CHAPTER VIII.

UNCLE AND NEPHEW.

As a cab-driver Burgo was a decided success, earning, as he did, considerably more money for Mr. Hendry than any other driver in the yard. But he was not conceited enough to take the merit thereof in any way to himself, but rightly put it down to the superior attractiveness of the vehicle driven by him. His hours were long, but he was glad of that; less time was left him for brooding over the past and all it had robbed him of. Mr. Hendry and he remained on the best of terms. If the jobmaster's treatment of him differed in many respects from that which he usually accorded his men, it was no more, perhaps, than might be expected under the circumstances; at any rate, it was a state of things on which Burgo never presumed. He knew his place, and he was careful never to cross the line he had laid down for himself when he accepted it. Without associating with his brother cabbies more than was absolutely necessary, he was on pleasantly free-and-easy terms with them. In the way of jokes he could give and take with the best, and when the occasion demanded he could drop into the vernacular, or hold his own in a slanging match, after a fashion which would have considerably astonished his uncle had he happened to overhear him.

When in after days Burgo came to look back on this episode in his career he could recognise that it had not been a wholly unhappy time with him. He was at an age when it is impossible for a man worth calling a man to be actively miserable for any length of time. Fate had smitten him hardly; both Love and Fortune had turned their backs on him; the gilt had been rubbed off his gingerbread with a vengeance; and yet, as time went on, he was surprised to find that he was by no means so wretched as he deemed himself to have a right to be. When the discovery dawned upon him he could not resist a certain sense of disappointment, and was inclined to be savage with himself. But presently it seemed much better to laugh at, rather than be angry with, himself, and to regard the whole affair with philosophical indifferentism as from the standpoint of an outsider. He would be at once both actor and spectator of his own little tragi-comedy.

Summer was on the turn; Goodwood was a thing of the past till another year; wearied legislators were anxiously speculating as to the proximate prorogation of Parliament; and the prospects of the coming grouse season were being eagerly discussed by those interested in such matters, when, on a certain sunny afternoon, Burgo Brabazon, who had just set down a fare, and was making his way back in leisurely fashion to the rank from which he usually plied, was hailed by the porter of the Mastodon Club. As he drew up by the kerb the man said: "Old gent--hot weather--fainting-fit--come round again all right--won't wait for his carriage--wants to be taken home in a keb."

Scarcely had the last words left the man's lips before Burgo beheld coming slowly and feebly down the club steps, and leaning heavily on the arm of another member, none other than his uncle, Sir Everard Clinton.

But what a change there was in him since Burgo had seen him last He looked the mere wreck of his former self. He had been a tall, robust-looking, well-set-up man, as upright in figure as a military martinet, with the fine healthy colour (although he had a way of fancying himself out of sorts when there was nothing more serious the matter with him than a mild attack of dyspepsia) of one who habitually spent much of his time in the open air. Now he had all the appearance of a man who was slowly but surely dying of some incurable disease. His face, which wore the pallor of old ivory, had shrunken till there seemed little left of it besides skin and bone. His eyes had lost all their old-time brightness and clear fixity of regard. His figure was bowed as might be that of a man a century old, and so attenuated and worn away that it seemed hard to believe his clothes had not been made for some one half as big again as himself. Burgo felt a great wave of commingled love, grief, compassion, and rage surge over his heart as he watched his uncle descending the club steps.

His friend, having helped Sir Everard into the cab and taken leave of him, said to Burgo: "No. 22 Great Mornington Street," adding in a lower voice, "Ring and summon some of the servants as soon as you get there and see that he is properly helped out of the cab."

Burgo drove very steadily. Ten minutes brought them to their destination. As soon as he had drawn up he leapt to the ground, ran up the steps of the house, and gave a mighty tug at the bell. Then going back to the cab, he leant forward, and looking Sir Everard straight in the face, said: "Uncle, won't you let me help you to alight?"

The old man started at the sound of his voice; then he began to tremble, and staring hard at him, he said: "Who are you? Surely--surely you can't be my nephew, Burgo Brabazon?"

"But, indeed, I can be, and am Burgo Brabazon, and you are my Uncle Everard. You used to say I had my mother's eyes. Have you forgotten what they were like, uncle?"

"Ah! now I recognise you; now I know you are speaking the truth. Still, you are changed somehow. For that matter"--with a deep sigh--"are we not all changed? But--but what's this? It was you who drove me here, and--and you are wearing a badge. What is the meaning of it?"

"Simply, sir, that I am endeavouring to earn an honest livelihood by driving a cab."

"My God! and has it come to that? My nephew--poor, hardly done by Josephine's son! Ah, dear shade, while on earth so dearly loved, forgive me--forgive!" The last words were spoken half under his breath.

By this a couple of footmen had appeared on the scene, but not with any unseemly amount of haste. In their opinion, it was a piece of "confounded cheek" on the part of a common cabby to ring the bell as this one had done. But their faces changed at sight of their master. Waving them aside, Sir Everard said in a low voice to Burgo: "Don't let those fellows come near me. Help me yourself into the house, but--but put that horrid badge out of sight!"

So Burgo, having first beckoned a near-at-hand crossing-sweeper to take charge of his horse and cab, helped his uncle to alight, and then gave him his arm up the steps and into the house.

"You must not leave me, my dear boy--not on any account," said Sir Everard emphatically, as soon as the servants had been sent about their business. "Her ladyship will probably want to get rid of you--nay, she is sure to do so--but promise me not to leave me, promise me not to allow yourself to be turned out of doors by her."

"If it is your wish, uncle, that I should remain here I will certainly do so."

"It is my wish, my most earnest wish." Then, with a ghost of his old authoritative manner, he added: "In point of fact I order you to stay."

"In that case, I had better send my horse and cab home as soon as possible. Have you anyone whom I can entrust them with?"

"Grimes, the stable-help, is your man. Ring for him."

So, presently Grimes drove off with the horse and cab, being also the bearer of a message from Burgo to Mr. Hendry.

"And now assist me upstairs to my own room," said Sir Everard, when the man was gone.

It had been a room well-known to Burgo of old, and perhaps was the only one in the house which had not been more or less transmogrified by Lady Clinton. Its furniture was dark, substantial, and old-fashioned. Two of its sides were lined with mahogany cases crammed with coins, medals, and curios of various kinds. Of late, however, Sir Everard seemed to have lost all interest in his old pursuits. On the floor stood a couple of unopened boxes containing purchases forwarded to him by one of his agents from abroad, but as yet he had not had the heart to open them. It was a fact which proclaimed more eloquently than words the pass to which he had been brought. As soon as the baronet had been relieved of his overcoat, and established in his own particular chair, he said: "You see a great change in me, don't you, my boy?"

"I do indeed, sir."

"You, too, are altered, I hardly know how, but there's a difference. It seems to me that you get more like your mother every time I see you."

"It's a long time since you saw me last, uncle."

"So it is--more's the pity. How long? But never mind now. If her ladyship wants to bundle you out, you will refuse to go, eh?"

"You already have my promise, sir. Here I am, and here I will stay till you yourself order me to begone."

"With you here, Burgo, I shall have nothing to be afraid of."

"But what have you to be afraid of at any time, uncle?"

He cast his eyes slowly around as if to make sure that they were alone. Then leaning forward, he said in a whisper: "Sometimes--God help me!--I fear for my life."

Burgo started. Was it because Sir Everard's words had sufficed to give a definite shape and consistency to certain half-fledged suspicions of his own?

He did not reply, not, indeed, knowing what to say, but waited to hear more. "Then, again, there are times," resumed the baronet, "when I cast the fear--the thought--the suspicion (call it what you will) from me as utterly unworthy of me--wholly degrading--nay, far worse than degrading to _her_; times when I tell myself that old age is creeping upon me, that my constitution is breaking up (a few years earlier, maybe, than at one time I thought it would), and that, the circumstances being such as they are, I ought to deem myself one of the most fortunate of mortals, seeing that in Giulia I have secured one of the most devoted of nurses and the most affectionate of wives."

Burgo felt that it was expected of him to say something; and yet, on so delicate a topic, and one about which he knew so little, would it not be an impertinence on his part to venture on an opinion of any kind?

"I presume, sir, that you have not gone all this time without seeking medical advice?" was his diplomatic remark.

"Certainly not. I had only been three days at home when I sent for Hoskins, who knows my constitution, if anybody does. He's attending me still; but, if a frequent change of physic may be taken as any criterion, he's puzzled what to make of me; though, of course, he would be the last man in the world to admit it. In fact, I've tried to pin him down more than once to a definite opinion, but there's nothing to be got out of him save vague generalities."

Not for some weeks had he talked so much in so short a time. The excitement of meeting his nephew had lent him a fictitious strength, but the effort now told upon him. "Pour me out three-parts of a wine-glassful of that green stuff," he said, indicating a bottle on a side table, "and then fill it up with water."

Having swallowed the cordial, he lay back for a little space with closed eyes. But presently he roused himself, and looked at his watch. "Her ladyship is past her time," he said; "she may be here at any moment."

A curiously apprehensive expression showed itself in his eyes, and Burgo seemed to detect a distinct note of timidity in his voice when he spoke next.

"I'm not sure that I've done right, Burgo, in pressing you to stay," he said; "she won't approve of it--I'm certain she won't approve of it."

"I presume, uncle, that you are master in your own house," said Burgo, with a touch of sternness in his voice.

The old man looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Then he said: "I used to be master in my own house, wasn't I, my boy?"

"No man more so, sir."

"Ah I well, I'm not now. How it's all come about would take too long to tell. Indeed, I'm by no means sure that I'm clear about it myself. It's all due to my breakdown in health, I suppose. I'm not like the same man I used to be. The days come and go, I hardly know how, nor do I greatly care. Giulia has relieved me of all worry and responsibility; she has taken everything into her own hands." Then, after a momentary pause, he added: "And to-day I'm a cipher in my own house."

His chin sank forward on his breast, and for a minute or two he seemed lost in thought. Then, lifting his head, and speaking with an echo of his old energy, he said: "But whether Giulia approves of your being here or no, you must stay, Burgo--you have promised me that."

"As I have said already, not till you bid me go will I budge an inch."

"But the worst of it is that I'm by no means sure of myself from one hour to another. Such is her influence over me that she seems able to make me say and do whatever she chooses. It's a shameful confession for a man to make, but it's the truth. As I remarked before, she's the most devoted of nurses, the most affectionate of wives; and yet, for all that, there are occasions when, for some inscrutable reason, my soul rises in revolt against her. Sometimes, when I wake up in the dark hours, and see her by the dim light of the night-lamp standing by my bedside, and holding in her hand the potion she has mixed for me, a chill horror comes over me--an unreasoning dread of I know not what. It is as though I had just succeeded in breaking the fetters of some dreadful nightmare, but still felt its influence upon me. Happily for me, such moments come but seldom. When I look up into Giulia's beautiful eyes the nightmare feeling leaves me, I swallow my draught, and sink back on my pillows, feeling profoundly grateful that I am blessed with so loving a wife. Ah! that must be the barouche."

Burgo rose, crossed to the window, and looked out. "It is her ladyship," he said quietly.

"Quick--give me a little more of that cordial before she comes upstairs," said Sir Everard.

As Burgo took back the glass he gripped him by the hand. "Courage, uncle!" he said; "remember that you are the master of your own actions, and that under this roof no one has either the right or the power to act in any way whatever in opposition to your wishes."

But Sir Everard scarcely seemed to hear him; his eyes were bent apprehensively on the door. Burgo groaned inwardly. He felt that if it came to a contest with Lady Clinton, both he and his uncle would be ignominiously defeated, simply because the latter would not have enough strength of will to hold his own against her.

The door opened and her ladyship entered the room.

She had been later than usual in reaching the club on her return from the Park, having had to call at her dressmaker's _en route_. When told by the hall-keeper at the Mastodon that, as a consequence of a slight attack of indisposition, Sir Everard had already gone home, she drove there as quickly as possible. The report of Vallance, Sir Everard's man, reassured her in some measure. His master on his return seemed in no way worse than when he had left the house with her ladyship, but the strangest part of the affair was that the cabman who had brought him home had not only been allowed to assist him into the house, but was actually closeted with Sir Everard at that moment. Vallance had only been about a year in the baronet's service, and had never set eyes on Mr. Brabazon before that day.

Consequently it was with no ordinary feelings of curiosity that her ladyship opened the study door. Who could this mysterious cabman be who had been shut up with her husband for the last half-hour or more? One glance at his face was enough. Despite the change in his appearance, she recognised Burgo on the instant. Her ebon brows came together for a second or two while she stood holding the open door, and her eyelids contracted in a curiously feline manner. She drew a single long breath, and next moment her face became illumined with one of her sunniest smiles. Closing the door behind her, she went slowly forward.

"My dear," Sir Everard made haste to begin, speaking in an anxious, hurried voice, "this is my nephew, Burgo Brabazon, whom, if I mistake not, you have met on one occasion already. I came over a little queer at the club this afternoon--a mere nothing, due entirely, I believe, to the heat of the weather--and Burgo being fortunately at hand, was enabled to convey me home. He has fallen upon evil days, Giulia, having actually been compelled to drive a cab in order to keep himself from starving. My sister's son--the boy whom I promised his dying mother I would act a father's part by! It is nothing less than shocking, and I feel myself greatly to blame that things should have been allowed to come to such a pass with him. But all that must be altered from to-day. Meanwhile, until I have time and strength to think matters over and decide what had best be done, I have requested him to take up his abode under my roof, which he has agreed to do. So long as he is here he will be able to attend to my little needs, especially at night time, and so divide with you a burden which, although you refuse to admit it, is really beyond your strength, and cannot fail before long to become altogether intolerable."

"Intolerable! my dear Everard, as if anything could be that to me which in the slightest degree concerns your dear self!" exclaimed her ladyship in her clear vibrant tones. "You must not say such things unless you wish both to hurt and offend me" Then turning to Burgo, she added: "All the same, Mr. Brabazon, I am very pleased to see you here, and I trust that your presence and company will help to cheer up your uncle and do him more good than all Dr. Hoskins's prescriptions." Speaking thus, she crossed to him, and smilingly offered her hand. "This house, I have been told, was your home for many years in your youth; why should it not be the same again?"

The baronet heaved a deep sigh of relief, and his face brightened perceptibly.

Burgo took her ladyship's hand and bowed over it. "Thank you very much, Lady Clinton, for your kindly welcome," was all he could find to say. For once in a way he felt thoroughly nonplussed. His eyes met hers, but in them he read nothing aggressive, nothing defiant; they were brilliant, as they could not help being, but beyond that, expression they had none. He noticed, however, that the smile which wreathed the full ruddiness of her lips did not extend beyond them.

Her ladyship turned to her husband. "Do you feel well enough, dear, after your indisposition of this afternoon, to come down to dinner? Yes--I see that you do. Your nephew's presence has done you good already. There is only just time for me to dress. By-the-by, which room have you assigned Mr. Brabazon?"

"Room? He had better have the one that used to be his years ago. I don't believe it has been slept in since. It will seem to you like old times come back again, Burgo, my boy." He was evidently in the cheeriest of spirits.

"I am afraid I must ask your ladyship to excuse my presence at dinner to-day," said Burgo, evidently a trifle discomposed. "I have no clothes here but these which I am wearing, and----"

"My ladyship is prepared to excuse all shortcomings on that score," she broke in with a short laugh. "And so is Sir Everard. Are you not, dear?"

"Of course, of course. What does it matter for once?"

Scarcely had the door closed behind Lady Clinton before it opened to admit Vallance. He had come to assist Sir Everard to his room.