"I know it well," said Basil. "Did this M. Bidaud accompany you to the
theatre on that night?"
"He did."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"He and this namesake of mine were companions, I take it."
"Something more than companions, to all appearances. Close friends
rather."
"Did they appear to be on good terms with each other?"
"On the best of terms."
"I hope," said Basil, "you will excuse me for questioning you so
closely, but this is a matter that very deeply affects me."
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Majoribanks, "you are heartily welcome to
every scrap of information I can give that will throw light upon this
most mysterious piece of business. It is altogether the strangest
thing I ever heard. I'll not ask you who the other fellow is, but I
have a faint idea that he must be the most unmitigated scoundrel on
the face of the earth. Tell me as much or as little as you please, and
in the meantime fire away."
"My namesake was dining at the Grand Hotel when you first saw him. Was
M. Bidaud in his company?"
"He was; they were dining together at a separate table."
"Were any ladies with them?"
"I'll not pledge myself. So far as I can recollect, there was no one
else at the table."
"Did you hear talk of any ladies of their acquaintance?"
"I think not. Stop, though. I fancy there was an allusion to a pretty
niece."
"Annette lives," thought Basil, and said aloud, "An allusion made by
M. Bidaud to my namesake?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Who suggested the adjournment to a private room after the theatre?"
"The invitation was given by M. Bidaud, and we accepted it. I was
always ready for that kind of thing--too ready, my people say. So off
we went, and played till daylight, with the aforesaid result."
"Were M. Bidaud and my namesake living permanently in Paris?"
"I fancy not; something was said of their travelling about for
pleasure."
"One more question," said Basil, "and I have done. There was an
allusion to a pretty niece. Are you aware whether the young lady was
travelling with her uncle?"
"I am not, and I do not remember what the allusion was. I think I have
completely emptied my budget."
"I thank you sincerely; you have rendered me an inestimable service. I
have no wish to have my affairs talked about, and you will add to the
obligation if you will consider this conversation confidential."
"Certainly, my dear fellow, as you desire it. It is entirely between
ourselves."
They parted shortly afterwards, and Basil, plunged in thought,
returned to the township. The first step he took was to consult the
file of the _Princetown Argus_ for a record of the accident in which
he had so nearly lost his life. He had heard that its earliest numbers
contained accounts of his discovery and rescue, but he had not
hitherto had the curiosity to hunt them up and read them. It was now
imperative that he should make himself acquainted with every
particular of the affair. He found without difficulty what he sought,
and as he read through the reports of his condition which were
published from day to day he dwelt upon portions which a year ago he
would have considered monstrous inventions or exaggerations. Thus:
"There is a certain element of mystery in the affair, and we shall
briefly allude to one or two points which seem to have a bearing upon
it." Again: "Inferring that there were two men working the shaft, is
it possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at the top of
the shaft made tracks from the place and left his mate to a cruel and
lingering death?" The inference here sought to be established was not
to be mistaken--to wit, that Newman Chaytor had purposely left him to
a cruel and lingering death. And still more significant: "An opinion
has been expressed that the rope has been tampered with, and that it
did not break from natural wear and tear." Given that the peril into
which he had been plunged was the result of design, there was more
than a seeming confirmation of the opinion that the rope had been
tampered with. Basil, being now engaged upon a full consideration of
the circumstances, remembered that the rope to all appearance was
perfectly sound. That being so, it was Chaytor's deliberate intention
to murder him by weakening the strands. When suspicion enters the mind
of a man who has trusted and been deceived, it is hard to dislodge it;
small incidents and spoken words to which no importance was attached
at the time they were uttered, present themselves and gather force
until they assume a dark significance. When Basil laid aside the file
of newspapers he had arrived at the conclusion that Chaytor had
deliberately schemed for the fatal end which had been averted by the
merest accident. Old Corrie's warnings and distrust of Chaytor came to
his mind. "Corrie was right," thought Basil; "he read this man better
than I did."
But clear as Chaytor's villainy had appeared to be, there was much that
Basil was unable to comprehend. In what way had Chaytor discovered
that Basil's uncle had repented of his determination to disinherit his
nephew? How and by what means had it come to the villain's knowledge?
Upon these and other matters Basil had yet to be enlightened.
He continued his mental search. Chaytor, returning to England, had
succeeded in obtaining possession of his inheritance; and--what was of
still greater weight to Basil--he had succeeded in introducing himself
to Anthony Bidaud as the man he represented himself to be. "There was
an allusion to a pretty niece." Then Chaytor was with Annette, playing
Basil's part. Was it likely that Annette would be deceived. Years had
passed since they had met, and the woman might have reason to doubt
her childhood's memories. A cunning plausible villain this Newman
Chaytor. Successful in imposing upon Annette, in wooing and perhaps
winning her--Basil groaned at the thought--what a future was before
her! There was a clear duty before him. To go to England with as
little delay as possible, and unmask the plot.
That night he counted the money he had saved; it amounted to two
hundred and thirty pounds. He could land in the old country with a
hundred and fifty pounds. He consulted the exchange newspapers sent to
the office. In seventeen days a steamer would start from Sydney for
England. By that vessel he would take his departure.
CHAPTER XXVII.
The next morning Basil said to the editor, "I fear I am about to
inflict a disappointment upon you."
"Wants a rise of salary," thought the editor. "All right; he shall
have it." Aloud he said, "Go ahead."
"I wish you to release me from a promise."
"What promise?"
"When we made the engagement it was understood that I should not leave
you without a month's notice."
"That was so," said the editor drily; and thought, "He's going to put
the screw upon me that way. I am ready for him; I'll give him all he
asks."
"I wish to leave without notice." The editor was silent, and Basil
continued: "I am under great obligations to you; I have been very
happy in your service, and I have done my best to please you."
"You have pleased me thoroughly; I hope I have said nothing to give
you a different impression."
"Indeed you have not; no man could have acted fairer by me than you
have done."
"Soft soap," thought the editor. "Have I been mistaken in him?" Aloud:
"Well, then, I am sure you will act fairly by me. I cannot release
you."
"You must; indeed you must. It is an imperative necessity."
"I can't see it. Look here. Are you going to start an opposition
paper?"
"I have no intention of doing so. That would be a bad return."
"It would. Some other fellow, then, is going to start an opposition,
and has made you a tempting offer."
"You are wrong. It is upon purely personal grounds that I shall have to
leave. I am going home."
"Home! To England?"
"To England; and there is vital need for dispatch."
"Hallo!" thought the editor, "he has come into property. I knew he was
highly connected." Aloud: "Now don't you be foolish. I am an older man
than you, and therefore, on the face of it, a better judge of things.
I don't expect a rise of salary would tempt you to remain."
"It would not."
"Not if I doubled what you are getting?"
"Not if you were to multiply it by ten."
The editor considered before he spoke again. "Come, here's an offer
for you. I will take you into partnership. You see the value I place
upon your services. I'm dealing fair and square."
"You offer me more than I deserve, more than I accept. Nothing can
tempt me to remain. I must leave Princetown; I must leave the colony.
I am called home suddenly and imperatively. You have been a good
friend to me; continue so, I beg, and release me at once. You talk of
going home some day yourself. If all goes well with me we may meet in
the old land and renew our friendship. You know me well enough, I
trust, to be convinced that I would not desire to leave you so
abruptly without some strong necessity. If you compel me to
remain----"
"Oh! you admit that I can compel you?"
"The obligation is binding upon me, and if you insist upon my giving
you a month's notice it must be done, in honour. I cannot break my
word."
"There speaks the gentleman," thought the editor, and gazed with
admiration at the pleader. "But you will be doing me," continued
Basil, "an injury that may be irreparable. The delay may ruin my life,
and the life of another very dear to me."
"I am a dunderhead," thought the editor. "There's a young lady mixed
up in this." Aloud: "I should be sorry to do that; put you see the fix
you place me in."
"It grieves me. I beg you to give me back my word."
"It comes so sudden. Why did you not tell me before?"
"Because I knew of nothing that called for my hasty departure until
last night."
"There is something more than a business aspect of it. We have grown
fond of you."
"I have grown fond of you and yours. I shall think of you with
affection."
The editor was softened. "I will think it over, and let you know in
the course of the day."
"It is only reasonable," said Basil, "that you should have time for
consideration."
The subject was dropped. The editor consulted his wife, who was
genuinely sorry at the prospect of losing Basil.
"I looked upon him as one of the family," she said, "and it will
almost break Edith's heart to part with him." Then, with a woman's
shrewd wit, she added, "Let us try what Edith can do to persuade him
out of his resolution."
Away went Edith half an hour afterwards to seek Basil and argue with
him. She found him in the churchyard, standing by the grave of the
baby angel.
"Mother says you are going away," said the child.
"Yes, my dear," said Basil. "I am very, very sorry."
"Oh! how I shall miss you," said Edith, the tears springing to her
eyes. "Won't you stay if I ask you?"
"I cannot, dear child. Dry your eyes. We shall meet again by-and-by."
She put her handkerchief to her eyes but her tears flowed fast, and
she sat by the grave and sobbed as if her heart was breaking.
"Listen to me, Edith," said Basil, sitting beside her and taking her
hand. "If baby angel was a long, long way from here, and was in
trouble and cried for you to come to her, would you not go to help
her?"
"Yes, I would, I would; and they would take me to her."
"I am sure they would, for you have good parents my dear. You told me
when I first met you here that I had an angel, and that you were glad.
Edith, my dear, my angel is calling to me to come and help her in her
trouble. Would it not be very wrong for me to say, 'No, I will not
come; I do not care for your trouble?'"
"It would be wicked."
"Yes, dear, it would be wicked, and I should not deserve your love if
I acted so. When I first saw her she was a little girl like you; you
reminded me of her, and I loved you because of that, and loved you
better afterwards because of yourself. I shall always love you, Edith;
I shall never, never forget you."
She threw her arms round his neck and lay in his embrace, sobbing more
quietly.
"You can do something for me, Edith, that will fix you in my heart for
ever."
"Can I? Tell me, and I will do it."
"Go to your father and say, 'You must let Basil go, father. His angel
is calling for him, and it will be wicked if he does not go quickly.'"
"But that will be sending you away from me!"
"I know it will, my dear; but it will be doing what is right. If I
remain I shall be very, very unhappy. You would not like me to be
that?"
"No, no; I want you to be happy."
"Make me so, dear child, by doing as I bid you; and one day perhaps
you will see my angel, and she shall love you as I do."
So by artfully affectionate paths he led her to his wish, and they
went back hand in hand.
"Well," said the editor to Basil, later in the day, "you must have
your way. The little plot we laid has failed, and Edith says you must
go. You are a good fellow, and have served me well."
"I sincerely thank you. If I apply to you for a character you will
give me one."
"Indeed I will; the best that man could have. But there are conditions
to my consent. You must stop till Thursday."
"I will do that."
"And you must act as 'Our Special Correspondent' at home. A letter
once a month."
"I promise you."
"You have not beaten me entirely, you see," said the editor good
humouredly, "I shall get something out of you. I am pleased we shall
part good friends."
They shook hands, and passed a pleasant evening together. The editor
had a motive in stipulating that Basil should remain till Thursday. He
was not going to let such a man leave Princetown without some public
recognition of his merits; and on the following day Basil received an
invitation to dine with the townsmen at the principal hotel on the
night before his departure. He gratefully accepted it; he had worked
honestly, and had won his way into the esteem of the inhabitants of
the thriving township.
It was a famous gathering, and there was not room for all who applied
for tickets. John Jones, of the Only Beehive, took the chair. On his
right sat Basil, on his left, Mr. Majoribanks. The Government Camp was
worthily represented; all the large storekeepers were present, and
several of the most prosperous miners. It was a gala night; the
exterior of the hotel was gay with flags of all nations, and the
editor's wife and Edith had stripped their garden of flowers to
decorate the table. The Governor of the colony could scarcely have
been more honoured.
Of course there were speeches, and of course they were reported in the
_Princetown Argus_ the next morning. Basil's health was proposed by
John Jones in magniloquent terms, which were cheered to the echo; had
Basil's thoughts not been elsewhere, even in the midst of this
festivity, he would have been greatly amused at the catalogue of
virtues with which he was credited by the chairman, but as it was he
could not help being touched by the evident sincerity of the
compliments which were showered upon him. Princetown, said John Jones,
owed Basil a debt which it could never repay. He had elevated public
taste, and had conferred distinction upon the township by his rare
literary gifts. Great was their loss at his departure but they had the
gratification of believing that he would ever look back with affection
upon the time he had spent in "our flourishing township." And they had
the further gratification of knowing that they had a champion in the
great world to which he was returning, and which he would adorn with
his gifts. Before resuming his seat it was his proud task to give
effect to one of the pleasantest incidents in this distinguished
gathering. The moment it was known that Basil was about to leave them
a movement was set afoot to present him with some token of their
regard. In the name of the subscribers, whose names were duly set
forth in the illuminated scroll which accompanied the testimonial, he
begged to present to the guest of the evening "a gold keyless lever
watch, half-quarter repeater, dome half hunting case, three-quarter
plate movement, best double roller escapement, compensated and
adjusted, and with all the latest improvements." John Jones rolled out
this elaborate description as though each item in it were a delicious
morsel which could not be dwelt upon too long. Engraved upon the case
was a record of the presentation, which the orator read amid cheers,
and attached to the watch was a gold chain, with another long
description, of which John Jones took care not to miss a single word.
Then came the peroration, in which the chairman excelled himself, its
conclusion being, "I call upon you now to drink, with three
times three, health and prosperity to our honoured guest, a
gentleman, scholar, and good fellow." He led a hip, hip, hip,
hurrah--hoorah--hoorah! And a little one in (the giant of the lot),
"Hoo-o-o-o-rah-h-h-h!" Then they sang, "For he's a jolly good fellow,"
in which they were joined by all the gold-diggers at the bar and in
the High Street outside. John Jones sat down beaming, and gazing
around with broad smiles, wiped his heated forehead, and whispered to
himself, "Bravo, John Jones! Let them beat that if they can!" The
presentation of the watch was a surprise to Basil; the secret had been
well kept, and the generous-hearted donors were rewarded by the short
speech which Basil made in response. It was eloquent and full of
feeling, and when he had finished the cheers were renewed again and
again. The watch and chain were really a handsome gift, and before
Basil put them on they were passed round for general inspection. Then
a sentimental song was sung, followed by another toast. (The
story-teller must not omit to mention that the first proposed were
loyal toasts, which were received with the greatest enthusiasm.) Other
toasts and other songs followed, the health of everybody who was
anybody being proposed and drunk with acclaim. One of the most
effective speeches of the evening was made by the editor of the
Princetown Ares, in response to the toast of "The Press." He paid full
tribute to Basil, and said: "He is about to leave us, but we shall not
lose him entirely. I take the greatest pride in announcing that he has
accepted the post of special European correspondent to the _Princetown
Argus_, and we shall look out eagerly for the polished periods in
which he will describe the great events of the old world. We send a
herald forth to represent us, and the mother country has reason to
congratulate herself that our choice has fallen upon such a gentleman
as our guest," &c., &c. It would occupy too many pages to give a full
report of the proceedings. Those who are curious in such matters
cannot do better than consult the columns of the next morning's issue
of the _Princetown Argus_, in which the speeches were fully reported,
with a complete list of the names of those present on the notable
occasion. The party did not break up until the small hours, and it is
to be feared that some of the jolly fellows, when they sang "Auld Lang
Syne," were rather unsteady on their legs. Whether the occasion
furnished any excuse for this sad lapse the present chronicler will
not venture to say. To judge from John Jones, who was not the least of
the offenders, they were little the worse for it, for he was attending
to his Only Beehive, early the following morning as fresh as a lark.
But then John Jones was an exceptional being.
The hardest parting was with Edith. The child gave Basil a bunch of
flowers and her favourite doll. To refuse the doll would have caused
the little maid fresh sorrow, so Basil accepted the token of
affection, and subsequently, before he left Sydney, sent Edith
another, with which she fell violently in Jove, and christened it
Basil, though it was of the female sex.
"Good-bye, my dear," said Basil, "and God bless you!"
Edith's voice was choked with tears, and she could only gaze
mournfully at the friend who had supplied her with loving memories.
"Speed you well," said the editor; "hope we shall meet again."
"Good luck, mate!" was the farewell greeting of a number of friends;
Basil did not know until now that he had so many. He waved his hand to
them, and was gone. But he had not travelled two miles before he heard
the sound of a horse's hoofs galloping after him. He turned and saw
Mr. Majoribanks.
"It just occurred to me," said the Goldfields' Warden, "that the name
of the money-lender I met in Paris, through whom I became acquainted
with your namesake, might be useful."
"It is very thoughtful of you," said Basil, "it ought to have occurred
to me."
"I know no more about him than I have already told you," said Mr.
Majoribanks, "and I am not acquainted with his address, but I believe
he lives in London. His name real or assumed--for some of his
fraternity trade under false names--is Edward Kettlewell."
"Thank you," said Basil; "I shall remember it."
Mr. Majoribanks kept with him for another mile, and then galloped back
to the township. The steamer in which Basil took his passage home
started punctually to the hour, and bore Basil from the land in which
he had met with so many sweet and bitter experiences; on the
forty-fifth day from that of his departure he set foot once more in
England.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
For cogent reasons Basil had travelled home third-class. It economised
his funds--of which he felt the necessity--and it enabled him the
better to carry out his wish of not making friends on board. The task
upon which he was engaged rendered it advisable that as little
curiosity as possible should be aroused respecting himself and his
personal history. That he should have to work to some extent in
secresy was not congenial to his nature, but by so doing he would have
a better chance of success. Until he came face to face with Newman
Chaytor it was as well that his operations should be so conducted as
not to put his treacherous comrade on his guard.
He had ample time on board ship to review the events of the past few
years, and although he found himself wandering through labyrinths of
extreme perplexity as to the doings of Newman Chaytor, the conclusion
was forced upon him that his false friend had practised towards him a
systematic course of treachery and deceit. He had read accounts of men
returning home from distant lands for the express purpose of
personating others to whom they bore some close personal resemblance,
and one famous case presented itself in which such a plot was only
exposed by the wonderful skill of the agents employed to frustrate it.
There, as in his own case, a large fortune hung upon the issue, but
Newman Chaytor had been more successful than the impostor who had
schemed to step into the enjoyment of a great estate. Chaytor had
obtained possession of the fortune, and was now enjoying the fruits of
his nefarious plot. But Basil's information was so imperfect that he
was necessarily completely in the dark as to the precise means by
which Newman Chaytor had brought his scheming to this successful
stage. He knew nothing whatever of the correspondence which Chaytor
had carried on with his uncle and Annette. Determined as he was to
spare no efforts to unmask the villain, such a knowledge would have
spurred him on with indignant fierceness. To recover his fortune, if
it were possible to do so, was the lesser incentive; far more
important was it, in his estimation, that Annette should be saved from
the snare which had been prepared for her.
It was with strange sensations that he walked once more through
familiar thoroughfares, and noted that nothing was changed but
himself. Since last he trod them he had learnt some of life's saddest
lessons; but hope, and faith, and love remained to keep his spirit
young. It was no light matter that he had been awakened from the dull
lethargy of life into which he had fallen in the earlier days of
Princetown; that his faith in human nature had been restored; that he
had won affection and esteem from strangers who even now, though the
broad seas divided them, had none but kindly thoughts of him. Foul as
was the plot of which he was the victim, he had cause to be deeply
grateful.
He took lodgings on the Lambeth side of Westminster Bridge, two modest
rooms, for which he paid seven shillings a week; food would cost him
little; his modest resources must be carefully husbanded, and he would
be contented with the humblest fare. His task might take long in the
accomplishment, and to find himself stranded in the City of Unrest
would be fatal. His experiences had been so far valuable that they
assisted him to a more comprehensive view of the circumstances of
life. When he was in England he had thought little of the morrow. Now
it had to be reckoned with.
In considering how he should set about his task, he had decided that
it would be advisable to call in professional assistance. He had not
arrived at this decision without long deliberation. He detested the
means, but repugnant as the course was to him he felt that they were
justifiable. Singularly enough he had, without being aware of it,
taken lodgings in a house, the master of which belonged to the class
he intended to call to his aid. He arrived at this knowledge on the
second day of his tenancy. Children always attracted him, and his
landlady had four, all of them boys, with puffy cheeks and chubby
limbs. Their ages were three, five, seven, and nine, a piece of
information given to him by their mother as he issued from the house
on the second morning, and stood by her side a moment watching their
antics. The word is not exactly correct, for their pastime was
singularly grave and composed. The eldest boy wielded a policeman's
truncheon, and his three brothers, standing in a line, were obeying
the word of command to march, a few steps this way, a few steps that,
to halt, and finally to separate and take up positions in distant
doorways, from which they looked severely at the passers-by.
"Bless their hearts!" said the proud mother. "They're playing
policemen."
"They seem to know all about it," remarked Basil "They ought to,"
responded the mother. "It was born in them."
"Is your husband a policeman?" asked Basil.
"He was, sir," replied the mother; "but he has retired from the force,
and belongs now to a private inquiry."
Basil thought of this as he walked away, after patting the children on
the head, who did not know exactly whether to be gratified at the mark
of attention, or to straightway take the stranger into custody. He had
not seen his landlord yet, and it had happened, when he engaged the
rooms from the woman, that, with the usual carelessness of persons in
her station of life, she had not asked her new lodger's name, being
perfectly satisfied of his respectability by his paying her a
fortnight's rent in advance, and informing her that he would continue
to do so as long as he remained in the house. Basil was afraid, if he
went to a regularly established private office, that the fees demanded
would be higher than his slender resources warranted, and bent as he
was upon economising, he saw here a possible opportunity of obtaining
the assistance he needed at a reduced rate. Therefore on the evening
of this day he tapped at the door of the sitting-room, in which his
landlord was playing a game of "old maid" with three of his children,
and intimated his desire for a little chat with the man after the
youngsters had gone to bed.
"On business," said Basil.
"No time like the present, sir," said the landlord, who saw "with half
an eye," as he subsequently expressed himself, that his tenant was a
gentleman: "I'll come up to your room at once, unless you prefer to
talk here."
"We shall be more private up-stairs," said Basil, and up-stairs they
went to discuss the business.
As a preliminary the landlord handed Basil a card, with "Mr.
Philpott," printed on it, and in a corner, "Private Inquiry," to which
was added the address of the house in which they were sitting.
"Do you carry on your business here, then?" inquired Basil. "Partly,
sir," replied Mr. Philpott. "I am engaged at an office in Surrey
Street, but it is seldom that my time is fully occupied there, and as
I am not on full pay I stipulate that I shall be free to undertake any
little bit of business that may fall into my hands in a private way."
"That may suit me," said Basil. "To be frank with you, I was looking
out for some one who would do what I want at a reasonable rate; I am
not overburdened with funds, but I can afford to pay moderate fees.
Will that meet your views?"
"Yes, sir. If you will tell me what you want done I will let you know
about how much it will cost."
Basil paused before he commenced; he was dealing with a stranger, and
he did not wish to disclose his name.
"What passes between us is in confidence, Mr. Philpott?"
"Altogether in confidence, sir. That is one of the rules of our
profession. Whether anything comes of it or not, I shall say nothing
of my client to a third party, unless you instruct me otherwise."
"You are sometimes consulted by people who desire to conceal their
names?"
"Oh, yes, but they are not generally so frank as you are. You would
rather not tell me your name?"
"That is my desire, if it will make no difference."
"Not an atom of difference. Say Mr. Smith."
"I am obliged to you. I need not, then, disclose my own particular
interest in the matter."
"Not at all, if it will not hamper me."
"I don't see how it will hamper you in the least. Shall I pay you a
modest retainer? Will a guinea do?"
"A guinea will do, sir. Thank you."
"You had better take notes of what I say, Mr. Philpott." The private
inquiry agent produced his pocket-book. "Write down first the names I
give you."
Mr. Philpot took down the names and addresses of Mr. Bartholomew
Whittingham and of the lawyers in London who transacted that
gentleman's affairs when Basil was last in England; also the name of
Mr. Basil Whittingham.
"Any address to this name, sir?" asked Mr. Philpott.
"None. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham is, or was--for I understand he is
dead--a gentleman of considerable fortune; Mr. Basil Whittingham is
his nephew; the lawyers whose names I have given you transacted the
old gentleman's business for many years, but I am not aware whether
they have continued to do so."
"That is easily ascertained."
"Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had neither wife nor children, and some
years since it was his intention to leave all his property to his
nephew. The young man, however, offended his uncle, and the old
gentleman thereupon informed his nephew that he had destroyed the will
he had made in his favour, and that Mr. Basil Whittingham might
consider himself disinherited. Do you understand it thus far?"
"It is perfectly clear, sir."
"The relations between the uncle and his nephew were completely broken
off. Mr. Basil Whittingham--who had some private fortune of his own,
but had got rid of it--being disappointed in his expectations, left
England for Australia, where he resided for a considerable time."
"For how many years shall we say, sir."
"Five or six. When he was near his end the uncle relented of his
decision, and made another will--I am supposing that he really destroyed
the first, which may or may not have been the case--by which his
original intention was carried out, and his nephew was constituted sole
heir to the property."
"Good."
"This property, I believe, was not in real estate, but in cash and
securities which were easily convertible. The knowledge of his
kindness reached the nephew's ears in Australia, and he returned home
and took possession of the fortune."
"Very natural."
"I wish these details to be verified, or otherwise, Mr. Philpott."
"I undertake to do so, sir."
"I wish also to ascertain where Mr. Basil Whittingham is now
residing."
"Can you give a clue, sir?"
"A very slight one, I am afraid. The last I heard of the nephew was
that about eighteen months ago he was in Paris, in the company of a
Mr. Edward Kettlewell, a money-lender, whose offices are, or were, in
London. I am under the impression that Mr. Basil Whittingham and Mr.
Kettlewell may have had some business transactions with each other. If
so, it should not be difficult to trace Mr. Basil Whittingham through
Mr. Kettlewell."
"It may I be more difficult than you imagine," said Mr. Philpott.
"These money-lenders are difficult persons to deal with. They are as
jealous of their clients as a cat of her kittens. 'Hands off,' they
cry; 'this is my bird.' Hold hard a minute, sir. I have this year's
'London Directory,' downstairs."
He left the room, and returned bearing the bulky volume, which he
proceeded to consult. No Mr. Edward Kettlewell, money-lender or
financial agent, was to be found in its pages. There were plenty of
Kettlewells, and a few Edwards among them but not one who dealt in
money.
"Still," said Mr. Philpott, "it may be one of these. He may have
retired, he may have left the country, he may be dead. I will look
through the directories for a few years past, and we will see if we
can find him."
"My information concerning him," said Basil, "is not very exact, and
may after all be incorrect; but with or without his assistance it is
most important that the address of Mr. Basil Whittingham should be
ascertained."
"I will do my best, sir; no man can do more."
"There is another matter, of which I must beg you not to lose sight.
Shortly after Mr. Basil Whittingham arrived in Australia he came in
contact with a gentleman, M. Anthony Bidaud, who owned a plantation in
Queensland. This gentleman had a daughter, quite a child then, whose
name is Annette. M. Anthony Bidaud died suddenly, and left no will. On
the morning of his death a brother and sister--the brother's name,
Gilbert--presented themselves at the plantation, and the brother
administered the estate, and assumed the guardianship of his niece.
The plantation was sold, and the little girl, with her uncle and aunt,
came to Europe. Between the child and Mr. Basil Whittingham there
existed a bond of affection, and since his return to England he has
succeeded--so my information goes--in establishing friendly relations
with M. Gilbert Bidaud. If you are fortunate enough to trace Mr. Basil
Whittingham, my impression is that the knowledge will lead you
straight to M. Gilbert Bidaud and his sister and niece, to discover
whom I consider of far greater importance than the young man. Now, Mr.
Philpott, if you have grasped the situation, are you prepared to set
to work?"
"I will not lose a day, sir; I commence my inquiries to-morrow; and as
you inform me that you are not exactly rich it may be convenient if I
present a weekly account, including all charges to date, so that you
may know how you stand as to expenses. Then you can go on or stop at
your pleasure."
"It will be the best plan," said Basil.
Mr. Philpott was very much puzzled that night when he thought over the
commission entrusted to him. "He says nothing of himself," thought the
private inquiry agent, "nor of the particular interest he has in the
matter--a very particular interest, for I never saw any one more in
earnest than he is. His voice absolutely trembled when he spoke of the
uncle and Mdlle. Annette. Now that would not happen if he were acting
as an agent for another person. What is the conclusion, then? That he
is acting for himself. Does this Mr. Basil Whittingham owe him money?
Perhaps. And yet it does not strike me as an affair of that kind.
Well, at all events, he has acted openly and straightforwardly with me
so far as he and I are concerned. It is not often a client tells you
that he is living under an assumed name. I must ask the wife if his
shirts and handkerchiefs are marked." His curiosity, however, was
destined not to be appeased; his wife told him that Basil's clothing
bore no initials--which, according to Mr. Philpott's way of thinking,
betokened extreme caution, and whetted his curiosity. He did not,
however, allow this to interfere with the zealous exercise of his
duties. Proceeding step by step he presented his weekly reports to
Basil. In the course of a short time Basil's worst suspicions were
confirmed. Newman Chaytor had come home and, representing himself to
be Basil Whittingham, had experienced no difficulty in establishing
his position and administering his uncle's estate. This done, he had
disappeared, and Mr. Philpott was unsuccessful in tracing him.
"But," said Basil, "would not a man, arriving from a country so
distant as Australia, in such circumstances have to prove his
identity?"
Mr. Philpott opened his eyes at this question; to use his own term,
he "smelt a rat."
"Certainly he would," replied Mr. Philpott. "But that was simple
enough in Mr. Basil Whittingham's case. He had been in correspondence
with his uncle for some time previous to his departure from
Australia."
"What do you tell me?" cried Basil.
"It is an established fact," said Mr. Philpott, expressing no
surprise; but Basil's tone no less than his words, opened his eyes
still further. "A few days before Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's death
he wrote to his nephew in Australia, announcing his change of
intention. This letter was forwarded to Mr. Basil by his uncle's
lawyers, who, as you now know, are not the same he employed in former
years."
"Basil Whittingham," said Basil, unable to repress his excitement,
"received these letters in Australia?"
"Undoubtedly. He brought them home with him, and others also which he
had previously received from his uncle's lawyers."
"There was a regular correspondence with them, then?"
"Yes, extending over a considerable time."
This was a fresh and startling revelation to Basil. Newman Chaytor had
not only personated him in England, but had personated him at a
distance, receiving letters intended for him and forging letters in
reply.
"He robbed me of my papers," groaned Basil inly, "and obtained
possession of the means to prove him the man he represented himself to
be. The base, unutterable villain! He smiled in my face, a living lie!
And I trusted in him, believed in him, laid my heart bare to him, and
all the time he was planning my destruction. Just Heaven! Give me the
power to bring him to the punishment he deserves!"
But did the foul plot go farther than this? Every time Chaytor
returned from the colonial post-office it was with the same
answer--there were no letters for Basil Whittingham. And the had
received and answered them; they were on his person while he was
uttering the infamous falsehood, smiling in Basil's face the while. To
what depths would human cunning and duplicity go! The tale, related to
Basil by one who had been wronged, would have sounded incredible. He
would have asked, "Is not this man labouring under some monstrous
delusion?" But the bitter experience was his, and no tale would now be
too wild for disbelief. Again he asked himself, did the plot go
farther than what had already come to his knowledge? Newman Chaytor,
going to the post-office for letters for him, would receive all
addressed to his name.
What if Annette had written? It was more than possible, it was
probable; it was more than probable, it was true. At this conclusion
he quickly arrived. Annette had redeemed her promise; she had written
to him as she said she would, and had received Chaytor's letters in
reply. This explained how it was that Chaytor had been able to find
Annette and her uncle. Did Gilbert Bidaud suspect, and was he trading
upon the suspicion; and were the two villains conspiring for the
destruction of the poor girl's happiness? Basil looked round
pitifully, despairingly, as though invoking the assistance of an
unknown power.
"You seem disturbed," said Mr. Philpott, who had been attentively
observing him.
"The news you have imparted," said Basil, "is terrible. Is there no
way of discovering this Basil Whittingham?"
"We might advertise for him," suggested Mr. Philpott.
Basil shook his head. "If he saw the advertisement he would not answer
it."
"Hallo," thought Mr. Philpott, "our absent friend has done something
that would place him in the criminal dock." Professionally he was in
the habit of hiding his hand, so far as the expression of original
thought went. "But some one who knows him," he said, "might see the
advertisement, and answer for him."
Basil caught at the suggestion. "Advertise, then, and in such a manner
as not to alarm him."
"Trust me for that," said Mr. Philpott, with great confidence. "I know
how to bait my line."
But the advertisements meet with no response. Worked up to fever heat,
Basil instructed Mr. Philpott to spare no expense, and the inquiry was
prosecuted with wasted vigour, for at the end of two months they had
not advanced a step. Basil was in agony; he grew morbid, and raised up
accusing voices against himself. The reflection that Annette, the
sweet and innocent child who had given him her heart, should be in the
power of two such villains as Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor was an
inexpressible torture to him. He had accepted from her father a sacred
trust--how had he fulfilled it? He inflicted exquisite suffering upon
himself by arguing that it was he who had betrayed her, that it was
through him she had been brought to this pass. Had she not known him
she would never had known Newman Chaytor; had he not worked upon her
young affections and extracted her promise to write to him it would
have been impossible that Chaytor should ever have crossed her path.
He pressed into this self-condemnation all the cruel logic his mind
could devise. As he walked the streets at night Annette's image arose
before him and gazed upon him reproachfully. "You have compassed my
ruin." It seemed to say, "you are the cause of my corruption, of my
dishonour." He accepted the accusation, and groaned, "It is I, it is
I, who have made your life a waste!" Of all the dolorous phases
through which he had passed this perhaps was the worst. But he had yet
another bitter experience to encounter. On a Saturday evening Mr.
Philpott said:
"I must speak honestly. I have done all I could, and nothing has come
of it. I might continue as long as you continued to engage my
services, but it would be only throwing your money away."
It was an unusual confession for a man in his line to make. Private
inquiry agents have generally the quality of the leech, and will suck
the last drop of blood out of a client, but Basil had won the
commiseration of his landlord.
"I must take the case into my own hands," said Basil gloomily. "I
intended, indeed, to tell you as much myself--for pressing reasons. I
thank you for all you have done for me."
"Little enough," said Mr. Philpott "I wish you better luck than I have
had. Mind you, I don't give it up entirely, but if I do anything more
it will not be for pay."
"You are, and have been, very kind. Have you made out your account?"
Mr. Philpott presented it, and Basil settled it. Then he said: "Will
you ask your wife to step up and see me?"
"Yes, sir. Now don't you be cast down, sir; it is a long lane that has
no turning, and there's no telling at any moment what may turn up. I
should like to take the liberty of asking one question."
"Ask it."
"If, after all, the search should be successful, is it likely you
would be in a better position than you are now? I am taking a liberty,
I know, but I don't mean it as such. You told me at first you were not
overburdened with funds; if it has been all going out and none coming
in, you must be worse off now."
"I am very much worse off, Mr. Philpott. I will answer your question.
Should I succeed in finding the man I am hunting--a poor hunt it has
proved to be, with no quarry in view--I have reason to believe that I
should obtain funds which would enable me to discharge any liabilities
I may incur."
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Philpott, pushing across the table the money
which Basil had paid him; "then suppose I wait."
"No," said Basil gently, "take it while you are sure of it, and you
have a family."
"But I can afford to wait, sir. If I lost ten times as much it would
not break me."
"I must insist upon you taking it, Mr. Philpott."
It was the pride of the poor gentleman, who would leave himself
penniless rather than leave an obligation unsettled. Mr. Philpott
recognised it as such, and recognised also that it marked the
difference between them--which increased the respect he felt for
Basil. He pocketed the money reluctantly.
"Send your wife up to me, Mr. Philpott."
"I will, sir."
Basil had indeed pressing reasons for dispensing with Mr. Philpott's
further services. The larger expenses of the last few weeks had
brought his funds to a very low ebb. He took out his purse and counted
his worldly wealth; it amounted to less than two pounds. He was
standing at poverty's door. In Australia, on the goldfields, it would
not have mattered so much. Earnest labour there can always ensure at
least food for the passing day; it is only the idle and dissolute and
men without a backbone who have to endure hunger; but here in this
overcrowded city hunger is no rare experience to those who are
willing to toil. Needless to say that the watch and chain which had
been presented to Basil in Princetown was no longer in Basil's
possession. The prospect before him, physically and morally, was
appalling.
There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," said Basil, and Mrs.
Philpott entered the room.
"My husband tells me you wish to see me, sir," said the landlady.
"Take a seat, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil. "I hope you have brought
your weekly account; you should have given it to me yesterday."
"Friday's an unlucky day, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, fencing.
"But to-day is Saturday," said Basil, with a smile.
"There's no hurry, sir, I assure you."
Basil looked at her and shook his head. His look, and the weary,
mournful expression on his face, brought tears to the good creature's
eyes.
"I must insist upon having the account, Mrs. Philpott."
"Well, sir, if you insist," said Mrs. Philpott, reduced to
helplessness; "it is only the rent, seven shillings."
"There are breakfasts," said Basil, "with which you have been good
enough to supply me. I have not kept faith with you. When I took these
rooms I promised to pay always a fortnight's rent in advance; lately I
have not done so."
"How could you pay, sir, when you didn't know what the breakfasts came
to?"
"That does not excuse me. Oblige me by telling me how much I owe you."
"If you won't be denied, sir, it's twelve and tenpence."
"There it is, and I am infinitely obliged to you. Mrs. Philpott, I am
sorry to say I must give you a week's notice."
"You're never going to leave us, sir! Is there anything wrong with the
rooms? We'll have it put right in a twinkling."
"The rooms are very comfortable, and I wish I could remain in them;
but it cannot be."
"You must remain, sir, really you must. I won't take your notice. You
must sleep somewhere Philpott will never forgive me if I let you go."
Her consciousness of the strait he was in, and her pity for it, were
so unmistakable--her desire to befriend him and her sympathy were so
clearly expressed--that Basil covered his eyes with his hand, and
remained silent awhile. When he removed his hand he said:
"I am truly sensible of your goodness, Mrs. Philpott, but it must be
as I say."
"Think better of it, sir," urged Mrs. Philpott. "You are a gentleman
and I am only a common woman, but I am old enough to be your mother,
and I don't think you ought to treat me so--so"--exactly the right
word did not occur to her, so she added--"suddenly. Here you are, sir,
all alone, if you'll excuse me for saying so, and here _we_ are with
more rooms in the house than we know what to do with. Why, sir, if
you'll stay it will be obliging us."
All her kindly efforts were unavailing. She asked him to make the
notice a month instead of a week, and then she came down to a
fortnight, and made some reference to clouds with silver linings; but
Basil was not to be prevailed upon, and she left the room in a
despondent state.
"We'll keep an eye on him if we can," her husband said to her when she
gave him an account of the interview. "I may find out something yet
that will be of use to him. It is a strange case, old woman, and I
don't mind confessing that I can't see the bottom of it."
CHAPTER XXIX.
Sternly resolved to carry out his determination not to occupy rooms
for which he could not pay, Basil left Mrs. Philpott's house on the
appointed day. It was his wish to quit without being observed, but
Mrs. Philpott was on the look-out and lay in wait for him. Before he
reached the street door she barred his way in the landing.
"You're not going away, sir," she said reproachfully, "without wishing
the children good-bye."
In honest and affectionate friendship there is frequently displayed a
pleasant quality of cunning which it does no harm to meet with, and in
her exercise of it Mrs. Philpott pressed her children into the
service. Basil had no alternative but to accompany her into the
parlour, where the four little fellows were sitting at the table
waiting for dinner.
"You'll excuse me a minute, sir," said the good woman; "if I don't
fill their plates before they're five minutes older they'll set up a
howl."
Out she bustled, and quickly returned with a mighty dish of Irish
stew.
"Philpott says," said Mrs. Philpott as she placed the steaming dish on
the table, "that no one in the world can make an Irish stew like mine;
and what father says is law, isn't it, children? I always have dinner
with them, sir; perhaps you'll join us. I really should like to know
if you're of my husband's opinion. Now this looks home-like"--as
Basil, who had independence of spirit, but no false pride, took his
seat at the table where a chair and a plate had already been set for
him--"almost as if father was with us, or as if the children had a
great big brother who had been abroad ever so many years, and had
popped in quite sudden to surprise us."
All the time she was talking she was filling up the plates, and the
little party fell-to with a will, Basil eating as heartily as the
rest. Mrs. Philpott was delighted at the success of her ruse, but she
was careful not to show her pleasure, and when Basil said, in answer
to her inquiry, that he had had enough, she did not press him to take
more. When dinner was over the children had to be taken out of the
room to have their faces washed; they were brought back for Basil to
kiss, and then were sent into the street to play policemen.
"You'll let us hear of you from time to time, sir," said Mrs.
Philpott, as she and Basil stood at the street door. "Philpott is
regular downhearted because of your going. I'm not to let your rooms
again, he says, so there they are sir, ready for you whenever you do
us the pleasure to come. We're getting along in the world, sir, and
the few shillings a-week don't matter to us now."
"I am truly glad to hear it, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil.
"There was a time," continued Mrs. Philpott, "when it did matter, and
when every shilling was worth its weight in gold in a manner of
speaking. We've had our ups and downs, sir, as most people have, and
if it hadn't been for a friendly hand heaven only knows where we
should be at this present minute. We were in such low water, sir, we
didn't know which way to turn. Philpott says to me, 'Mother,' he
says---- I hope I'm not wearying you, sir," said Mrs. Philpott,
breaking off in the middle of her sentence.
"Pray go on," said Basil, feeling that it would be churlish to check
her.
"It's a comfort, sir," continued Mrs. Philpott, "to open one's heart.
It doesn't make me melancholy to look back to those days, though my
spirit was almost broke at the time; I'm proud and grateful that we've
tided them over, with the help of God and the good friend He sent us.
'Mother,' says Philpott to me, 'I'm on my beam ends. We're in a wood,
and there's no way out of it.' 'Don't you go on like that, father,' I
says; 'you keep on trying, and you'll see a way out presently.' For
I'm one of that sort of women, sir, if you won't mind my saying as
much, who never give in and don't know when they're beat. I don't mean
to say I don't suffer; I do, but I put a brave face on it and never:
say die. 'You keep on trying, father,' I says. 'Now haven't I kept on
trying?' says he. 'For eight weeks I've answered every advertisement
in the paper, and applied for a job in hundreds and hundreds of places
without getting the smell of one. I'm ashamed to look you in the face,
mother, for if it wasn't for you our boy would starve.' We only had
one then, sir, and as for being ashamed to look me in the face
Philpott ought to have been ashamed to say as much. All that I did was
to get a day's charing wherever I could, and a bit of washing when I
heard there was a chance of it, and that was how we kept the wolf from
the door. But I fell ill, sir, and couldn't stir out of doors, and was
so weak that I couldn't stand at the wash-tub without fainting away.
Things were bad indeed then, and Philpott took on so that I did lose
heart a bit. Well, sir, when we'd parted with everything we could
raise a penny upon, when we didn't know where we should get our next
meal from though it was only dry bread, heaven sent us a friend. An
old friend of Philpott's, sir, that he hadn't seen for years, and that
he'd been fond of and kind to when he was a young man, before he kept
company with me. Philpott had lent him a couple of pound, and he'd
gone off to America, and, now, sir, now, in the very nick of time, he
came home to pay it back. Did you ever see the sun shine as bright as
bright can be in a dark room at ten o'clock at night--for that was the
time when Philpott's friend opened the door, and cried, 'Does Mr.
Philpott live here?' It shone in our room, sir, though there was never
a candle to light it up, and Philpott was sitting by me with his head
in his hands. Philpott starts up in a fright--when people are in the
state we were brought to the least unexpected, thing makes their
hearts beat with fear--he starts up and says, 'Who are you?' 'That's
Philpott's voice,' says our friend. 'I'd know it among a thousand; but
don't you know mine, old fellow? And what are you sitting in the dark
for?' Then he tells us who he is, and Philpott takes hold of his hand
and says he's glad to see his old friend--which he couldn't, sir--and,
ashamed of his poverty, pulls him out of the room. He comes back
almost directly, and stoops over me and kisses me, and whispers that
heaven has sent us a friend when most we needed one, and I feel my
dear man's tears on my face. Then, sir, if you'll believe me it seemed
to me as if the sun was shining in our dark room, and all the trouble
in my mind flew straight away. From that time all went well with us;
it was right about face in real earnest. Philpott's friend had another
friend who got my husband in the force, and now we've got a bit of
money put by for a rainy day, and don't need the rent for a couple of
empty rooms."
Mrs. Philpott's account of her troubles was much longer than she
intended to make it, and her concluding words were spoken wistfully
and appealingly. They were not lost upon Basil, but they did not turn
him from his purpose. With a kindly pressure of her hand, and
promising to call and see her unless circumstances prevented--which
meant unless his fortunes remained in their present desperate
condition--he took his leave of her and passed out of her sight.
"Poor young gentleman," sighed the good woman. "I would have given the
world if he'd have stopped with us. What on earth will become of him?
It's hard to come down like that. Better to be born poor and remain
so, than to be born rich and lose everything. His face was the image
of despair, though he was politeness itself all the time I was
talking. I sha'n't be able to get him out of my head."
She and her husband talked of him that night, and if kind wishes and
sympathising words were of practical value, Basil would have been
comforted and strengthened.
Strengthened in some poor way he was. It had been his hard fate to be
made the victim of as black treachery as one man ever practised
towards another; but he had met with kindness also at the hands of
strangers. He strove to extract consolation from that reflection.
Heaven knows he needed it, for he was now to make acquaintance with
poverty in its grimmest aspect. He was absolutely powerless. He had
debated with himself various courses which might be said to be open to
a man in his extremity, but he saw no possible road to success in any
one of them. The most feasible was that he should go to a capable
lawyer and endeavour to enlist his skill on his behalf. But what
lawyer would listen to a man who presented himself with a tale so
strange and without the smallest means to pay for services rendered?
It would be a natural conclusion that he was mad, or that he, being
Newman Chaytor, was adopting this desperate expedient to prove himself
to be Basil Whittingham. That he was a gentleman was true; he had the
manners of one, but so had many who were not gentlemen. Then his
appearance was against him; he had no other clothes than those he
stood upright in, and these were shabby and in bad repair. Even if he
had possessed assurance, it would not have served him--nay, it would
have told against him, as proclaiming, "Here is a plausible scoundrel,
who seeks to deceive us by swagger." He was truly in a helpless
plight.
The necessity of living was forced upon him, and to live a man must
have money to purchase food. Recalling the efforts made by Mr.
Philpott in his days of distress, as described by that man's good
wife, he applied for situations he saw advertised, but there were a
hundred applicants for every office, and he ever arrived too late, or
was pushed aside, or was considered unsuitable. In one of his
applications he was very nearly successful, but it came to a question
of character, and he had no reference except the editor of the
_Princetown Argus_, who was fourteen thousand miles away. What wonder
that he was laughed at and dismissed? Then he thought that his
experiences on the goldfields and his training as a journalist might
help him, and he wrote some sketches and articles and sent them to
magazines and newspapers. He heard nothing of them after they were
dropped into the editorial boxes. The fault may have been his own, for
he had no heart to throw spirit into his effusions, but his state was
no less pitiable because of that. He felt as if indeed he had for ever
lost his place in the world. By day he walked the streets, and at
night occupied a bed in the commonest of London lodging-houses. At
first he paid fourpence for his bed, but latterly he could afford no
more than two-pence, and presently he would not be able to afford even
that. It was a stipulation of his nightly accommodation that he should
turn out early in the morning, and this he was willing enough to do,
for he had but little sleep, and the beings he was compelled to herd
with filled him with dismay. It was not their poverty that shocked
him; it was their language, their sentiments, their expressions of
pleasure in all that was depraved. He had had no idea of the existence
of such classes, and now that he came face to face with them he shrank
from them in horror. Had they been merely thieves it is possible that
he might have tolerated them, and even entertained pity for them,
arguing that they were born to theft, that their parents had been
thieves before them and had taught them no better; or that they had
been driven into the ranks by sheer necessity; but it was the
corruption of their souls that terrified him; it was the consciousness
that with vice and virtue placed for them to choose, with means for
each, they would have chosen vice and revelled in it. Amid all this
corruption and degradation he maintained a pitiable self-respect and
kept his soul pure. Often did he go without a meal, but he would
listen to no temptations, electing by instinct, rather to suffer
physically than to lower his moral nature to the level of those by
whom he was surrounded. When he walked the streets by day he did not
walk aimlessly and without purpose. It was probable enough that Newman
Chaytor was in London, and if so the fortune of which he had obtained
fraudulent possession would enable him to live in the best and most
fashionable quarters of the city. Basil haunted those better
localities, and watched for the villain who had betrayed him in the
vicinity of the grand hotels, the clubs, and the resorts of fashion in
the parks. Sometimes at night he lingered about the high-class
theatres to see the audience come out. In the event of his meeting his
enemy he had no settled plan except that he would endeavour to find
out where he lived, and through that knowledge to obtain access to
Annette.
One night he met with a strange adventure. He had come from Covent
Garden, where, mingling in the crowd, he had watched the audience
issue from the Opera House, in which a famous songstress had been
singing. It was an animated, bustling scene, but it was impossible for
a man in such sore distress to take pleasure in it; neither did he
draw bitterness from the gaiety; he merely looked on with a pathos in
his eyes which was now their usual expression. Frequently, in his days
of prosperity, had he attended the opera, as one of the fashion, and
heard this same songstress, whose praise was on every man's lips; now
he was an outcast, hungry, almost in rags, without even a name which
the world would accept as his by right of birth and inheritance. It
was a cold night, but dry--that was a comfort to a poorly clad man.
Indeed, there is in all conditions of life something to be grateful
for, if we would only seek for it.
A curious fancy entertained Basil's mind. He heard the carriages
called out--"Lady This's carriage," "Lord That's carriage," "The
Honourable T'other's carriage." How if "Mr. Basil Whittingham's
carriage" was called out? So completely was he for the moment lost to
the sad realities of his position, so thoroughly did the fancy take
possession of him, that he actually listened for the announcement, and
had it been made it is probable that he would have pushed his way
through the crowd with the intention of entering the carriage. But
nothing of the kind occurred. Gradually the theatre was emptied, and
the audience wended homeward, riding or afoot, north, south, east,
and west, till only the fringe was left--night-birds who filtered
slowly to their several haunts, not all of which could boast of roof
and bed. A night-bird himself, Basil walked slowly on towards
Westminster. He had fivepence in his pocket, and no prospect of adding
anything to it to-morrow, and he was considering whether he should
spend twopence for a bed, or pass the night on a bench on the
Embankment. It was a weighty matter to decide, as important to him as
the debate which was proceeding in the House, upon which a nation's
destiny hung. In Parliament Street a young couple brushed past him;
they had been supping after the theatre, and Basil heard the man
address the woman, as "Little Wifey," and saw her nestle closer to her
husband's arm as he uttered this term of endearment. For a moment
Basil forgot his own misery, and a bright smile came to his lips; but
it faded instantly, and he trudged wearily on discussing the momentous
question of bed or bench. Undecided, he found himself on Westminster
Bridge, where he stood gazing upon the long panorama of lights from
lamps and stars. Were this wonderful and suggestive picture situated
in a foreign country, English people would include it in their touring
jaunts and come home and rave about it, but as it is situated in
London its beauties are unheeded.
Basil, leaning over the stone rampart, looking down into the river,
was presently conscious that some person was standing by his side. He
turned his head, and saw a woman, who gazed with singular intentness
upon him. She was neither young nor fair, but she had traces of beauty
in her face which betokened that in her springtime she could not have
been without admirers. Her age was about thirty, and she was well
dressed. So much Basil took in at a glance, and then he averted his
eyes and resumed his walk across the bridge. The woman followed him
closely, and when he paused and gently waved her off, she said:
"Why do you avoid me? I want nothing of you."
"Good-night, then," said Basil in a kind voice, and would have
proceeded on his way if the woman had not prevented him.
"No, not good-night yet," she said. "Did you not understand me when I
said I want nothing of you? It is true; but happening to catch sight
of your face as I was crossing the bridge I could not pass without
speaking to you. It would have brought a punishment upon me--knowing
what I know."
Being compelled by her persistence to a closer observance of her,
Basil was moved to a certain pity for her. There were tears in her
eyes and a pathos in her voice which touched him. Desolate outcast as
he was, whom the world, if he proclaimed himself, would declare to be
an impostor, what kind of manhood was that which would refuse a word
of compassion to a woman who appeared to be in affliction? His pitying
glance strangely affected her; she clung to the stone wall and burst
into a passion of tears.
"I am sorry for your trouble," said Basil, waiting till she had
recovered herself. "Can I do anything to help you?"
"Nothing," she replied. "No one can help me. I have lost all I love in
the world. This is a strange meeting; I have been thinking of you
to-day, but never dreamt I should see you to-night. To-night of all
nights!"
"Thinking of me!" exclaimed Basil in amazement.
"You will not consider it strange," said the woman, "when you know
all. I could not stop at home; I have been sitting by her side since
three o'clock, and then a voice whispered to me, 'Go out for an hour,
look up to Heaven where the Supreme Guide is, and pray for a miracle.'
So I came out, and have been praying to Him to give her back to me."
"Poor woman!" murmured Basil, for now he knew from her words that she
had lost one who was dear to her. "I pity you from my heart."
"You are changed," said the woman; "not in face, for I should have
known you anywhere, but in your voice and manner. It is gentler,
kinder than it used to be."
Basil did not answer her: he thought that grief had affected her mind,
and that her words bore no direct relation to himself. He had no
suspicion of the truth which was subsequently to be revealed to him.
"It is many years since we met," she said. "Have you been long in
England?"
"A few months," said Basil.
"You have not made your fortune?
"No, indeed."
"You look poor enough. Have you no money?"
"None," said Basil; and added hastily, "or very little."
"You have been unfortunate since your return home?"
"Very unfortunate."
She opened her purse, and took out a sovereign and held it out to him.
"Thank you no," said Basil, his wonder growing.
"You are changed indeed," said the woman, "to refuse money. It is
honestly come by. Two years ago I was married, and my husband, who
died a year afterwards, left me a small income. It was more than I
deserved, for I deceived him by telling him I was a widow. It made no
difference, but still it was a deceit. Will you not take it?"
"No."
"And yet you need it?"
"Do not urge me further. Good night."
"Wait one moment. I was going to tell you to-night; but you had best
see for yourself. It is your right. Here is my address; my mother and
sister live with me. Come and see me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.
Promise me."
"No, I cannot promise," said Basil, moving away. "You must promise,"
said the woman, moving after him. "I will not leave you till you do. I
tell you it is your right--it is more than your right, it is your
duty."
Seeing there was no other way to release himself from her, Basil said,
"I promise."
"On your sacred word of honour," said the woman.
"On my sacred word of honour."
"I will trust you; there was a time when I would not. Good night.
To-morrow, at ten."
She glided away, and Basil was once more alone. The misery of his own
circumstances was no encouragement to him to dwell upon the adventure,
and he dismissed it from his mind, accounting for the woman's strange
utterances by the supposition that she was of weak intellect. He
passed the night in the open air, and in the morning bought one
pennyworth of bread--it was cheaper than buying a penny roll--for his
breakfast. This and water from a drinking-fountain satisfied hunger
and thirst.
"A man can live upon very little," he said to himself, "but how is it
going to end?"
It was a pertinent question, and answered itself. The end seemed near
and certain.
It was a bright morning, and he walked in the sun. He did not forget
the promise he had made to the woman; it was a promise to which he had
pledged himself, and even if mischief resulted it must be fulfilled.
The name on the card was Mrs. Addison the address, Queen Street, Long
Acre. Thither he went, and paused before a milliner's shop, the
windows of which were partially masked by shutters. Over the shop
front was the name Addison, and the goods displayed bore evidence of a
certain prosperity; they were not of the poorest kind. An elderly,
grey-haired woman came forward as he entered. Her face was sad and
severe, and there was no civility in her voice as she informed him in
answer to his question, that he had come to the right address.
"Go through that door," she said with a frown, "up-stairs to the first
landing. My daughter expects you. I must ask you to make your visit
short."
It was not only that her voice was cold, it expressed repugnance, and
without requesting an explanation Basil followed her and mounted the
stairs. The sound of his footsteps brought the woman he had met on
Westminster Bridge to the door of the front room.
"You have kept your promise," she said. "Come in."
A younger woman than she rose as he entered, cast one brief glance at
him, and immediately left the room. The window blinds were down and
the gas was lighted. His strange acquaintance of the previous night
was dressed in deep mourning. Her face was white and swollen with
weeping.
"I prayed for a miracle last night," she said, "but my prayers were
not answered. I have also repented that I asked you to come, but still
it is right, it is right. If you have a heart it should be a
punishment to you for all you have made me suffer."
"I do not in the least understand you," said Basil.
Had it not been for her grief her look would have been scornful. She
paid no heed to his words, but continued:
"When I said last night that I wanted nothing of you I said what I
meant. When you go from here I wish never to see your face again. It
will be useless for you to trouble me."
"I shall not trouble," said Basil in a gentle tone which seemed to
make her waver; but she would not yield to this softer mood.
"That you are poor to-day," she said, "and I am well-to-do, so far as
money goes, proves that there is a Providence. Years ago--very soon
after your desertion of me--I cast you from my heart, and resolved
never to admit you into it again. It might have been otherwise had you
behaved honestly to me, for I loved you, and you made me believe that
you loved me. It was better for me that the tie which bound us should
be broken. I have led a respectable life, and shall continue to do so.
I am the happier for it."
"For heaven's sake," cried Basil, "explain what it is you accuse me
of."
"Ask your own heart. Although there is an apparent change in you, you
are still the same, I see, in cunning and duplicity. But I will listen
to no subterfuges; there is no possibility of your justifying
yourself, and your power over me is gone. Towards you my heart is cold
as stone."
"You are labouring under some singular delusion," said Basil, "and I
can but listen to you in wonder."
"Still the same, still the same," said the woman. "You used to boast
of your superior powers, and that you were so perfect an actor that
you could make the cleverest believe that black was white. See what it
has brought you to"--she pointed to his rags. "I have no pity for you;
as you have sown, so have you reaped. So might I have reaped had I not
seen the pit you treacherously dug for me; so might I have reaped had
I not repented before it was entirely too late. I owe you this much
gratitude--that it was your base desertion of me that showed me my
sin. Had you remained I might have sunk lower and lower till grace and
redemption were lost to me for ever. What expiation was possible for
me I have made, with sincere repentance, with sincere sorrow for my
error. It would be well for you if you could say the same. You saw my
mother downstairs. She cast me off, as you know, but she opened her
arms to me when I convinced her of my sincerity, when I vowed to her
to live a pure life. I am again her daughter. You see these drawn
blinds, you see my dress, you see that this is a house of mourning.
Can you guess what for?"
"Indeed I cannot," said Basil, "except that you have lost one who is
dear to you. What comfort can I, a stranger, offer you that you cannot
find for yourself? It is small consolation to say that your loss is a
common human experience. Be faith your solace. There is a hereafter."
Her scorn and horror of him, now plainly expressed in her face, so
overpowered her that she allowed him to finish without interruption.
"You, a stranger to me!" she cried. "Will you still wear the mask--or
is it, _is_ it possible that the rank selfishness and callousness of
your nature can have made you forget? All was over between us--but a
link remained, a link of sweet and beautiful love which the good Lord
has taken from me. I bow my head; I will not, I must not rebel!" She
folded her hands, and, moving to the darkened window, stood for a few
moments there engaged in silent prayer. Presently she spoke again. "My
fond hopes pictured a bright and happy future for her. I, her mother,
would be for ever by her side, guiding her from the pitfalls which lay
before young and confiding innocence. Her life should be without
stain, without reproach. She did not know, she would never have known
the stain which rests upon mine. It is revealed to her now. Forgive
me, my darling, and look down with pity upon me! Yes, out of my sin I
created a garden of love--for her, who was to me what sight would be
to the blind, through whose sweet and pure influence I was led to the
Divine throne. My fond hopes have been dashed to the ground--they are
dead, never to be revived. Come with me."
With noiseless footsteps she walked out of the room, and Basil
followed her to another on the same landing. Softly, tenderly, as
though fearful of disturbing what was therein, she turned the handle,
and she and Basil stood in the presence of death.
Of death in its fairest form. Upon the bed lay the body of a young
girl whose age might be ten. The sweet beauty, the peace, the perfect
rest in the child's face, moved Basil to tears; she looked like a
sleeping angel.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" sobbed the bereaved mother, sinking to
her knees. "Pray for me; intercede for me. Unconsciously I strayed; I
saw not my sin. Oh, child of shame and love, bring peace to my
breaking heart, and do not turn from me when we meet above!"
Basil spoke no word; some consciousness of the truth was slowly coming
to him. There was a silence in the room for several minutes; then the
woman rose to her feet.
"Kiss her," she said. "When you last saw her she was a baby. If she
were living, and saw your face, she would look upon you as a stranger;
but now she knows the truth."
Then Basil understood. "Yes," he said inly, "now she knows the truth."
He stooped and kissed the child's lips, and the mother's tears broke
out afresh; checking them presently, she said:
"It was by the strangest chance I met you last night. I have done what
I conceived to be my duty. Now go," and she pointed to the door.
"I will obey you," said Basil, "but I must say a word to you first, in
the next room."
She looked at him for a moment hesitatingly, then nodded her head, and
they left the chamber of death as noiselessly as they had entered it.
"I did not intend it," said the woman, and taking a tress of fair hair
from her bosom, and dividing it, she offered him a portion. "You may
like to keep it as a remembrance."
"I thank you humbly," said Basil; "it may help me on my way."
A look of incredulous wonder flashed into her face, but remained there
only an instant, and she shook her head as though she were answering a
question she had asked mutely of herself.
"Before us lies an open grave," she said. "You and I speak now
together for the last time on earth. I forgive you, as I hope to be
forgiven. You have something to say to me?"
"Yes; and I entreat you, however strange you may think my question, to
suspend your indignation for awhile, and answer me in plain words."
"I will endeavour to do so, if it is such a question as you should
address to me."
"I will not fret you by arguments or expostulations. You have suffered
deeply, and from my heart I pity you. Plainly, whom do you take me
for?"
"For yourself--for no other man, be sure."
"But let me hear my name from your lips."
"As you insist upon it," she said, with sad contempt, "though such a
farce should not be played at such a time; but when were you otherwise
than you are? You are Newman Chaytor."
"I," said Basil, speaking very slowly, "am Newman Chaytor?"
"You are he; there lives not such another, and remembering all that
has passed between us, remembering your vows and oaths, for that I
say, thank God! If you have any reason for going by another name, for
wishing to be known by another name--and you may have, heaven help
you!--be sure that I will not betray you. You are dead to me, as I am
dead to you."
"Look at me well," said Basil. "If you were upon your oath would you
swear that I am the man you say I am?"
"To swear otherwise would be to swear falsely. What crime have you
committed that you should stand in dread of being known?"
"None. It is not to be expected that you will believe when I tell you
that you are the victim of delusion, as I am the victim of a foul and
monstrous plot."
"Who would believe you? Denial is easy enough, and of course you will
deny, having reason to do so. But come into the light."
She raised the blind, and he stepped to the window where the light
shone upon his face.
"You are Newman Chaytor," she repeated, letting the blind fall.
He bowed his head, and said, "You have just cause for your pitiless
resentment and whether I am or am not the man you believe me to be, I
bow my head before you in sorrow and shame. The day may come--I do not
know how, or in what way it may be brought about, for I am at the
extremity of misery--when, showing you this"--he touched his breast,
where he placed the lock of her child's hair--"and recalling this
interview, you will see the error into which you have innocently fallen.
Till then, or for ever, farewell."
"One moment," said the woman, with trembling accents, "what has passed
cannot be recalled, nor will I speak of the folly of your denial of
the solemn truth. It is a meaningless proceeding."
"To me," said Basil, interrupting her, "it means everything. Honour,
truth, fidelity, faith in virtue and goodness, all are at stake. It
may never come to an issue, for the end seems near, but heaven may yet
have some mercy in store for me. As you prayed for a miracle last
nigh: which was not vouchsafed you, so will I pray for a miracle to
help me to a just conclusion of my bitter trials." A pitiful smile
accompanied his words. "It is not for me, one suffering man among
millions happier, I trust, than myself, to doubt Divine Goodness. The
eternal principle of Justice remains and will, now or hereafter,
assert itself, as it has ever done. May peace and comfort, and
happiness be yours."
"I offered you money last night," said the woman, impressed by what he
said, but making no comment upon it. "Will you not accept it now?"
"I, thank you--no," he said bowing to her with humility. "Farewell."
CHAPTER XXX.
Basil's mind was quite clear when he left the house, and as he had
bowed his head to the bereaved mother when she declared him to be
Newman Chaytor, the villain who had betrayed and cast her off, so did
he bow his head to the elder woman in the shop below, who flung upon
him a look of anger and abhorrence as he passed from her sight. In the
light of the infamous wrong inflicted upon this family, the wrong
inflicted upon himself seemed to be lessened. Suffering and
humiliation were his portion, but not shame; herein Newman Chaytor was
powerless. There had grown in his mind an ideal presentment of
womanhood which shed a refined and delicate grace upon all his
dealings with the sex. His knowledge of the world had taught him that
some had fallen and were vile, but he had no harsh thoughts even for
these hapless ones, whom he regarded with tender pity. There were
women with whom he had come in contact whose images were touched with
sacred light. His mother was one, Annette was another; and it was
partly this good influence which enabled him to bear, with some degree
of moral fortitude, the weight of the troubles through which he was
passing. A heavy load had been added to these troubles by the
accusation which now had been brought against him; another man's sins
had been thrust upon his shoulders, and the circumstantial evidence
against him was so strong that he could scarcely hope to break it
down. He had said that he would pray for a miracle to aid him in his
bitter trials, and indeed it seemed as if nothing short of a miracle
would serve him. But although none occurred to bring the truth to
light, new experiences were awaiting him as strange as any within his
ken, and one, with some sweet touch of humanity in it, was to come
indirectly through the enemy who had played him false.
Of the fourpence he had left one penny went that day for food, and he
contrasted his position with that of a shipwrecked man cast away in a
boat, helpless on a wild and desolate sea, with starvation staring him
in the face. "Among these millions," he thought, "I cannot be the only
one; there must be others adrift as I am. Heaven pity them!" It was
curious that, revolving this theme in his mind, he looked about for
men and women whose state resembled his own, and fancying he saw some,
longed for money more for their sake than for his own. Only in small
natures is grief entirely selfish. One question continually presented
itself. What could he do to better himself--what do to turn the tide?
He saw people begging in the roadways, and others fighting desperately
for dear life, their weapons a few boxes of matches. If he had known
where to purchase half-a-dozen boxes for the threepence which still
remained of his fortune he would have risked the venture, but he did
not know where to go for the investment, and those he asked for
information scowled at him or turned away, conscious perhaps that
their ranks were overcrowded, or that the addition of one to the horde
of mendicants would lessen their chances. During these times he gained
pregnant knowledge of a social nature. Living entirely in the streets,
pictures presented themselves in poor and rich thoroughfares alike.
His poverty made the contrasts startling. Ladies in carriages nursing
over-fed lapdogs; small morsels of humanity shuffling along with their
toes peeping out of their boots. In Covent Garden hothouse fruit at
fabulous prices, and white-faced mortals picking up refuse and
stealthily devouring it. Grand parties in great mansions, priceless
jewels flashing as the ladies stepped out of their carriages; in a
street hard by a woe-worn girl asleep on a doorstep, with a pallid
baby in her arms. These pictures did not embitter him; he pitied the
poor and envied not the rich, and had it been his good fortune to be
employed as a descriptive writer, his pen would not have been dipped
in gall. He did not purposely linger as he walked the streets, for the
reason that when he lagged he attracted the notice of policemen, who
followed him slowly, and quietly noted his movements. On such
occasions, feeling himself an object of suspicion, he would quicken
his steps to escape closer observation. Through all these sad
wanderings he was ever on the watch for Newman Chaytor; he would not
allow himself to sink into absolute apathy; while life remained he
would do what lay in his power to lift himself out of the slough of
despond. Only when his strength was exhausted would he lie down and
die. Thus did he endure three more doleful days, at the end of which
his last penny was spent. "The end is coming," he thought, and waited
for it. He had been five nights now without a bed, and on three of
these nights had been soaked to the skin. This exposure, with lack of
nourishing food, had already told upon a system constitutionally sound
and healthy. That the end was coming was no idle reflection; he felt
it in his bones. Whither should he turn for succour? Naturally strong,
and willing and anxious to work even for the barest pittance, he found
himself more forsaken and powerless in this city of unrest than
Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island. Charity is proverbially cold;
it is frozen indeed when a willing man is driven to such a pass.
Another day passed, and another soaking night, and then fever
threatened. Delirious fancies took possession of him, haunted,
tortured and deluded him. He laughed aloud in the street, and aroused
to momentary reason by the looks of the passers-by, shambled away in
silence that engirt him as with iron bands--to break out again
presently when he was in another street. Each night some impulse for
which he sought no reason led his steps in the direction of the bridge
where he had met Newman Chaytor's victim; had he seen her again, and
she had offered him money, it is doubtful whether he would have had
the strength to refuse.
Exhausted and spent, having been thirty hours without food, he clung
to the buttress of the bridge, and with dim eyes looked forward on the
river's lights. There seemed to be some meaning in their unrest; from
the mysterious depths messages from another world came to his dazed
mind. "Presently, presently," he thought, "but I should like first to
see Annette, and undeceive her. I would give my best heart's blood to
set myself straight with her. Too late to save her--too late, too
late!" He had no idea of seeking eternal rest by deliberate action,
only that he felt it was very near, and could not be long delayed.
How he craved for food! How the demon hunger was tearing at his
vitals! His head fell forward, his mouth sucked his coat sleeve. A
policeman touched his arm; he languidly raised his head, and the
policeman gazed steadily at him, and then proceeded on his beat
without speaking a word. Maybe he recognised that a case of genuine
suffering was before him. Basil remained in the same position, his
eyes turned in the direction the officer was taking. But he did not
see him; he was blind to all surrounding things. Therefore it was that
he had no consciousness of the presence of an old woman, poorly
dressed, who had stopped when the policeman stopped, and appeared
rooted to the spot as her eyes fell upon Basil's face. Suddenly the
emotion which for a brief space had overpowered her, found voice. With
a piercing scream she tottered towards Basil, cleared the grey hair
from her eyes, and peered up into his face. Then with a piercing
scream, she cried:
"Newman! My son, my darling, darling son! O God be thanked for
restoring you to me!"
She threw her trembling arms around him, but Basil did not feel them,
and had no understanding of her words. With a dolorous groan he slid
from her arms to the ground, and lay there without sense or motion.
Nature's demands had reached a supreme point, and the groan which
issued from his lips was the last effort of exhausted strength.
Although the bridge appeared to be deserted, with only the policeman,
the old woman, and Basil in view, a small knot of persons, as if by
magic, instantly surrounded the fallen man and the woman who knelt by
his side. The policeman, attracted by the scream, turned, and slowly
sauntered towards the group.
"What's the matter, mother?" asked an onlooker.
"It's my son," moaned the woman, "my dear son, Newman. He has come
from the goldfields, and is dying, dying."
"Don't look much like a goldfields man," observed one of the group.
"Where's his nuggets?"
"He has had a hard time," continued the woman, whom the reader will
recognise as Mrs. Chaytor. "He wrote to me about his hardships. See
what they have brought him to. Will none of you help me? Here is
money--I am not so poor as I look; my poor husband has had a bit of
luck. For pity's sake help me! O my son, my son!"
"I am a doctor," said a gentleman, pushing his way through. Kneeling by
Mrs. Chaytor's side, he lifted Basil's head on his knee, and made a
rapid examination. "The poor fellow is starving, I should say. Run,
one of you, and fetch a quartern of brandy--and some water if you can
get it."
Mrs. Chaytor held out a trembling hand, and a woman snatched the money
from lit and darted off. The policeman, who had by this time joined
the group, shook his head disapprovingly.
"You've seen the last of that," he said.
He was mistaken, however; the woman returned with two flat bottles,
one containing brandy, the other water. With these the doctor
moistened Basil's lips, and forced a few drops down his throat.
"You see," he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Chaytor, "that he is
not yet dead. Whether he lives or dies depends not upon himself. I
think I heard you say you are his mother."
"I am his unhappy mother," sobbed Mrs. Chaytor. "Oh, how I have prayed
for his return, and he is sent to me now like this! It is cruel, it is
unjust. Save him for me, doctor, and I will bless you to the last hour
of my life!"
"We will see what can be done. Do you live near here?"
"We live in Southwark Road."
"Here is a cab passing. Let us get him into it; there is no time to
lose."
A dozen arms were ready to assist him, but Basil had grown so thin
that the kind doctor lifted him with ease, and put him in the cab.
Then, giving the driver the address which he obtained from Mrs.
Chaytor, they drove off quickly, Mrs. Chaytor holding Basil in her
arms, and crooning over him as the priceless treasure of her life.
CHAPTER XXXI.
"Am I awake or dreaming?" This was the thought that passed through
Basil's mind as he opened his eyes. Two weeks had passed since he had
been rescued from death; and for the most of that time he had been
unconscious. But certain floating impressions were his, which now, as
his eyes travelled round the walls of the room in which he lay, he
endeavoured to recall. It was not without difficulty that he
succeeded, but after long and determined--if in his weak state such a
word may be used--effort, these impressions began to marshal
themselves. But just at the moment that memory reasserted its power
an interruption occurred, and Basil, bent upon his mental task, closed
his eyes, and waited once more for solitude.
An old woman stole softly into the room, and crept with noiseless
tread close to his bed. She stooped over him, kissed him tenderly,
arranged the bedclothes about him, smoothed his pillow, and kissed him
again. What touched his feelings deeply was the exceeding tenderness
of these kisses, which could only have been bestowed upon one who was
very dear. What meaning lay in this strange tenderness to him who not
so long since was forsaken by all, and coming from one whose face was
absolutely unfamiliar to him? For with excusable cunning he had
partially raised his lids without being observed, and his half-veiled
eyes rested upon the woman who was attending him. She was an old woman
with grey and white hair, and there were signs of deep suffering on
her lined face. She looked like one who had experienced great trouble,
but Basil noted also in her countenance an expression of gratitude
which relieved the weight of years and care which lay heavy upon her.
He allowed his lids to droop, and setting aside awhile the task upon
which he was engaged when she entered the room, ransacked his memory
for a clue. He could find none, even though his mental efforts sent
him wandering weakly among his childhood's days. While thus engaged,
with his eyes still closed, he was conscious that another person had
entered the room, and the words which passed between them reached his
senses.
"Good morning," in the cheerful voice of a man.
"Good morning, doctor."
"Doctor! He was being cared for, then, and friends were by his side.
Of this he was assured; he required no further proof than the tender
actions of the woman and the soft voice in which she returned the
doctor's greeting. But why should these stranger's care for him? for
strangers to him they were, though their intentions could not be
doubted.
"How is our patient this morning?"
"No worse, I hope, doctor. He has been very, very quiet."
"That is a good sign."
Basil felt the doctor's fingers on his pulse, and then his head was
gently raised, and he knew that his temperature was being taken. He
betrayed no consciousness of their presence; perhaps the conversation
would supply him with the clue for which he was seeking.
"The fever has almost gone; in a few days he will be quite well. Has he
not spoken at all?"
"No, doctor."
"Not even in his sleep?"
"No, doctor, not a word has passed his lips."
"All the signs are good. Has he opened his eyes?"
"No, doctor. If he only would! If he would only recognise me! I could
die happy, then."
"You must not talk of dying. All that belongs to the past."
"No, doctor," said the woman, with a sigh, "it belongs to the future."
"I stand corrected in my philosophy. But, tush, tush! We must not have
you breaking down. I shall insist upon your getting a nurse for our
young gentleman here."
"No, doctor, no," in almost a fierce tone, "no one shall nurse my dear
boy but myself. Have I waited all these years to let another woman
take my place?"
"Be calm. But I warn you that you are overtaxing yourself, and at your
time of life it is not safe. You have done your duty; no woman can do
more."
"I will not allow anybody else to take my place. It belongs to me; it
is my right."
"There, there, don't agitate yourself. I hope our young friend will be
grateful for what you have done for him."
"He will be; he always has been; you do not know his nature--the most
loving, the tenderest. Can you not see it in his face?"
"It is a good face, and I have taken something more than a doctor's
interest in the case. It is, indeed, a mercy that you came across him
on the bridge a fortnight ago. Had he fallen into the hands of
strangers it is hardly likely he would have pulled through. It was
touch and go with him."
"Providence led my steps. I am humbly, humbly grateful."
"You saved him from death--I may tell you plainly now that he is in a
fair way of recovery. And how is our other patient?"
"Still the same, doctor. Will you go and see him?"
"You must come with me; he is suspicious of me, as you know, and would
order me out of the room if you were not by."
"Can I leave my dear boy with safety?"
"With perfect safety; he will not awake from sleep for a long time
yet, and when he does it will not harm him to find himself alone."
"He must not find himself alone--I will not have it, I will not, I
will not!"
"Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will sleep for hours; it
is nature's restorative."
"Doctor," said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that Basil was
deeply moved, "he _will_ recover?"
"He will. Come; I have not much time at my disposal."
He walked to the door, but before she left the room, Basil felt her
tender hands about him again, ministering to his ease and comfort.
Presently he knew by the closing of the door that he was alone again.
Then he applied himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They
came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed through his mind
in fair order.
He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, the meeting of
the young woman on the bridge, his visit to her house, and the cruel
accusation she brought against him. When he struggled against it she
had desired him to come into the light, and had said, "You are Newman
Chaytor." With this pronouncement and condemnation he left her, and
the look of abhorrence the woman's mother had cast upon him lived in
his memory as a burning brand. Then followed the days through which he
starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking forward on the
river's lights, and waiting for death. He had no remembrance of what
subsequently occurred on that night and on many days and nights
afterwards. Sounds of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the
words that were spoken: except that on one occasion something had
reached his senses to the effect that the room in which he lay was
unhealthy, and that it would be better if he were removed to more airy
quarters. He was dimly conscious that this was done, and that gentle
hands had lifted him from his bed, and that he was carried to another
house through fresher air which flowed softly over his fevered brow.
Had this really been done, or was he deluding himself with fancies? He
opened his eyes, and gazed around. The room was large, and there was
but little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. There
was a pleasant paper on the walls, the device being flowers, the
colours of which, though subdued, had some healthful brightness in
them. On a table near his bed were medicine bottles, a basin with soup
jelly in it, and a plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was
being nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was something
more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt devotion, in these
evidences and in what he had lately heard. The woman to whom he owed
this great debt had saved him from death--the doctor had said as much,
and Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have been her
motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had rendered him a service it
would be hard, if not impossible for him to repay. Saved from death!
To what end? That he might live to clear himself from the foul
accusation which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish the
guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, indeed, that could
never be repaid. Exhausted with thought, he sank into slumber, with a
growing hope in his heart that there might yet be some brightness for
him in the future.
When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes they fell upon the
form of the woman who had tended him. She was kneeling by his bed,
gazing upon his face. A shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her
clearly.
"Newman!" she said in a low voice of joy, and she half rose and
stretched forth her arms.
That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the voice of joy, the
agonized appeal of love expressed in her eyes, arrested his speech.
And indeed at that moment there suddenly flashed upon his mind some
glimmering of the truth.
"Who speaks?" he asked, awed and stricken by the appeal.
"Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, my son, don't break
my heart by saying you don't know me! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy,
kiss me, give me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you
turn from me!"
He could not repulse her; he felt that the sentence upon this loving
heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing what he did, he held out
his hands. She seized and kissed them again and again, then fell upon
his neck and pressed him convulsively to her.
"Who are you?" he said softly.
"Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you not hear me?
Have I spoken too soon? O Newman, Newman, give me one kiss, one kind
look. My poor heart is breaking!"
"Tell me who I am," said Basil.
"You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in His infinite mercy has
sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer the little time that remains
to us."
Her mouth was close to his; her quivering lips pleaded for the kiss
for which she yearned. He could not resist her; their lips met; her
tears gushed forth.
"Forgive me," he said: "I have been ill so long, and my mind may be
wandering still. Is it the truth that I am Newman Chaytor?"
"Yes, my dear, yes, you are the only being left to us on earth, the
only link of love we have. If it distresses you to think, if the
effort is too painful, rest till the morning; I will watch over you.
Heaven has heard my prayers; my darling is restored to me. I can die
happy now. The clouds have passed away; there is nothing but sunshine;
your future shall be happy; we will make it so. Fortune has smiled
upon us. Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful--and just as you have come
back to us. But we will not speak of it to-night; we will wait till
to-morrow, when you will be stronger."
"No, tell me something more--I am strong enough to listen."
"Oh, my poor boy, you have suffered much, you have had great
troubles!"
"Yes, great and bitter troubles. Bring the lamp nearer. Am I changed?"
"Only a little paler than you used to be and a little thinner. There
is no other change in you. Your father----"
"My father!"
"He lives, Newman, he lives, but he is very ill, and I can see that
the doctor fears for him. But he loves you still. Do not think hardly
of him, Newman; he will not be long with us. Say that you forgive
him!"
"What have I to forgive?"
"There speaks the noble heart of my darling boy. You can bring peace
and comfort to him, as you have brought it to me. You can brighten his
last hours. You will do it, will you not, my dear boy?"
"What lies in my power," said Basil slowly, "to repay you for your
goodness to me, that I will do."
"I was sure of it, I was sure of it. You will find him changed,
Newman; he wanders in his mind sometimes, but you will be gentle with
him."
"Yes I will be gentle with him."
"We will forget the past--there shall be nothing in our hearts but
love and forgiveness."
"Listen a moment. If anybody came to you and said I am not your son,
would you believe him?"
"You ask it to try me, but you little know your mother's heart. If an
angel from heaven were to come and say so, I should not believe him; I
should know it was an evil spirit that spoke. I was going to speak to
you of our good fortune. Shall I go on?"
"Yes, go on."
"It happened only a week before I met you--O, heaven be praised for
it!--on the bridge. Do you remember, when everything went wrong with
us and we were plunged in poverty, that your father still had some
shares in mining companies left, shares that were supposed not to be
worth the paper they were printed on? Do you remember it, my dear
boy?"
"Well?"
"It is only three weeks ago that a gentleman found out where we were
living--we were very, very poor, Newman--and told us that these shares
were valuable, were worth a great deal of money. Fortunately your
father had not destroyed them, and fortunately, too, when the
gentleman called it was on one of your father's sensible days. He
found the shares, and some of them have been sold. We are now
rich--yes, my dear boy, rich. We should never murmur against heaven's
decrees; it was all ordained--that this should happen at the time it
did, and that I should meet you a few days afterwards, in time to save
you. Newman, my dear, you had not a penny in your pockets."
"I was starving."
"My poor boy, my poor, poor boy! Oh, how cruelly we have treated you!"
"You must not say that. You are the soul of goodness; you have saved
me from death, from despair, from shame, from degradation. I have
something to live for now. Hope revives. I have an enemy who has
conspired to ruin my life. What shall be done to him?"
"He must be punished."
"He shall be."
"The monster! To conspire against my dear lad. If I were not old and
weak, I would seek him out myself. He should learn what a mother could
do for a beloved son."
"He shall be punished, I say, and his punishment shall come through
those who are nearest to him, and should be dearest."
"It sounds hard, Newman, but it is just, it is just."
"I am tired," said Basil, "I can talk no more; I want to sleep."
"Sleep, my dear boy; I will watch by you."
"No, you must seek rest yourself; I insist upon it; it will do me good
to know that you are resting after your long labour."
"Are you sure you will not want me?"
"Quite sure; I am gaining strength rapidly; to-morrow I shall be
almost well. Go."
"When did I disobey my dear lad?" said Mrs. Chaytor. "When did I
disregard his slightest wish? He repays me with love, and I am happy,
happy! This is the brightest night of my life, Newman. What have I
done that such joy should be mine? It is more than I deserve. Yes, I
will go, though I don't want rest--indeed, indeed I do not. I could
stop up for weeks nursing my dear lad, and never feel fatigue." The
tears rose in Basil's eyes as he gazed upon her worn and wasted face.
"Good night, my dear, dear boy. God bless and guard you?"
He could not deny her the kiss for which she mutely pleaded, and she
prepared to leave him; but she came back a dozen times to assure
herself that he was comfortable, that there was not a crease on his
pillow, that the clothes were smoothly laid over him, and to hover
about him with soft accents of love. At length he pretended to be
asleep, and she crept from the room so softly that he did not hear her
footfall.
Being alone now, he could think of what had passed, of the revelation
that had been made to him, of the position in which he stood, and how
it behoved him to act. The woman believed him to be her son, the idol
of her heart, the one supreme treasure which heaven and earth
contained for her. In that belief she had rescued him from death, and
by so doing had perhaps afforded him the opportunity to redeem his
name and honour. To undeceive her would break her heart; of this he
had no doubt. How perfect was her love! How tender and beautiful were
its evidences! He remembered his own mother, and knew how pure was the
love which existed between them; but never till this moment had it
been given him to know to what wondrous extent a mother's love could
go. That Newman had been a bad son, that he had been profligate and
false--of this he was certain; such a nature as Newman's was capable
of nought else; but all this was forgotten and forgiven. Nay, instead
of entreaties for pardon being expected from him, it was himself that
was asked to forgive. Something more than gratitude stirred his heart
as he thought of Mrs. Chaytor's goodness, a feeling of pity and
affection rose within him, and he bethought himself in what way he
could repay her for the great service she had rendered to him.
Had it been Newman, indeed, whom she had rescued from death and
dishonour, how would he have acted? Natures do not change, and Newman
would have followed the bent of his. He would have brought fresh
sorrows upon her head; he would have stripped her of her new fortune
and squandered it in dissolute practices? Would it not be a fine
revenge to make the end of her life sweet and beautiful by the loving
care and gratitude it was in Basil's power to bestow. His heart glowed
at the thought. The sterner part of his revenge could still be carried
out. He would have means to prosecute his search for Newman and
Annette, and it would be the easiest matter to find an excuse for
absence, if it were necessary that he should go personally to seek
them. Thus two good ends would be attained, one certain in the joy it
would bring to a good woman's heart, the other as yet uncertain,
inasmuch as the roads which would lead to it were enveloped in
darkness.
Yes, he would have means to punish the guilty. But were those means
his to use? Could he with justice employ them in the task upon which
he was engaged, and which Mrs. Chaytor had saved him to prosecute?
This was the question which now obtruded itself.
Why not? Had not Newman Chaytor, by the vilest conduct, by long
systematic deceit and treachery, fraudulently obtained possession of
his fortune, and was he not now using it for his own selfish
pleasures? Could human cunning go further than Newman had done in his
vile plot--could human baseness reach a baser depth? No. There would
be a strange and inscrutable justice in using the villain's weapons to
bring the villain to bay.
There was another consideration: Annette. If in the morning he
declared himself to be Basil Whittingham, if he left the loving mother
in sorrow and tribulation, and rejected the opportunity which, through
no scheming on his part, had presented itself, if he threw himself
once more penniless upon the world, what chance had he of finding
Annette in time, maybe, to save her from a life of deepest
unhappiness? This last consideration induced him to resolve upon his
course of action. For the present he would allow matters to go on as
they would. He would not undeceive Mrs. Chaytor; she should, for as
long or as short a time as circumstances permitted, rest in a delusion
which had filled her heart with joy. She should believe that he,
Basil, was her son indeed, and he would work and wait for events.