CHAPTER IX.

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.