled sweetness and decision, and to the conviction which forced itself upon you that here was a nature at once tender and strong, into whose safe keeping a man might entrust his heart (if only she could be persuaded into accepting it) with the absolute certainty that his trust would never be betrayed. And yet there were times, and those by no means infrequent, when the spirit of mirth played round her lips, and the spirit of mischief peeped out of her eyes. She was only twenty, and although her experience had been a rather uncommon one, she was still in some things a mere girl. Finally, her figure was tall and slender, and but for the deformity of which mention has been made, would have been deemed more than ordinarily graceful.

There was one reason far outweighing all others which had caused Burgo to look forward with a mixture of longing and anxiety to Miss Roylance's promised visit, and he could now keep back no longer the question which sprang to his lips. "I hope, Miss Roylance, that you have brought me some news of my uncle," were his first words after he had taken the lamp from her hand. "Is he better, or is he worse? I cannot convey to you how anxious I am to hear how he is progressing."

Her face at once became charged with sympathy. "I am afraid, Mr. Brabazon, that such news of your uncle as I can give you is not of a very encouraging kind. I have now been nearly a month at Garion Keep, and although I do not think that Sir Everard is any worse than he was the first time I saw him, unless it be that he is a shade weaker, I cannot conscientiously say that he seems to me any better. But then he fluctuates so from day to day that it is difficult to tell. Some days he is comparatively brisk and cheerful, and will be wheeled about the grounds in his chair, or sit out on the lawn, for a couple of hours at a time; while there are other days on which he never leaves his room."

"It is that slow, sure, yet all but imperceptible access of weakness which is to be dreaded more than anything. By-and-by a day will come when--but I will say no more on that point. I have no doubt Lady Clinton continues to be what she has been all along--the most attentive and devoted of nurses."