Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

"Upon my word, I don't think I ever was," laughed Burgo. "By-the-by, have you any idea when my uncle is coming home?"

"Not the remotest."

With that Burgo took his leave.

Next day the schedule of his liabilities was duly made out and despatched, after which Burgo did his best to dismiss the subject from his mind.

Clara Leslie dwelt much in his thoughts about this time. He never smoked a pipe alone in his rooms without seeming to see her face shining on him through the smoke wreaths. That he was deeply in love with her he had not the slightest doubt, but he was not quite so certain how much she cared for him in return. True, there had not been wanting tokens which told him that he was not wholly indifferent to her, but between liking and love there is often a wide chasm, and although that chasm may be, and often is, bridged over, it is not always so; and in this case the cold winds of absence would doubtless do their best to extinguish any tiny flame of love which might perchance have been kindled in Miss Leslie's bosom. Among hundreds of strange faces and a perpetual change of scene, how could he hope that his image would continue to dwell in her memory? And yet--and yet she had not repulsed him that evening when he took her hand and spoke certain words to her in the conservatory; there had even been something in her manner, or he dreamed so, which led him to believe that, had they not been interrupted at that particular moment, no repulse need have been feared by him. This thought it was, and this alone, that made sweet his solitary musings.

About a fortnight after his visit to Mr. Garden, Burgo received a note from that gentleman informing him that the whole of his debts, as specified in the schedule rendered by him, had been paid in full. Burgo gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction as he laid down the lawyer's note. A great weight had been lifted off his mind. He hesitated as to whether he ought not to write a few words of thanks to his uncle, but ultimately decided that he would await Sir Everard's arrival in town, and then thank him in person. It was characteristic of him that next day he should call upon his tailor and his bootmaker, and one or two other tradesmen, and thoroughly replenish his wardrobe. It was not so much that there was any real necessity for his doing so, as that the novelty of being out of debt caused him to feel slightly uncomfortable. He had not been used to it, and it did not seem right somehow. Besides, how is it possible for tradespeople to live unless they are liberally patronised?

One morning, as he was skimming through the newspapers at his club, Burgo was accosted by a voice which he had not heard for several months. There was no mistaking the rasping tones of Captain Cusden. "We have lost sight of you for several months," said Burgo, as soon as he had shaken hands with the new-comer--a man of fifty-five, who did his best to keep up an assumption of juvenility by consorting as much as possible with men thirty years younger than himself.

"Been trotting about the Continent with Aunt Jane, dear boy," answered Cusden, who wanted no encouragement to talk, as he drew a chair up. "Expectations and all that, you know. Must do one's duty. Awful hard work I found it, dear boy. Had to be on parade every morning at eight to the tick. Wonderful old lady! If I had to explore one church with her, I had to explore five hundred; if I was expected to admire one picture, I was expected to admire five thousand. Did it ever occur to you, dear boy, what a remarkable chap that Rubens must have been? Must have turned out a fresh picture every week of his life, by Jove if the catalogues are not telling flams. At last we got away from the Low Countries--very properly so called, dear boy--and when I found myself at Chamonix I began to breathe again. It was there, by the way, that I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a certain venerated relative of yours."

Burgo knocked the ash off his cigarette; then he said, quietly: "My uncle, I suppose, you mean?"

"Right you are, dear boy. Sir Everard and his bride." Here Cusden gave vent to a snigger, followed by a sharp sidelong glance at his companion; but that impassive individual was not so easily caught.