CHAPTER XV.

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.