BURGO'S VIGIL.
Sir Everard, leaning on Vallance's arm, came down to dinner in due
course, looking, Burgo thought, even more frail and feeble in his
dress clothes than in the morning suit he had worn earlier in the day.
His appetite was of the poorest, and it was evidently more by way of
keeping the others company than for anything he partook of himself
that he sat down at table. Greatly to the relief of Burgo, who began
to fear that he might be condemned, later in the evening, to a
_tête-à-tête_ with Lady Clinton (who, not improbably, was beset by a
similar fear), the party was made up at the last moment to a quartette
in the person of Signora Dusanti, the widow of a well-known musical
conductor. The signora, who herself was no mean musician, and had
been a popular teacher before her marriage, was now a middle-aged,
plain-featured woman, but with an expression of amiability and good
sense which at once impressed Mr. Brabazon in her favour. It appeared
that she and Lady Clinton had known each other in years gone by, and
that the signora had come to stay for a couple of days in Great
Mornington Street previously to her final departure for Italy.
After dinner it was a matter of course that there should be music in
the drawing-room; indeed, the evening was given up to it, her ladyship
being evidently bent on utilising her friend's talents to the utmost
while the opportunity of doing so was afforded her. It may here be
remarked that, while merely a third-rate but facile executant, Lady
Clinton had a cultivated voice, and sang with taste and _brio_. It was
the only accomplishment for which she cared, or professed to care.
At ten o'clock Sir Everard retired. As he told his nephew with a
smile, he had not sat up till so late an hour he hardly knew when. It
had already been proposed by the baronet, and assented to by Lady
Clinton in the most amiable manner possible, that, so long as Burgo
should remain in Great Mornington Street, or so long as the necessity
should continue, he should take on himself the task of watching by his
uncle during the night, which her ladyship had heretofore refused to
delegate to anybody. It was not that there was any occasion to sit and
watch by Sir Everard's bedside throughout the night; he was not so ill
as to necessitate any such service; it was merely that Dr. Hoskins
considered it essential that his medicine should be administered to
him at certain stated hours, provided he were not asleep at the time,
in which case the dose must be given him as soon as he should have
awakened of his own accord. Lady Clinton smilingly admitted to Burgo
that the duty had at length become so automatic to her that she could
sleep "like a top" between whiles, and yet always wake up within five
minutes of the time her services were required.
Mr. Brabazon having bidden good-night to Lady Clinton and the signora
(her ladyship had made it a special request that he should not wait up
on their account), was introduced by Vallance to his new quarters. The
baronet's bedroom was a spacious apartment with three doors, the first
opening into the corridor, the second into a commodious dressing-room,
and the third giving access to Lady Clinton's apartments. In the
bedroom was a couch, and in the dressing-room a chair bedstead, Burgo
having the choice of either, on which to take such rest as he might
feel inclined for. On an occasional table near Sir Everard's bed were
placed his medicines, a _carafe_ of water, and a small decanter of
brandy, together with sundry glasses of different shapes and sizes.
Should he be awake at those times, his medicine was to be given him at
one, four, and seven o'clock respectively. A night-light burnt on the
chimney-piece, making the room a home for grotesque shadows, and
imparting to the features of the sleeping man the waxen wanness of
those of a corpse. Indeed, so startled was Burgo when his eyes first
rested on his uncle's face that he bent over him and listened for his
breathing before he could satisfy himself that he was really alive.
The dressing-room, which also had a door opening into the corridor,
was lighted with gas, and Burgo noted with satisfaction the presence
of a big easy-chair which seemed made on purpose to lounge in and read
novels. The nights were too warm for there to be any need for a fire.
In the course of the evening he had sent to his lodgings for his
dressing-case and a portmanteau of linen and clothes, and having
selected two or three volumes from the library before coming upstairs,
as soon as he could get rid of Vallance, he proceeded to settle
himself for the night. He had discarded his boots for a pair of canvas
shoes, and had put on an old shooting-coat, and in place of a stiff
collar had swathed his throat with a soft shawl. By this it was a
quarter-past eleven, so that he had still nearly two hours to wait
before it would be time for Sir Everard to take his first draught.
After satisfying himself that his uncle still slept, he turned up the
gas in the dressing-room, and settled himself with a book in the
easy-chair. But he found it impossible to read. So many strange things
had happened to him in the course of the day that he could not help
going over them again one by one with the object of arranging them
more coherently in his mind than he had yet found an opportunity of
doing. He was still engaged thus when he became aware of a low tapping
at the door which gave access to the corridor. He crossed to it on
tiptoe, opened it, and found himself face to face with Lady Clinton.
She was no longer resplendent in heliotrope velvet, with necklace and
tiara of diamonds and pearls, but swathed in an ample pale blue
_peignoir_ of soft Indian silk, trimmed with swansdown, and it
would have puzzled Burgo to decide in which of the two she looked
the more _ravissante_. In either case she was what he termed her to
himself--"a splendid creature."
"I hope I have not disturbed you," she whispered. "I tried to tap as
gently as possible, and if you had not heard me I should at once have
gone back to my room. I thought I should like to satisfy myself before
finally retiring that dear Sir Everard is likely to have a good night,
for you must know, Mr. Brabazon, that there are nights when he is very
restless, and tosses and turns for hours together." All this was
spoken in a low and rapid whisper.
"I am happy to inform you, madam, that my uncle is still sleeping
soundly, as he was at the time Vallance left him in my charge,"
replied Burgo in a voice little raised above her own.
"In that case I am satisfied. I leave him in your hands with every
confidence. And so, for the second time, _buona notte_. It would be
absurd to wish you pleasant dreams, because I understand that you
propose to yourself to keep awake throughout the night."
"That is certainly my intention."
"You shall tell me in the morning whether Morpheus did not succeed in
taking you unawares, as he has a trick of doing with all of us.
Vallance has instructions to relieve you at seven o'clock." And with a
smile and a nod she was gone.
His thoughts turned persistently to Lady Clinton, to the exclusion
of everything else, after she was gone. Her manner of receiving him,
her smiling cordiality, her instant acquiescence in everything
proposed by her husband, had evidently been as great a surprise to the
latter--possibly a greater--as it had been to him. No simple maiden in
her teens could have been more seemingly candid and ingenuous than was
this woman of three husbands. But was she not overdoing it somewhat?
Did not her very persistence in posing as a woman who had no will of
her own, as one to whom her husband's whims were law, lay her open to
suspicions which might never have germinated had she not accepted what
to her, metaphorically speaking, could seem nothing less than a slap
on the face, with the manner of one wholly unconscious that she had
received a slight at her husband's hands? Was it not a little "too
thin," Burgo asked himself? He felt, in his own despite, that to a
certain extent she fascinated him, and now that he had seen more of
her, seen her in one of her more gracious and captivating moods, he no
longer wondered greatly that his uncle should have succumbed to her
witcheries. It seemed to him that very few men whom she might
deliberately set herself to captivate would be able to hold out
against her in the long run, even although they might have been
prejudiced against her in the beginning. If he credited himself with
being one of the few on whom her fascinations would have been wasted,
it merely goes to prove that he had not yet gauged the extent of his
own fallibility where a charming and determined woman was concerned.
Just then he felt a little bitter against the sex, and was inclined to
believe that the experience he had lately gone through would serve him
as armour of proof against their sorceries for all time to come.
And yet, while admitting to the full Lady Clinton's powers of
fascination, he told himself, almost in the next breath, that there
was an indefinable something about her which had for him a certain
repellent force. Nor did he fail to call to mind that on the first
occasion of his seeing her there was an expression in her eyes which
at once served to warn him against her. The same expression had struck
him unpleasantly again to-day, only to-day it was far less markedly
observable than before. It was as though it had been temporarily
veiled with a shining film of amiability and smiling good humour,
which, however, could not wholly hide a sinister something which lay
darkling below.
Now that he was no longer under the influence of her ladyship's
presence, now that he could harden himself against her by calling to
mind all that he had lost and gone through as the result of her
machinations against him, and when his uncle's ominous words recurred
to him: "Sometimes--God help me!--I fear for my life," he felt it
impossible to come to any other conclusion than that her ladyship was
a very dangerous woman, and that he would be a fool to allow himself
for one moment to be hoodwinked by her. Judging from what had gone
before, it seemed clear that the chief object she had in view was to
create an irreparable breach between himself and his uncle, and if for
the moment, and that only by a pure accident, her scheme had been
foiled, it would be nothing less than fatuous to imagine she had
therefore given it up. "The more she smiles, and the more amiable she
looks, the more she is to be feared," was Burgo's final summing-up of
the affair.
One o'clock came almost before he was aware of it. So far the time had
passed swiftly, and yet he had not read a page. He got up and passed
lightly into the other room. He had done so twice before, each time to
find his uncle still sleeping as calmly as a little child. Nor was he
yet awake. But while Burgo was still standing by his bedside, looking
down upon him and saying to himself: "Is this mysterious illness, this
sudden break-up of his constitution, due to natural causes, or is
there a hidden hand at the bottom of it?" Sir Everard opened his eyes.
For a moment or two he stared up at Burgo as he might have done at a
stranger; then there came a flash of recognition. "You! my boy," he
exclaimed. "I've been dreaming about you. So glad!--so glad!" Then he
held out both his bands. "Help me to sit up," he added.
No sooner had he been helped into a sitting position than he began to
cast apprehensive glances, first on one side of the bed, and then on
the other. "You are sure she is not in the room?" he whispered.
"Who--her ladyship?" Sir Everard nodded. "No; there is no one here but
our two selves," replied Burgo.
"No one behind the curtains, eh?" The bed was of the kind termed
Arabian, with a canopy and curtains at the head of it.
"You and I are alone in the room, uncle, I assure you."
"And that door is close shut?" pointing to the one which led to his
wife's apartments, the _portière_ covering which, just then, was only
half drawn.
Burgo crossed the room and satisfied himself on the point. Half hidden
as it was by the _portière_, it might have been open for the space of
an inch or two without his being aware of it. He pressed it lightly
with his hand. "It is close shut," he said, as he went back, and
therewith he proceeded to pour into a glass his uncle's prescribed
dose of medicine and add to it the requisite quantity of water. Sir
Everard drank it off without a word, but not without the silent
protest of a wry face.
After that he lay back for a little while with closed eyes, his lips
moving silently as though he were communing with himself. Then opening
his eyes and seeing Burgo standing by his bedside, he took hold of one
of his hands and pressed it in both his own. "Do you know, my boy," he
said, "I feel stronger, better, and brighter in every way to-night
than I have any time during the last three weeks."
"I need scarcely assure you, uncle, how glad it makes me to hear you
say so. From what you tell me, I presume that your worst times are
during the night."
"It is nearly always at night that my attacks come on--not every
night, mind you--no, no--if they did I should soon have to be measured
for my coffin, but it may be three or four times in the course of a
week."
"Do you suffer much pain at those times?"
"The attacks are of two kinds. But it's not the painful bouts I dread
most."
"What is the nature of your other attacks?"
"A feverish restlessness which effectually banishes sleep. Hour after
hour I toss and turn, trying first one position and then another,
seeking rest, but nowhere finding it. At such times I have no absolute
pain. It is as if a slow fire were smouldering in my veins and
gradually drying up every drop of moisture in my body. When morning
breaks I feel as weak and helpless as a newborn child, and at such
times I say to myself, 'I hope I shall not live to see another dawn.'"
"This is terrible. And such nights as those you speak of are
interspersed with others of a more painful kind?"
"That is so. But, as I said before, although the cramp spasms are
pretty stiff at times, I contrive to bear them with tolerable
equanimity. They don't exhaust me nearly so much as the other attacks
do."
"Would it not be more satisfactory (pardon the question) if you were
to seek further medical advice--a second opinion, I mean?"
"It will be time enough to do that when Hoskins himself suggests it.
No man stands higher in his profession than he, and I have every
confidence in him."
"That may be, sir, but the simple question remains--does he understand
your case?"
"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.
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.