DACIA ROYLANCE.
Time went on till a week had gone by without anything occurring to
break the monotonous tenor of Burgo's life in the Wizard's Tower.
His meals were supplied to him in the way already described, and as
they were plentiful and good, he had nothing to complain of on that
score.
Once a day old Mrs. Sprowle--for that was her name, she told him--
unlocked the door and entered the room in order to do such humble
_chores_ as were requisite, at which times "that devil," as she
persistently termed the Italian, always kept watch and ward below
stairs in company with one of his ferocious hounds. Him Burgo never
saw, but more than once, as he lay awake, after putting out his lamp,
he was conscious of a stealthy footfall on the stairs, and it seemed
to him as if the slide were pushed softly back; but what the Italian's
motive could be for acting thus--for he did not fail to set it down to
him--he was unable to conceive, unless the latter were anxious to
satisfy himself that his captive was not utilising the dark hours in
an attempt to escape. On the first and second occasions Burgo lay
still and made no sign, but the third time he heard the footsteps on
the stairs, followed by the faint creak of the sliding panel, impelled
by a sudden impulse, he put out his hand, grasped his boot, and aimed
it as straight as he could in the dark at the aperture in the door.
There was a muttered exclamation--or execration--in a man's voice, and
then a sound of retreating footsteps. Burgo broke into a burst of
genuine laughter. He could hardly remember the time when he had
laughed last, it seemed so long ago.
Among the contents of his portmanteau were a meerschaum pipe and a
pound packet of Latakia. He had been a smoker for years, and what such
things could do towards solacing his imprisonment, they did. Another
treasure was a volume containing some half-dozen of Shakespeare's
plays, which he had brought with him as a refuge against _ennui_ in
case of bad weather, or when he could not sleep of nights. Under
similar circumstances a French novel would have recommended itself to
the majority of Mr. Brabazon's friends. But in many ways Burgo was
unlike the majority of his friends, and in none more, perhaps, than in
his love of reading. It was true that hardly any one ever saw him with
a book in his hands, but he was one of those men who can do with very
little sleep, and, notwithstanding his multifarious engagements as a
man about town, he generally contrived to devote at least a couple of
hours out of the twenty-four to good solid reading. It was a fact
which would have greatly surprised his club friends had they been told
it, which they never were; and yet therein lay the answer to a
question which young Hylton propounded one night in the smoking-room
after Burgo had just gone: "Can any of you chappies tell me how it is
that Brabazon seems to know such a lot about such a lot of things, you
know?" But the chappies, one and all, shook their heads. They admitted
ungrudgingly that Brabazon did know a lot, but that how he came by his
knowledge was a mystery.
That Burgo should have crammed a volume of the Bard into his
portmanteau before leaving town vouches something for his taste and
quality.
When Mother Sprowle brought him his breakfast on the third morning of
his incarceration, she brought with her a _Times_ newspaper two days
old, and each morning afterwards she did the same thing. It was a boon
for which Burgo felt sufficiently grateful, enabling him, as it did,
to while away many an hour--for, barring a few matters as to which he
found it impossible to feign the most tepid interest, he read it from
beginning to end--which, but for it, would probably have proved
tedious in the extreme. He could not but regard it as a proof that
there was an unspoken but clearly implied desire on the part of some
one to render his captivity as little irksome to him as possible. Was
that some one her ladyship, or whom?
But oh--but oh, to be free!
It was the eighth dinner Mother Sprowle had brought him, and Burgo,
whose appetite was beginning to fail him for lack of fresh air and
exercise, took the dishes from her languidly, like a man who would
just as lief have sent them back untasted as not. But when, last of
all, the old dame thrust under his nose a tiny envelope addressed
"Burgo Brabazon, Esq.," in a feminine hand, there came a flash into
his eyes and a look into his face which seemed to make another man of
him. Seizing the note, he tore it open, saying to himself in a
breathless whisper: "From her ladyship, of course. What can she have
to write me about? Not----"
But the note was not from her ladyship, as his first startled glance
at it sufficed to tell him.
"Miss Dacia Roylance presents her compliments to Mr. Brabazon," it
ran, "and begs to inform him that she purposes calling upon him
(unless unforeseen circumstances should intervene) between eight and
nine o'clock this evening, as for some time past Miss Roylance has
been extremely desirous of making Mr. Brabazon's acquaintance."
Burgo read the note twice over, so dumfounded was he, before he could
feel sure that he had taken in the sense aright. Then he held up a
finger to the old woman, who was regarding him with one of her
equivocal leers, as a signal that she was to remain, after which he
stood for a long two minutes with his eyes bent on the floor.
He remembered the name of Dacia Roylance as that of a young lady of
whom Tyson had made casual mention as being her ladyship's ward or
niece, and as having made her appearance at Garion Keep a few days
after the arrival of the family. Since then she had scarcely found a
moment's place in his thoughts. She was nothing to him, nor he to her;
they had never even met; he had felt neither curiosity about her, nor
the wish to meet her. Now, however----
The old woman coughed; a hint, evidently, that he must not keep her
waiting much longer.
Surely so polite a note necessitated an answer similar in kind. He had
still the pen and ink which had been brought him the first day, and in
his portmanteau were paper and envelopes. Getting together his
materials without another moment's delay, he cleared a space on the
table and wrote as under:
"Mr. Brabazon presents his compliments to Miss Roylance, and in reply
to her note just received begs to assure Miss Roylance that it will
afford him infinite pleasure to be waited upon by her at whatever hour
may best suit her convenience."
Then he put the note into an envelope, fastened it up, addressed it,
and gave it to Mrs. Sprowle, who took it with a nod as one who knew.
It is almost needless to say that to Burgo the afternoon seemed to
drag its wearisome length along even more slowly than usual. He waited
the coming of evening with impatience, asking himself meanwhile a
hundred questions, although fully aware of the futility of doing so,
seeing that to none of them was any answer forthcoming. By-and-by the
afternoon shadows began to lengthen, and then a great bank of cloud
crept down from the middle sky, and shut out as with a curtain the
flaming splendours of the western heavens. And therewith twilight came
at a bound.
Then Burgo lighted his lamp, and sat down resolutely to read--and
wait. But for once Shakespeare's magic proved of no avail. He read a
page and turned over to the next, but, although his eyes mechanically
took in the words, his mind remained a blank as far as their meaning
was concerned. At length he flung the volume aside, and began to pace
the room as he had paced it hundreds of times before, glancing every
few minutes at his watch, while sneering cynically at himself for
being so weak-minded. "I might be a big school-girl waiting for her
first ball-dress to be brought home," he muttered contemptuously; and
then he looked at his watch again.
Mother Sprowle had brought him his supper--which he did not touch--and
had gone again, and night had settled down in earnest, before Burgo's
alert ear heard the key turned in the lock belowstairs. He drew
himself up, his eyes brightened, and a dark flush mounted to his
cheeks. What was he about to see? Some "vision beatific," or some
ordinary "young person," the bearer it might be, of some message from
Lady Clinton? That Miss Roylance should dare to visit him of her own
initiative, and without the consent or sanction of her ladyship, was
too much to expect. Still, youth sometimes abounds with sweet
audacities.
He listened without moving to the sound of nearing footsteps as they
climbed the stairs one by one. These were certainly not the flying
footsteps of a young girl. They were slow and somewhat laboured, with
a peculiar tapping accompaniment which at once brought to Burgo's mind
that morning in his uncle's house, when he had been puzzled by a
somewhat similar sound, which proved to be the tap-tap of the crippled
caretaker's stick on the oaken stairs as he ascended from the regions
below. Burgo had pushed back the slide some time ago. Drawing nearer
to it he now stood with his eyes fixed intently on the black square in
the door. The tapping became more audible, and then the darkness
outside the door was illumined by a faint light, which began to
creep up the whitewashed wall of the landing, and a second or two
later there appeared a white hand holding aloft a small shaded
lamp--involuntarily Burgo drew a step or two nearer--and then a face
came into view, and so, by degrees, the figure to which it pertained.
Then, with a thrill, Burgo saw that this dark-robed young woman, who
had thus strangely elected to visit him, was supported under her left
arm by a slender crutch, as also that she was slightly humpbacked, and
that one shoulder had the appearance of being somewhat higher than the
other. A great wave of pity swept over him as these things forced
themselves, as it were, on his notice.
Miss Roylance's face broke into a smile, then the smile merged into a
musical laugh as her eyes met those of Burgo fixed so intently on her.
"Confess, now, Mr. Brabazon, that my note took you considerably by
surprise, and that my audacity in coming, under such circumstances, to
see a young man who is an utter stranger to me, has surprised you
still more. But, to be sure, there is a locked door between us." Her
voice was a low rich contralto.
"In any case, the surprise is a charming one," responded Burgo,
reciprocating her smile. "I have been here so long without a soul to
speak to, that I intended to begin spouting Shakespeare aloud
to-morrow, so as to keep my tongue from getting rusty."
"I am glad you did not try to make me believe that you were not
surprised, because that shows a quite uncommon degree of candour on
the part of so young a man, and I like candour, even although I may
not always be able to practise it myself. In any case, Mr. Brabazon,
you can't be nearly as much surprised at me as I am at myself. 'And
yet she is here!' you are saying to yourself. I feel sure of it."
"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."
There was something in the way he spoke the last words which caused
her eyes to meet his for a couple of seconds. "As far as my experience
goes, no one could be more so," she contented herself with saying.
"And the doctor who attends my uncle----?"
"Is an old woman. Yet, no; I malign my sex by calling him such,
because some old women are both clever and delightful, and I am quite
sure that Dr. Rapp is neither one nor the other. He is what I should
term an elderly beau, still foppish in his dress, and still addicted
to posing in various absurd attitudes. He ogles Lady Clinton, who is
very gracious to him, and I have no doubt he thinks her one of the
most charming of women; but I don't believe he understands Sir
Everard's case one bit."
It was an immense relief to Burgo to find that, so far as he could
judge, his uncle was not so very much worse than when he left London.
But the 12th of October would not be here for another fortnight, and
till that date should have come and gone his life was a precious
possession to Lady Clinton.
So far Miss Roylance had said nothing by way of enlightening him as to
the motive of her visit, for that something special lay at the back of
it he could scarcely doubt. Perhaps she was waiting for him to
question her; perhaps some motive which he could not be expected to
fathom kept her dumb. She had told him distinctly that her visit could
last but a very few minutes; it was no time for shilly-shallying; at
the risk of offending her he would put to her a question which he was
burning to have answered.
"Pardon the question, Miss Roylance," he said, "but may I ask whether
you are the bearer of a message of any kind from Lady Clinton?"
The silence had been of the briefest, merely while he turned aside to
regulate the lamp; but the shuttle of Burgo's brain worked swiftly,
and his hesitations never lasted long.
A lovely flush suffused the lilies of Dacia's cheeks, but her answer
was prompt and decided. "No, Mr. Brabazon, I am the bearer of no
message of any kind from Lady Clinton; indeed, I would not for a great
deal that her ladyship should become aware of my visit. I am here
altogether surreptitiously." Then, with a little catch in her voice,
she added quickly: "I am here, Mr. Brabazon, to ask you whether there
is anything that I can do by way of helping you to escape--for I
presume you have no wish to remain here an hour longer than you are
compelled to do."
"To help me to escape? Oh! Miss Roylance!" The transformation that
came over his face as he gave utterance to these words startled her.
She went on hurriedly.
"I am sadly afraid it is very little, if, indeed, anything that I can
do to help you. But before another word is said on that point, I must
explain to you the reasons which have influenced me in taking a step
so unconventional, and, perhaps, I ought to add, so unladylike, only
that the latter word is one which I detest. You must know, then----"
She stopped suddenly and held up her hand.
"Hist! hist! Miss Dacia, he's waking up!" came a voice from below.
Burgo thought he recognised the thin acrid tones of Mother Sprowle.
"I must go at once, I dare not stay another moment," exclaimed Miss
Roylance. "Give me my lamp, please." Then, as Burgo passed it to her
through the aperture, she said with a smile and a meaning look:
"To-morrow evening about the same time, if the coast is clear. If not,
I will send you a message by Mrs. Sprowle. Till then, _addio_."
She adjusted her crutch under her left arm and turned and went slowly
down, her sheaf of red-gold hair falling in a dull shimmer over her
shoulders being the last Burgo saw of her.