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Title: Burgo's Romance
Author: T. W. Speight
Release date: September 21, 2018 [eBook #57944]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BURGO'S
ROMANCE ***
Transcriber's Notes:
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(The University of Chicago Library)
BURGO'S ROMANCE
BY
T. W. SPEIGHT
AUTHOR OF "BACK TO LIFE," "HOODWINKED," ETC.
AUTHORIZED EDITION
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1894
Authorized Edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN.
II. CAPTAIN CUSDEN'S REPORT.
III. CUT ADRIFT.
IV. "OLD GARDEN."
V. A HUMBLE FRIEND.
VI. A LAST INTERVIEW.
VII. BURGO IN A NEW CHARACTER.
VIII. UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
IX. BURGO'S VIGIL.
X. A SLEEP AND AN AWAKING.
XI. A CLUE.
XII. FOUND.
XIII. HELPLESS.
XIV. IN DURANCE VILE.
XV. DACIA ROYLANCE.
XVI. DACIA EXPLAINS.
XVII. A DOOR BETWEEN.
IN WHICH THE UNEXPECTED COMES TO
XVIII.
PASS.
XIX. THE CAPTAIN OF THE "NAIAD."
XX. RESCUED.
XXI. A SURPRISE FOR BURGO.
XXII. A MYSTERY SOLVED.
BURGO'S ROMANCE
CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN.
A dark handsome face bent close to a fair and glowing one, a
trembling white hand clasped in a sinewy brown one, two black eyes
aflame with the light of love, two blue eyes cast down in a sweet
confusion and shaded by long brown lashes.
The scene was the conservatory at the back of Mrs. Mordaunt's
London house. It was a wilderness--that is to say, a wilderness
where art reigned supreme--of shrubs, ferns, mosses, and sweet-
smelling tropical flowers. Here and there a shaded lamp glowed with
chastened radiance through the greenery; here and there a Chinese
lantern hung suspended in mid-air like some huge transparent insect
of many colours; here and there a statue gleamed snow-white
through the leafage. Some one in the drawing-room was playing a
dreamy waltz; in the breaks of the music the low silvery plash of a
hidden fountain made music of another kind.
Time and the place conspired. The dark, handsome face bent closer,
the lean brown fingers tightened their grasp, two hearts fluttered as
they had never fluttered before. Then the words which one was
dying to say and the other one dying to hear, broke forth in accents
low, eager, and impassioned:
"Clara, darling, you must know that I love you. You must know that I
have loved you ever since that day when----"
In smooth, clear accents a voice behind them broke in:
"Clara, love, I have been looking for you everywhere. I want you
particularly. Mr. Brabazon, will you kindly open that slide a few
inches? I can't think what Stevens has been about; the temperature
is perfectly unbearable."
Burgo Brabazon was brought back to mundane matters with a shock
as though a stream of ice-cold water had been poured down his
back. He dropped Miss Leslie's trembling fingers and turned in some
confusion to obey Mrs. Mordaunt's behest. Before doing so however,
he contrived to whisper the one word "To-morrow."
By the time he had arranged the slide, Mrs. Mordaunt and her niece
had disappeared. He muttered an execration under his breath, for
Mr. Brabazon was by no means an exemplary young man.
Ten minutes later he left the house without saying "Good-night" to
anybody.
As he made his way through the drawing-room he saw Miss Leslie
sitting a little apart from the general company in a recessed window.
By her side, and playing with her fan, sat young vacuous-faced Lord
Penwhistle--vacuous-faced, but enormously rich. "Ah-ha! chère
madame, so that's your little game, is it?" muttered Burgo to himself.
A group of three or four men with whom he was slightly acquainted
were talking on the stairs. They became suddenly silent when they
saw him coming down, and each of them greeted him with a solemn
nod as he passed. Burgo felt vaguely uncomfortable, he hardly knew
why.
A hansom took him quickly to his club, and there, over a cigarette
and a bottle of Apollinaris, he sat down to meditate.
Burgo Brabazon at this time was within a month of his twenty-sixth
birthday. He might have been a lineal descendant of Coleridge's
Ancient Mariner, seeing that, like him, he was "long and lank and
brown"; but his was the lankiness of perfect health, of a frame
trained to the fineness of a greyhound's, which had not an ounce of
superfluous flesh about it. He had a long oval face and clear-cut
aquiline features; he had dark, steadfast-looking eyes, with a fine
penetrative faculty about them which gave you the impression that
he was a man who would not be easily imposed upon; his hair and
his small moustache were jet black. He was seldom languid, and still
more rarely supercilious, while occasionally inclined to be cynical and
pessimistic (in which respect he was by no means singular); but
those were qualities of which he could disembarrass himself as easily
as he could of his overcoat. He dressed fastidiously, but had nothing
whatever of the latter-day "masher" about him, he was far too
manly for that. Finally, no one could have had a more frank and
pleasant smile than Burgo Brabazon, so that it was almost a pity he
was not less chary of it.
It is certainly unpleasant when, after much effort and inward
perturbation, a man has succeeded in screwing up his courage to
ask a certain question which has been trembling on his lips for
weeks, to find himself baulked at the very outset--to be, as it were,
dragged ignominiously back to earth when another moment would
have seen him soaring into the empyrean. It is more than
unpleasant--it is confoundedly annoying.
Till this evening Burgo had had no reason to suppose that Mrs.
Mordaunt regarded him with unfavourable eyes. His evident liking for
her niece had certainly not escaped the observation of that vigilant
matron, and if she had not openly encouraged him, she had
certainly given him no reason to suppose that any advances he
might choose to make would meet with an unfavourable reception at
her hands.
Miss Leslie was no heiress; her sweet face was her only fortune. Her
father had been a country rector, and had bequeathed her an
income which just sufficed to save her from the necessity of joining
the great army of governesses. For a young lady so slenderly
endowed with the good things of this world Burgo Brabazon might
be looked upon as a very fair catch in the matrimonial fishpond--for
was he not his uncle's heir?
"It's all that confounded little Penwhistle," he muttered to himself.
"He's evidently entêté with Clara, and Mrs. M. will do her best to
hook him. But I flatter myself I'm first favourite there, and if that is
so, by Jove! no other man shall rob me of my prize. I'll call to-
morrow, and again and again, till I can get five minutes alone with
her. I never cared for any one as I care for that girl."
He was still deep in thought when some one touched him on the
shoulder. It was Tighe, a club friend, to whom he had lost a hundred
or so at cards during the course of their acquaintance.
"You have heard the news, of course?" said the latter.
"No; what is it?" asked Burgo languidly, with a half-smothered yawn.
Just then he did not care greatly about either Tighe or his news.
For reply Tighe handed him an evening paper, his thumb marking a
certain passage. The passage in question ran as under:
"At Nice, on the 12th inst., Sir Everard Clinton, Bart., to Giulia, relict
of the late Colonel Innes."
Burgo stared at the paper for some moments as if his mind were
unable to take in the announcement.
Then he gave it back to Tighe. "What an ancient idiot!" he said in his
usual impassive tone. "He'll never see his sixtieth birthday again. But
he always was eccentric." And Burgo lighted another cigarette.
But truth to tell, although he took the matter so coolly, he was much
perturbed inwardly. The two lines he had just read announced a fact
which might have the effect of altering all his prospects in life.
"I wonder whether Mrs. Mordaunt had heard the news when she
carried off Clara?" was one of the first questions he asked himself.
"And those fellows on the stairs?" Already he began to feel in some
indefinable sort of way that he was no longer quite the same Burgo
Brabazon in the eyes of the world that he had been a couple of
hours previously.
All his life he had been led to believe that he would be his uncle's
heir. The title, together with such portion of the property as was
entailed, would go to his other uncle, Denis Clinton, the baronet's
younger brother. He, Burgo, was the only son of Sir Everard's
favourite sister. Both his parents dying when he was a child, his
uncle had at once adopted him, and from that time to the present
had treated him as if he were his own son. When his education was
finished, and Burgo hinted to his uncle that the time had now arrived
for deciding upon his future profession in life, Sir Everard had only
laughed in his quiet way and put the question aside as a piece of
harmless pleasantry; and when Burgo had ventured to broach the
subject on two or three subsequent occasions, it had met with no
response from the elder man.
Burgo, who had no wish to lead an idle life, would fain have gone
into the army, but his uncle was unaccountably prejudiced against a
military career, and there had been no hope in that direction.
Thus it fell out that month after month had drifted by without
anything being finally arranged, till Burgo had gradually settled down
into the groove of a young man about town, with no more serious
employment in life than to contrive how his liberal quarterly
allowance could be made productive of the greatest amount of
enjoyment. And that he did enjoy himself there could be no
reasonable doubt. He belonged to two or three pleasant clubs; he
knew no end of nice people who were glad to see him, or professed
themselves to be so; and when the shooting season began he had
the pick and choice of a dozen country houses. In short, Burgo was
one of the spoiled darlings of Society, and he was quite aware of the
fact, although how much of the favour accorded him was due to his
own merits and how much to the reflected radiance of his uncle's
prospective thousands, was one of those problems of which it would
be invidious to attempt the solution.
Of his uncle during these latter years Burgo had seen but little. The
English climate disagreed with the baronet's health, or so he
averred, and three-fourths of his time was spent abroad. He was a
confirmed numismatist and an inveterate bric-à-brac hunter. He was
said to have one of the finest collections of coins in the three
kingdoms, and his house at Oaklands overflowed with curios picked
up from every country under the sun. That such a man at the
mature age of sixty-three should fall a victim to the shafts of Dan
Cupid was one of the last things which any one who was acquainted
with Sir Everard Clinton would have predicated of him.
CHAPTER II.
CAPTAIN CUSDEN'S REPORT.
In the Times newspaper of the following morning Burgo read a
confirmation of his uncle's marriage. "There's a suspiciously Italian
flavour about the bride's baptismal name," he muttered to himself;
"but who was the late Colonel Innes, I wonder?"
In the course of the afternoon he knocked at Mrs. Mordaunt's door.
"Not at home, sir."
Many an afternoon had he called there, but never before had such a
missile been flung at his head. His face flushed a little when he saw
Lord Penwhistle's miniature brougham being driven slowly up and
down the street.
Two days later he called again, only to be repulsed with the same
polite fiction.
Each afternoon he lingered in the Park till the last moment, in the
hope of catching a glimpse of Clara's sunny face; but all his lingering
was in vain. A week later he heard through a mutual acquaintance
that Mrs. Mordaunt and Miss Leslie had started for the Continent.
But before this took place the cards of the newly-wedded pair had
reached Burgo. He tore them up in a pet and threw them into the
fire. The same day, in sheer recklessness, he drove down to
Richmond with some club acquaintances who belonged to a faster
set than he habitually consorted with. There he drank more
champagne and smoked more cigars than was good for him, and
awoke next morning with a splitting headache.
It has been remarked before that he was by no means an exemplary
young man.
It was during these days he got the notion into his head that the
world was already beginning to look askance at him, that the
greetings of his acquaintances were scarcely so cordial as they used
to be, that there was a chilliness in the social atmosphere such as he
had never experienced before.
All this was probably due to some touch of morbid fancy on his part.
One unpleasant fact there was, however, which he found it
impossible to ignore: he rarely opened his morning's letters
nowadays without finding among them one or more bills, most of
them containing a pressing request for an early settlement. To poor
Burgo it seemed as if the air was full of portents.
If he had ever thought much about the matter--which, to give him
his due, he never had--he would have said that it was impossible he
could have owed so much money. Yet here was account after
account tumbling in, embodying items not one of which, when he
came to look at them, was he in a position to dispute. And when,
one morning, he found courage to take a sheet of paper and a pencil
and total up the lot, he was astounded at the magnitude of the
result. It was not the first time he had floundered into a similar
quagmire. His uncle had already paid his debts on two previous
occasions--not without a little grumbling, for Sir Everard was
somewhat penuriously inclined, and living well within his own
income, considered that everybody should do the same--and, under
ordinary circumstances, Burgo would have appealed to him for the
third time, and would have felt confident that the appeal would not
have been in vain. But now the door was shut in his face, at least for
the time being. Until he should know what kind of woman this new
aunt should prove to be, he felt that it would be impossible for him
to appeal to his uncle as he should otherwise have done. It was a
capital thing, he said to himself, that quarter-day was so close at
hand.
When those important epochs came round, it was Burgo's practice to
charter a hansom, and be driven into the City, to the office of Mr.
Garden, his uncle's lawyer, have ten minutes' chat and a glass of dry
sherry with him, pocket the cheque which was always waiting for
him, give a receipt in due form, and then lounge back westward,
with a fine glow of satisfaction such as he had not been conscious of
half-an-hour before. "You have heard the news, I presume," said Mr.
Garden on the present occasion, as he shook hands with the young
man.
"I have; and very much surprised I was. Were not you also
surprised?"
"I have lived too long, and have seen too much of human nature, to
be greatly surprised at anything. Still I must confess that I never
looked upon Sir Everard as a marrying man."
"I should think not, indeed."
"Let us hope that the step he has taken will in no way interfere with
your prospects in life."
"It is pretty sure to do that," responded Burgo a little ruefully.
"I don't see why it should. Sir Everard always gave me the
impression of being a very just-dealing man. Of course you are
aware that a fresh will will now have to be drawn up?"
"Does that follow as a matter of course?"
"As a matter of necessity. Sir Everard's marriage annuls any will he
may have executed prior to that ceremony."
"Oh!"
"I may tell you in confidence, that up to the present I have received
no instructions in the matter. By the way, do you know anything of
the lady who has now the privilege of calling you her nephew?"
"Nothing whatever. I had never heard of her existence before I read
her name in the newspaper."
"Well, we can only hope for the best. It is a poor philosophy which
anticipates troubles that may never come to pass."
Then Mr. Garden handed Burgo a certain narrow slip of paper, for
which the latter gave a receipt in the usual form. Then he rose to
go.
"Sit down for a minute or two, Mr. Brabazon. I have not quite done
with you yet," said the old lawyer. Burgo, wondering a little, did as
he was told.
"In a certain communication which I received from your uncle a few
days ago," resumed Mr. Garden, "among other matters he requested
me to obtain from you a full and complete schedule of any debts
that may be owing by you at the present time, and forward the
same to him as early as possible. I presume," added Mr. Garden
blandly, as he stared at Burgo over his spectacles, "that you young
gentlemen about town are nearly always in debt?"
"By Jove! I believe you are right there," answered Burgo, with a
short laugh; "at least, I know that in my case the complaint has
almost become chronic. But what can be the dear old boy's reason
for making such a request?"
"That is more than I can say; but one may be permitted to hazard a
guess."
"He has paid my debts twice already."
"Who should know that fact better than I? But is it not the accepted
creed among you young gentlemen of the town that rich fathers and
uncles are sent into the world by a kind Providence expressly for
that purpose?"
Burgo laughed a little uneasily. "The distribution of capital is said to
conduce to the national well-being," he replied, with a quizzical
glance at the staid face opposite him.
"A very bad argument for getting into debt, my dear Mr. Brabazon.
However, you will let me have the document asked for by your uncle
as early as convenient."
"When you see the sum total it will frighten you."
"It won't frighten me; but I can't answer for the effect it may have
on Sir Everard."
"You shall have it in the course of to-morrow; but I shall be deucedly
uneasy, I can tell you, till I know the result."
"Were you ever 'deucedly uneasy' about anything, Mr. Brabazon for
more than a few hours at a time?"
"Upon my word, I don't think I ever was," laughed Burgo. "By-the-
by, have you any idea when my uncle is coming home?"
"Not the remotest."
With that Burgo took his leave.
Next day the schedule of his liabilities was duly made out and
despatched, after which Burgo did his best to dismiss the subject
from his mind.
Clara Leslie dwelt much in his thoughts about this time. He never
smoked a pipe alone in his rooms without seeming to see her face
shining on him through the smoke wreaths. That he was deeply in
love with her he had not the slightest doubt, but he was not quite so
certain how much she cared for him in return. True, there had not
been wanting tokens which told him that he was not wholly
indifferent to her, but between liking and love there is often a wide
chasm, and although that chasm may be, and often is, bridged over,
it is not always so; and in this case the cold winds of absence would
doubtless do their best to extinguish any tiny flame of love which
might perchance have been kindled in Miss Leslie's bosom. Among
hundreds of strange faces and a perpetual change of scene, how
could he hope that his image would continue to dwell in her
memory? And yet--and yet she had not repulsed him that evening
when he took her hand and spoke certain words to her in the
conservatory; there had even been something in her manner, or he
dreamed so, which led him to believe that, had they not been
interrupted at that particular moment, no repulse need have been
feared by him. This thought it was, and this alone, that made sweet
his solitary musings.
About a fortnight after his visit to Mr. Garden, Burgo received a note
from that gentleman informing him that the whole of his debts, as
specified in the schedule rendered by him, had been paid in full.
Burgo gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction as he laid down the
lawyer's note. A great weight had been lifted off his mind. He
hesitated as to whether he ought not to write a few words of thanks
to his uncle, but ultimately decided that he would await Sir Everard's
arrival in town, and then thank him in person. It was characteristic
of him that next day he should call upon his tailor and his
bootmaker, and one or two other tradesmen, and thoroughly
replenish his wardrobe. It was not so much that there was any real
necessity for his doing so, as that the novelty of being out of debt
caused him to feel slightly uncomfortable. He had not been used to
it, and it did not seem right somehow. Besides, how is it possible for
tradespeople to live unless they are liberally patronised?
One morning, as he was skimming through the newspapers at his
club, Burgo was accosted by a voice which he had not heard for
several months. There was no mistaking the rasping tones of
Captain Cusden. "We have lost sight of you for several months," said
Burgo, as soon as he had shaken hands with the new-comer--a man
of fifty-five, who did his best to keep up an assumption of juvenility
by consorting as much as possible with men thirty years younger
than himself.
"Been trotting about the Continent with Aunt Jane, dear boy,"
answered Cusden, who wanted no encouragement to talk, as he
drew a chair up. "Expectations and all that, you know. Must do one's
duty. Awful hard work I found it, dear boy. Had to be on parade
every morning at eight to the tick. Wonderful old lady! If I had to
explore one church with her, I had to explore five hundred; if I was
expected to admire one picture, I was expected to admire five
thousand. Did it ever occur to you, dear boy, what a remarkable
chap that Rubens must have been? Must have turned out a fresh
picture every week of his life, by Jove if the catalogues are not
telling flams. At last we got away from the Low Countries--very
properly so called, dear boy--and when I found myself at Chamonix I
began to breathe again. It was there, by the way, that I had the
pleasure of making the acquaintance of a certain venerated relative
of yours."
Burgo knocked the ash off his cigarette; then he said, quietly: "My
uncle, I suppose, you mean?"
"Right you are, dear boy. Sir Everard and his bride." Here Cusden
gave vent to a snigger, followed by a sharp sidelong glance at his
companion; but that impassive individual was not so easily caught.
"They had been married in Italy a few weeks before and were on
their way home, doing the thing by easy stages. Of course you are
aware that the bride is at the very least thirty years younger than
the bridegroom?"
"I believe I have been told something of the sort," answered Burgo.
Although, in point of fact, he had been told nothing of the kind.
"A famous catch for her, I should imagine, considering--hem!--her
antecedents," remarked the Captain with an expressive shrug.
For the moment Burgo felt a strong desire to fling his companion out
of the window, but he reflected in time that, were he to do so, he
might perhaps remain for ever in ignorance of the antecedents to
which Cusden had alluded, and he had his reasons for not wanting
to do that. So he merely lighted another cigarette, and said in his
drawling way: "She had antecedents, then?"
"No woman of thirty is without 'em, particularly when she comes to
marry her third husband."
"I should not wonder if you are right there," was all Burgo
condescended to remark in reply to this somewhat startling piece of
intelligence.
"Her first husband is said to have been an Italian who held some
sort of Government post," resumed Cusden. "Entre nous, I believe
she herself is half an Italian. He left her with one boy, who is said to
be now at school somewhere in Switzerland. Her second husband,
Colonel Innes, was an old East Indian without any liver to speak of.
He is said to have died under somewhat mysterious circumstances at
the end of a couple of years, and there were some queer rumours
afloat at the time, but I suppose they came to nothing. By all
accounts that second marriage must have proved a rank failure as
far as she was concerned, seeing that the Colonel lost nearly all he
was worth by a bank smash within a year of their becoming man
and wife."
"You seem to have picked up a lot about her in the course of your
travels," remarked Burgo.
"People will talk, you know, dear boy, and one can't help hearing
what is said in society. However, you'll probably have the pleasure of
making Lady Clinton's acquaintance before long. Ta-ta for the
present."
There was cold comfort for Burgo in what Cusden had just told him.
"I hope to heaven the dear old boy has not fallen into the hands of
some scheming adventuress," he muttered.
But he was obliged to admit that circumstances looked very much
like it.
A week later the following note reached him:--
"22 Great Mornington Street, W.
"Will Mr. Brabazon have the goodness to call here at four o'clock to-
morrow."
The writing was that of a lady.
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