should be used to one end, and to one end only; unless, indeed (and a
strange smile wreathed his lips as this view presented itself)
collateral disclosures were revealed to him of Newman Chaytor's home
life of villainy and treachery which pleaded for some kind of
compensation. Then would he use some of Chaytor's money to repair the
wrong. A devious road to justice, but a justifiable one. Having thus
determined, sleep descended upon him.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Early the next morning he awoke. The sun was shining into the room,
and he was alone. There was some kind of stir in the house for which
he could not account, and the cause of which he was curious to
ascertain. Feeling that his strength had returned to him he rose from
the bed, and although a natural weakness was upon him, he succeeded in
partially dressing himself. While thus employed the door was opened
and the doctor entered the room.
"Ah," said the doctor, "as I expected. You are yourself again." He was
a young man, and had a cheery voice and manner, which, used with
discretion, and not allowed to become too bluff, are invaluable aids
to a medical practitioner.
"I am almost well, I think," said Basil.
"But we must be careful," said the doctor, "we must husband our
strength. You have a good constitution, and that has served you."
Although his voice was cheerful, he spoke with a certain reserve.
"Are you not here very early?" asked Basil.
"I am," replied the doctor, "much earlier than usual. The fact is I
was called in."
"They are too anxious about me."
"Well, yes, but I was not called in to see you. Your parents required
me?"
"For themselves?"
"For themselves. Are you strong enough to hear some grave news?"
"Let me know it, quickly."
"To be plain, your good mother has overtaxed herself; and your
father's illness has taken a serious turn. Your mother did not wish me
to tell you; she asked me to think of some excuse why she could not
come to you; but in the circumstances the truth is best."
"Yes, the truth is best. Disguise nothing from me. See--I am really
strong and well."
"You will do, if you are careful. As I said, your mother has overtaxed
her strength, and she is now suffering from it. I warned her a score
of times, but she would not leave your side, it is wonderful the
devotion of these good women."
"Is it anything serious?"
"I fear so; she is old, and seems to have gone through some serious
troubles."
"I will go and see her."
"Not till you have breakfast. I have ordered it for you, and if you
will allow me, I will join you."
"You are very welcome."
The maid entered the room with a tray, which she placed on a table;
the doctor threw open the window, saying, "Nothing like fresh air.
Come, let us fall to."
Basil was much taken with him; he was a man of culture and refinement,
and knew what he was about. As they proceeded with their breakfast he
entertained Basil with light and agreeable conversation, and it was
only when the meal was finished that he reverted to the subject of his
professional visit.
"Has your mother," he inquired, "during late years endured privation?"
"I have been absent from England for a great many years," replied
Basil evasively.
"And if she had," continued the doctor, "she would conceal it from
you! it is in the nature of such women. But I am led to this belief by
her condition; it is not only that she is suffering from the reaction
of overtaxed endurance, but that she has no reserve strength to draw
upon."
It was clear to Basil that he believed her case to be serious, and in
great anxiety he accompanied the doctor to the sickroom. There were
two beds in the room, one occupied by Mrs. Chaytor, the other by her
husband. Mr. Chaytor was dozing, and Basil, gazing upon him, saw a
white and wasted face, long drawn and thin as that of a man whose
sands of life were fast running out. Mrs. Chaytor cast a look of
reproach upon the doctor, as she murmured:
"You should not have told him, you should not have told him!"
"He was up and dressed, my dear lady," said the doctor softly, "when I
went in to see him. You must trust me to do what's best for all of
you."
"I will, I will," murmured Mrs. Chaytor. "You have restored my dear
son to health. O, Newman, Newman!"
Basil bent over her, and kissed her; she tried to rise, but had not
strength.
"How good you are, how good, how good!" she sobbed.
Basil was shocked at her appearance, which had undergone a sad change
since the previous evening. The faithful couple, after a long and
anxious life, seemed to be both waiting for the summons from the angel
of death.
"It is my turn now to nurse you," said Basil, pityingly.
"No, you must not; the kind doctor has sent for a nurse; you must take
care of yourself. There is a long and happy life before you, and you
must not waste your days upon old people like us. Are your father's
eyes closed."
"Yes."
"He wishes to speak to you when he wakes. He is quite sensible, and
has something to say to you. Doctor, I must speak to my son alone."
He was about to forbid any serious conversation, but, looking
attentively at her, he did not speak the words that came to his lips.
He nodded, and beckoned to Basil, who joined him at the door of the
room.
"I am going now," he said, "and shall return at noon. Do not let your
mother exhaust herself. If she speaks excitedly, calm her down and beg
her, for your sake--it is the appeal that will have the best effect
upon her--to speak more slowly."
"But had she not better wait till she is stronger?"
The doctor gazed at him with serious eyes, "It will perhaps be as well
not to wait. She seems to have something of importance to communicate
to your By-and-bye may be too late?"
Inexpressively grieved, Basil returned to the bedside, and took Mrs.
Chaytor's thin hand in his; her fingers clung to his convulsively.
"I must speak to you about your father," she said, and to save her the
effort of raising her voice, Basil laid his head on the pillow close
to her mouth. A beautiful smile came to her lips as he did so. "Always
loving and considerate!" she murmured. "Always the same tender and
unselfish lad! Newman, your father has not seen you yet; all the time
you were lying ill he has been unable to rise from his bed. Don't
contradict him, my dear lad."
"I will not," said Basil.
"He has strange fancies; he was always strange--but he has been good
to me. Remember that, Newman, and bear with him for my sake."
"I will do so."
"Thank you, my dear boy. If he says anything about the past, listen in
silence--even if it is hard to hear, listen in silence. He was not so
considerate of you as he might have been, but we can't alter our
natures, can we, my darling? He could never see that young people love
pleasure, and ought to have it; he wanted you to be grave and serious,
as he was, and he would not make excuses for little faults. Bear that
in mind, my dear."
"Yes, I will."
"He said to me, 'I shall speak to Newman plainly,' and I know what
that means. He may speak harsh words, but you will be prepared for
them. He loves you in his heart, indeed he does, and intends to behave
rightly to you. Yesterday he wrote a paper, which I think he will give
you, and something else with it--something that will make your life
easy and happy. You need never want again, my dear boy, never, never.
Oh, how you must have suffered! And you were starving, and were too
proud to come to us, who would have shared our last crust with you.
Let me tell you about our fortune, Newman. When some cheques were
brought to your father for the shares, he would not take them: he
would take nothing but notes and gold; and the money was brought to
him, and he has it now under his bed. 'If I put it into a bank,' he
said, 'it will break, and I shall be ruined again. I will keep it
always by me in cash.' I told him it wasn't safe, that we were old and
might be robbed, but he would not listen to me. He was always
self-willed, you must remember that; he would always have his way, and
never thought that anyone was right but himself. I don't know how much
money he has, but it must be thousands of pounds. He gave me a hundred
pounds in gold to pay the house expenses; I have only spent forty, and
there is sixty left. Here it is--take it, Newman; take it, my dear
boy. If you love me don't refuse. That's right, put it in your pocket;
all we have belongs to you--every farthing. 'When you want more,' he
said to me, 'ask me for it and you shall have it.' He was never
niggardly, I will say that of him; we had a beautiful home once, did
we not? How happy you made it when you were little--and when you were
big, too, my dear! One day, when you are married--I hope you will
marry a good woman, who will love you with all her heart, and
appreciate you--you will find out how happy a little child can make a
home. Then you will think of me, will you not?--then you will know
better what I mean."
Her breath was spent, and she could not continue. She closed her eyes,
but her fingers tightened upon Basil's, and presently she began to
babble incoherently. The entrance of the nurse who had been sent her
was a welcome relief to Basil; the woman had received her
instructions, and she went about her duties noiselessly. Mrs.
Chaytor's grasp relaxed, and Basil removed his hand.
"You had best go," whispered the nurse; "she wants sleep."
Basil obeyed, and in his own room applied himself again to a review of
his position. Strange indeed were the circumstances in which he found
himself, but he saw no other course to pursue than that upon which he
had already resolved. At noon the doctor called again, and his report
was even less hopeful than on his previous visit.
"I can do nothing, I fear," he said; "the end is approaching. You must
be prepared."
"Is there no hope for one?" asked Basil.
"For neither, so far as my judgment is to be trusted. It would be a
satisfaction to you, perhaps, if a physician were called in."
"I think it should be done," said Basil, "but I am a stranger here and
know no one."
"I will come at five o'clock, and bring a physician with me.
Meanwhile, if your parents have any arrangements to make with respect
to property, it should not be neglected. I am of the opinion that your
father will have an interval of consciousness this evening, and then
would be the proper time. In everything else you may trust the nurse I
have sent in; she understands the cases thoroughly."
The physician's statement verified the warning.
"Their vital forces are spent," he said; "the end cannot be averted or
arrested."
It was at eight o'clock that the nurse presented herself, and told him
that his father had asked for him.
"Your mother is sleeping," she said; "speak as softly as you can."
He followed her to the room and took a chair by Mr. Chaytor's bed. He
had strange thoughts as he entered. Suppose that Mr. Chaytor, seeing
him for the first time should refuse to see the likeness to Newman
which others had seen? In that case, how should he act? He was puzzled
to answer, and, driven by circumstances into a position he had not
sought, could but leave events to take their course, which they had
already done independent of himself. But nothing of the sort happened.
Mr. Chaytor's eyes dwelt upon his face, and then he called Basil by
the name of Newman, and Basil had no alternative but to answer to it.
The nurse sat discreetly by Mrs. Chaytor's side.
"Send that woman away," said Mr. Chaytor.
His words came with difficulty; his voice was choked. The nurse heard
the demand, and as she passed from the room she whispered to Basil
that she would be ready outside if he wanted her. For several minutes
there was silence, a silence which Basil did not venture to break. Mr.
Chaytor appeared to be engaged in the effort of marshalling his
thoughts.
"You have come back in time," he said, "to see me die."
"I trust there is still hope," said Basil.
"There is no hope," said the sick man. "The doctors spoke together
under their breath, and thought I could not hear. They were wrong; I
heard every word they said. The fools forgot that a dying man's senses
are often preternaturally sharpened. Mine were, 'He will die at
sunrise,' they said. Very well. I shall die at sunrise. Oh, I don't
dispute them; they know their business. Sunrise is some hours yet; I
have time to speak, and I mean to keep my wits together till I have
said what I have got to say. What you have to do is to listen. Do you
hear me?"
"I hear you," said Basil.
"I don't intend," continued the dying man, "to ask you questions, for
I know what kind of replies you would give. What you are, you are, and
of that I have had bitter experience. Your mother, lying there at the
point of death--Oh, I heard that, too, when they were putting their
heads together--believes in you, trusts you, thinks you the sun, moon,
and stars all rolled into one, and thinks me a black cloud whose only
aim is to tarnish your brightness. Let her believe so. There was never
any reason or any wisdom in her love; but she is a good woman. To him
she loves she gives all, and asks for nothing in return. Whom she
trusts is immaculate; she cannot see a spot upon him. That is how
it stands, how it has always stood, between you and her. It is
different with me. Ever since you became a man--heaven pardon me for
calling you one!--you have been corrupt and vicious; and I knew it.
Ever since you became a man you have been false to friendship, false
to love; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have had but
one idea--yourself, your vanities, your degraded pleasures, your low
and envious desires; and I knew it. Why, then, should I ask you
questions, knowing you would lie to me in your answers. For you are as
glib of speech, Newman Chaytor, as you are cunning of mind. You have
been absent from us a long time: doubtless you have a good
recollection of the day on which I turned you from my house. We became
stricken down; we became worse than poor; we became paupers. Your
mother wrote to you when you were on the goldfields, and you sent back
whining letters of your misfortunes. Your mother believed you and
pitied you; I disbelieved you and despised you. At length you came
home, and hunting for us to see whether there was another drop of
blood you could suck from our empty veins, discovered that you could
hope for nothing from us, and therefore kept aloof; for it is a fact
that until a week previous to your mother meeting you on Westminster
Bridge, we lived on beggary and charity. How do I arrive at this
knowledge of your movements? From intuition, from the bitter
experiences with which you supplied me. I must pause a little. I will
proceed in a minute or two, when I get back my treacherous voice. Do
not poison the silence with your voice. I prefer not to hear it."
It was dreadful to hear him. The choked utterances, the pauses between
the words, the fixed determination to say what was in his mind, the
stern tones, produced a painful impression upon Basil; but he had
perforce to obey, and so he waited till the dying man resumed:
"If you had heard of my good fortune you would have leapt upon us like
a wolf; but it did not reach your ears. Therefore you kept away from
us, fearing, while you had one penny left, that we should beg a
halfpenny of it. Your mother brought you home--not to these rooms at
first, for we had not removed from our old quarters, but afterwards we
came here for your pleasure. Well, for hers, too, perhaps,"--his eyes
softened a little as he turned them towards the bed in which Mrs.
Chaytor lay--"and she was happy, for the first time for many, many
years, because you were with us. I could not come to see you; it is
eight months since I was able to crawl, but your mother gave me
accounts of you, and I was not displeased that she was able to nurse
you into strength. She has hastened her end through it, but that
matters little to her. During this last week I have been thinking what
I should do with my money, and I have allowed myself to be persuaded,
most likely beguiled. Look beneath my bed; you will see a cashbox;
bring it forth."
Basil did as he was directed, and produced the cashbox.
"It contains a portion of my wealth; there are some shares in it which
may yet be valuable. I have made no will, but I give you the cashbox
and the contents while I live; they are yours--a free gift. Beneath my
bed, between the mattresses, is a larger sum which you may take
possession of when I am gone; I make no disposition of it, and you may
act as you please in regard to it. Take the key of the cashbox--it is
hanging there, at the head of the bed; and I lay this injunction upon
you, that you do not open the box until I am dead. In this I must
break through the rule I laid down when I began to speak. You will
obey me?"
"I will obey you," said Basil.
"It is a solemn promise?"
"It is a solemn promise."
"There is a look in your face I have never seen there before. Is it
possible that a change has come over you?"
"I have none but kind and grateful thoughts for you."
"Is it true. _Can_ it be true?"
"It is true." Then, like a whirlwind, there rushed upon Basil's mind a
torrent of self-reproach. Was it right that he should allow the dying
man to rest in his delusion? Was it not incumbent upon him that he
should confess, here and now, that he was not Newman Chaytor? Whatever
the consequences, was it not his duty to brave them? But before he
could speak a word to this effect Mr. Chaytor raised himself in his
bed with a terrible cry; and at that cry the nurse unceremoniously
entered the room, and caught Mr. Chaytor in her arms. A little froth
gathered about his lips, his head tossed this way and that; then
movement ceased; his limbs relaxed, and the nurse laid him back in
bed. Awe-stricken, Basil whispered:
"Is he dead?"
"No," said the nurse; "if any change occurs I will call you. Go--I can
attend better to him alone."
"Can I not assist you?"
"No, you will be in my way. Hush! Go at once; your mother is stirring.
Be sure I will call you, I promise faithfully."
Basil left the room, carrying the cashbox with him, which he placed
under his own bed, putting the key in his pocket. He did not seek
rest, his mind was too perturbed. Towards midnight the doctor called
in, and gently informed Basil that within a few hours he would lose
both his parents.
"In one sense," he said, "apart from the grief which such a loss bears
with it, it is a happy fitness that two old people, who have lived a
long life in harmony with each other, should pass away at the same
time, the allotted span of existence having been reached. I sympathise
sincerely with you."
Basil gave him a strange look; so completely was his position
recognised and established that he almost doubted his identity. It
wanted a few minutes to sunrise when the nurse came to the door and
solemnly beckoned to him. He followed her it silence; she pointed
first to the bed in which Mr. Chaytor lay. The form thereon was grey
and motionless.
"He died in his sleep," whispered the nurse; "not a sound escaped him.
It was a happy, painless death."
Basil gazed at the still form.
"Now you know," he thought. "Forgive me for the deception which has
been forced upon me."
The nurse touched his arm, and directed his attention to Mrs. Chaytor,
saying softly, "I would not let her know of your father's death."
"Newman, Newman, my dear boy," murmured the dying woman, "put your
lips to mine; come closer to me, closer, closer. My last thoughts, my
last prayers are for you. Has your father spoken to you?"
"Yes."
"And has he given you what he promised?"
"Yes."
"Then all is well. We shall trouble you no more, my darling. A life of
happiness is before you. Think of us sometimes; and if your father
does not get well, lay us in the same grave."
"It shall be done."
"I shall wait for you in heaven. How happy I am--how happy, how happy!
I am not sorry to go now I have found you. I have prayed to die like
this. God has been very good to me. He has answered my prayer. Kiss
me, dear. God bless and guard you!"
She said no more; before the next hour struck her spirit was in
another world.
"Remain with them," Basil said to the nurse, "and let everything be
done that is proper and necessary."
He gave her some money, and oppressed with thought, returned to his
chamber. No adventure that he had met with in the course of his
chequered life had stirred him so deeply as this. So strange and
singular was it that he might have been pardoned for doubting still
that it was true. But the cashbox, which he had drawn from beneath the
bed, was before him; the key was in his hand.
After a brief space he opened the box, taking the precaution first to
lock his door. Upon the top of the box were eight acceptances for
various amounts, signed in different names, some in those of Mr.
Chaytor, others in names that were strange to him. They were pinned
together, and folded in a paper upon which was written:
"These acceptances are forgeries, committed by my son, Newman Chaytor.
I have paid them, and saved him from the just punishment which should
have been his. In this and in other ways he has ruined my career, and
brought his mother and me to direst poverty. But although the money is
paid and the exposure averted, the crime remains; he is not cleared of
it. It is a stain upon him for ever.--Edward Chaytor."
Beneath these documents was another, inscribed:
"The last words of Edward Chaytor, once a prosperous gentleman, but
brought to shame by a guilty son."
Unfolding the paper, Basil read:
"To my son Newman Chaytor, a man of sin, I, his unhappy father,
address these words. Your life has been a life of infamy, and you, who
should have been a blessing to us, have plunged us in misery. I have
little hope of your future, but remorse may prompt you to pay heed to
what I now say. Repent of your evil courses while there is time. You
may live to be old, when repentance will be too late. If there is any
wrong to be righted, which may be righted by money, seek it out, and
let my money right it. If there is any atonement to be made, and you
see a way to it--as you surely will if you try--let my money atone for
it. If there is any villainy committed by you which merits punishment,
but which in some small measure may be condoned by money, let my money
accomplish it. Do this, and you may hope for forgiveness. I could
write much more, but I have neither the desire nor the power; but if I
wrote for a week you would not have a better understanding of my
meaning. Signed on my death-bed. Your father,
"Edward Chaytor."
The remaining contents of the cashbox were gold and notes, amounting
in all to a considerable sum. Basil counted the money, made a careful
and exact record of it on a fair sheet of paper, replaced the papers
and locked the box, and put it in a place of safety.
He was not long in arriving at a decision as to what he should do with
respect to this money. For his own needs he would use the barest
pittance upon which he could live, and some part of the money he would
also use in the prosecution of his search for Newman Chaytor and
Annette. In this expenditure he felt himself justified, and he would
keep a strict and faithful account of the sums he expended. For the
rest, if anything in the career of Newman Chaytor came to his
knowledge, and he could in any way carry out the behests of the man
lying dead in the room beyond, he would do it, and thus vicariously
make atonement for the villain who had brought sorrow and misery upon
all with whom he came in contact. For the present there were duties
which demanded his attention, and Basil applied himself to the last
sad offices towards those who had passed away. In the course of the
week his task was accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor lay in one grave,
and Basil made arrangements for a stone, and for a continual supply of
fresh flowers over the grave. Then, with a stern resolve, he set
himself to the serious work before him, and to the design which had
brought him home from the goldfields.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The first thing he did was to remove from the house which had been
occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor, and take a room in a poor locality,
for which he paid four shillings a week. Including this sum he thought
he could live as well as he desired upon a pound a week. He
experienced a grim satisfaction from the reflection that he was
expending upon his own personal necessities some small portion of the
fortune of which Newman Chaytor had so successfully robbed him. If the
day ever arrived when it would be necessary to go into accounts with
Newman Chaytor this slight expenditure would be placed to the
villain's credit. He had an idea of returning to his lodgings in Mrs.
Philpott's house, the assistance of whose husband he determined again
to seek, but upon second thoughts he saw that he would be more free to
act if he were not under the kindly surveillance of this estimable
couple. Having established himself in his new quarters he went direct
to Mrs. Philpott's residence in Lambeth. The woman was overjoyed to
see him.
"Why, sir, why," she cried, as she came to the door fresh from the
washing-tub wiping the suds from her arms, "this _is_ a pleasure.
Philpott will be more than glad. Here, children, children! Come and
see an old friend; there never was such a favourite with them as you
were, sir. They have been continually taking you into custody and
locking you up, and trying and acquitting you, without a stain on your
character." Mrs. Philpott laughed. "You mustn't mind ways; if they
didn't think all the world of you they'd give you six months hard
labour. It's the revenge they take upon people they don't like. Don't
crowd round the gentleman so, you rude things! Where's your manners, I
should like to know? Won't you walk in, sir? I hope you're coming back
to live with us; there's your room waiting for you; it's never been
occupied, and Philpott says it never shall be, unless you take it."
"I am living elsewhere, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil, "but I've come to
see your husband on business.
"I'm sorry he's not in, sir," said Mrs. Philpott; "he won't be home
till ten o'clock to-night."
"Can I see him, then; my business will not admit of delay?"
"Certainly, sir. Philpott would get up in the middle of the night to
serve you, and so would I. You'll stop and have a bite with us, sir, I
hope?"
"No, thank you, I haven't time; I will be here punctually at ten."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, regretfully, "if you must go; but
you'll take a bit of supper with us."
"I will, with pleasure. Your husband is sure to be at home, I
suppose?"
"Yes, sir; Philpott's the soul of punctuality. He's gone for a day in
the country to see an old friend, and his train is due at Victoria at
twenty past nine. You're looking better than you did, sir."
"I am better, and in better spirits."
"Do you remember what I said, sir, about clouds with silver linings?
Lord Sir! When things are at their worst they're sure to mend. What
men and women have got to do is never to give in. Oh, I've had my
lessons, sir."
"So have I, Mrs. Philpott: I shall be with you at ten."
Patting the children on their heads, and giving them a penny each--he
felt like a shilling, but it was not exactly his own money he was
spending, and this small benefaction was a luxury which did not
properly come under the head of personal expenses--Basil, with
pleasant nods, left them to their favourite occupation of taking
people up and trying them for imaginary offences against the public
peace. At nightfall, having an idle hour or two before his appointment
with Mr. Philpott, an impulse which he made no effort to control
directed his steps towards Long Acre, and then to Queen Street, where
the woman whom Newman Chaytor had betrayed and deserted carried on her
business. The workgirls from the large establishments in the vicinity
of the street were coming from their shops, most of them in blithe
spirits, being young and in agreeable employment. It was the holiday
time of the day with them, and they were hurrying home, some doing a
little sweet-hearting on the road which it was pleasant to
contemplate. There were pictures not so pleasant; great hulking men
smoking pipes and lounging about, with "Brute" stamped on their
features, and women as coarse, whose birth and training perhaps were a
legitimate answer to their worse than common language and manners.
Basil's observations of London life during the last few months had
supplied him with ample food for reflection, and he could honestly
have preached a homily on charity which better men than he--say, for
instance, philanthropists or statesmen with hobbies--might serviceably
have taken to heart.
His attention was diverted from these unfortunates by a startling
incident. There was a sudden cry of "Fire!" and the thoroughfare
became instantly thronged.
"Where is it?--where is it?" "There, you fool! Can't you see it?--in
Queen Street." "It's a private house." "No, it isn't, it's a shop--a
milliner's. An old house; it'll burn like tinder." "A good job it
isn't in the middle of the night; they'd have been burnt in their
beds."
The sparks rushed up in fierce exultation. "The next house is caught!
The whole street 'll be down. Here's the fire-engine!"
In gallant haste the horses tore along, the brave firemen, heroes one
and all, standing firm and ready. Basil followed the crowd, and with
difficulty pushed his way through as far as he was allowed. It was
Mrs. Addison's shop that was on fire, and he saw immediately that
there was no chance of saving it. The weeping women were outside,
wringing their hands; among them the woman who had accused him, and
her mother, who had cast upon him that ever vivid look of abhorrence
and hatred. So quick and sudden and fierce was the fire that not a
stick of furniture nor a yard of ribbon was saved. The women strove to
rush into the shop, but the firemen held them back, and with firm
kindness impelled them to a place of safety. Basil, edging near to
them, and keeping his face hidden, heard what passed between. "We are
ruined," said one, despairingly.
"Aren't you insured?" inquired a by-stander.
"Not for a penny," was the answer.
"Ah, you'll have to commence the world all over again."
"Heaven help us!" was the answer. "We are worse than naked; we owe
money."
"Never mind, old woman," shouted a tipsy man, "there's the work'us
open."
"Shut up, you brute!" cried an indignant female. "Have you no bowels?"
At the words, "We are ruined," a thrill shot through Basil. Here was a
woman whom Newman Chaytor had wronged; here was a woman to whom
atonement was due. He knew what it was right should be done, and he
determined to do it. He lingered near them until the shop lay a
mouldering heap of ruins; he heard a kind neighbour offer them lodging
for the night; he marked the house they entered; and then he went home
to his own lodging of one room. There, safely concealed, was a sum of
money amounting to three hundred pounds; he took the whole of it,
wrote on a sheet of paper, "In partial atonement of wrong committed in
the past," and put the paper and the notes in an envelope, which he
addressed to Mrs. Addison. Then he went to Mrs. Philpott's house. "You
are late, sir," said that cheerful woman; "an hour behind time."
"I have been detained."
"You're not too late for supper, sir, at all events," said Mrs.
Philpott; "I put it back for you."
"You must excuse me," said Basil; "something of pressing importance
has occurred, and I want Mr. Philpott to come out with me
immediately."
"Quite ready, sir," said Mr. Philpott, rising and getting his hat.
Mrs. Philpott, recognising that the business was urgent, did not press
Basil further, although disappointment was in her face.
"At another time," said Basil, "I shall be glad to accept of your
hospitality. Come, Mr. Philpott."
As they walked on Basil explained that he wished Mr. Philpott to take
up the dropped threads of the search for Newman Chaytor, and then he
explained what he wished to do at the present moment.
"It is purely a confidential matter," said Basil, "and is not to be
spoken of in any way after the commission is executed. Here is the
house. Some women are lodging here for the night whose place of
business near Long Acre has been burnt down. You will ask for Mrs.
Addison; if a mother and her daughter present themselves it is the
daughter you must address. Ask her if she is the woman who has been
burnt out, and if she answers in the affirmative give her this
envelope, and come away at once. If she seeks to detain you and asks
questions, do not answer them. I will wait for you on the opposite
side."
He watched Mr. Philpott execute the commission, being right in his
conjecture that the women would be too excited to seek their beds
until late in the night. The woman with whom he had the interview
appeared at the door, and received the envelope; after which Mr.
Philpott joined him, as directed. At the corner of the street Basil
and his companion paused and looked back at the house. In a few
moments the woman who had answered Mr. Philpott's summons came quickly
to the street door and looked eagerly up and down; Basil and Mr.
Philpott were standing in the shadow, and could not be seen. The light
of the street lamp assisted Basil to see her face: it was radiant with
joy.
"A good night's work," said Basil, taking Mr. Philpott's arm and
walking away. "I will call upon you to-morrow. Good night."
Mr. Philpott left him and proceeded homewards, as did Basil. He did
not know that a man was following him with eager curiosity. He put his
latchkey in the street door of his lodging, and as he did so the man
touched his arm. Basil turned.
"What, Old Corrie!" he cried, in a voice of delight.
"No other," said Old Corrie, calmly. "It _is_ Master Basil. I thought
I wasn't mistaken. Well, well! This is a meeting to be thankful for.
I'm in luck."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Come in, come in," said Basil, clutching Old Corrie by the arm, as
though he feared to lose him, and dragging him into the house; "this
is indeed a meeting to be thanking for. It is I who am in luck."
He regarded it as an omen of good fortune. If Old Corrie were thus
unexpectedly found, why not Newman Chaytor? And, besides, here was a
trusty friend upon whom he could rely--here was a man whose evidence
would go far to establish his identity, to restore his good name, to
give the lie to his traducers. He looked upon this meeting as the
opening of a brighter chapter in his strange career, and with this
cheering thought in his mind he ascended the stairs to his one room at
the top of the house, still keeping tight hold of Corrie, who,
accompanied him, willingly enough, in a kind of amazed silence.
"I must find a candle," said Basil, pushing Old Corrie, into the room
before him. "You won't run away, Corrie?"
"No fear, Master Basil," replied Corrie. "I am not in a run-away
humour. Shouldn't wonder, supposing I get encouragement, if I develop
the qualities of a leech."
"I promise you encouragement enough," said Basil, with a little laugh.
His spirits were almost joyous; youth seemed to be returning to him.
"I wait for proof," observed Corrie sententiously. "Friends are none
so plentiful in this hard world."
"True, true," assented Basil, groping about for a candle. "You could
swear to me in the dark, eh?"
"If needful."
"That's more than some would do in the full light of the blessed sun.
I could sing for joy."
"Hold your hand, Master Basil; let us exchange a few more words in
darkness. I am speculating whether you are changed."
"What do you think, Corrie?"
"I think not, but what man can be sure? I have been sore beset since
we last talked together."
"We have been rowing in the same boat, then."
"You have met with misfortunes, too! Have they soured you?"
"They have brought sorrow and doubt in their train, but, there is
sweetness still in the world. This meeting is a proof."
"You live high up, and the house is the house of poor people. Birds of
a feather flock together. Perhaps, after all, I had best go away."
"If you attempt it I shall assault you. Corrie, old friend, you have
dropped upon me like a messenger from Heaven. Here is the candle at
last. Now we can have a good look at each other."
They gazed in silence for a few moments, and Basil was grieved to see
old Corrie in rags. Beneath the bluff honesty of his face there were
undeniable marks of privation, but despite these signs there was a
gleam of humour still in his eyes.
"Well, Master Basil?" said he presently.
"I am truly sorry, dear old friend," said Basil, holding out his hand.
"You have had some hard knocks."
"You may say that. It has been a case of battledore and
shuttlecock--the battledore a stone one and the shuttlecock a poor bit
of ironbark, with such a mockery of feathers in it that the moment it
was knocked up it fell down like a lump of lead. If I puzzle you,
Master Basil, you puzzle me. There is something in you I can't exactly
read. Your clothes are not what I should like to see you wear, though
they are the clothes of a prince compared with mine. This room is the
room of a man pretty low down in the world," and here Old Corrie added
with a laugh, "the higher up you live the lower down you are--and yet
you have the air of a man who is not hard up."
"Regarding me," said Basil, "as a bundle of contradictions, you are
nearer the mark than you could suppose yourself to be. But surely I am
forgetting my manners and my duties as a host." He opened a cupboard,
and drew therefrom bread, butter, cheese, and a bottle of ale, which
he uncorked. Plates, glasses, and knives were on the table in a trice.
"Fall to, Corrie."
"You can spare it, Master Basil?"
"I can spare it, Corrie. You share with me from this time forth. Do
you live near here?"
"Very near," replied Old Corrie, pointing to the window. "The sky is
my roof."
"It has been mine. We'll house you better. I drink love and friendship
to a dear old friend." They clinked glasses, and Corrie ate like a
famished man. The meal being done he said: "I've been on my beam-ends
in Australia, but starving in this country is a very different pair of
shoes. It's a near thing here between want and death--so near that
they touch often and join hands in grim partnership. I've seen it
done, and a dead woman before me. Now, in Australia, unless it
comes to being lost in a bush--where it's no man's fault but the
explorer's--I never heard of a case. There's stone-breaking at all
events to tide over the evil day. I've had more than one turn at it,
and been thankful to get it to do, as every honest and willing man
would be. Different in England, Master Basil, where they've brought
civilization down to a fine point. Did you take notice how I ate my
supper? More like a wild beast than a man--and now, with a full
stomach, I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. Not that I am loth to
accept your hospitality; it's the need of it that riles me. That's
where the shoe really pinches."
"I can sympathise with you, Corrie. By the way, I am in your debt."
"How so, Master Basil?"
"Over the water yonder, I borrowed a mare of you, and managed to lose
it. You remember. I wanted to get from Bidaud's plantation to Gum Flat
Township--a gruesome journey it turned out to be--and you lent me your
mare. When I returned and reported the matter to you my pockets were
empty, and not a word of reproach did you fling at me. I couldn't pay
the debt then--I can now."
"Hold hard a bit, Master Basil; let me turn the thing over in my
mind." Basil humoured him, and there was a brief silence. Then Corrie
said, "It is a simple justice that the mare should be paid for if you
can afford it."
"I can afford it. Why, if I had my own this night I should be worth
sixty thousand pounds."
"Some one has cheated you, Master Basil?"
"More than cheated me; has done me the foulest wrong. You shall hear
all by-and-by. But I still have money I can call my own. The robber,
unknown to himself, is making restitution by driblets. Here you are,
Corrie." He had counted out thirty pounds, which he now pushed over to
Corrie across the table. Corrie counted it, but did not take it up.
"If this is for the mare, Master Basil, it's too much."
"Too little, you mean."
"Too much by twenty pounds. The old mare _might_ have fetched a ten
pound note in a sale-yard, and more likely than not would have been
knocked down for a fiver. So I'll take ten, if you don't mind, Master
Basil, and we'll cry quits on that account. I wouldn't take that if my
pockets weren't empty."
No persuasion on Basil's part could induce Old Corrie to accept more
than the ten pounds, and the young man was fain to yield.
"You were quite in earnest," said Old Corrie, "when you offered to
give me a shakedown for the night?"
"I've a mind to be angry with you," responded Basil, "for asking the
question. Let us settle matters between us once and for all, Corrie.
You had a good opinion of me once."
"I had, Master Basil, and would have done much to serve you."
"You did do much--more than I had any right to expect, more than any
other man did."
"Not more than any other man would have done," said Old Corrie, eyeing
Basil attentively, "if he had lived."
"You refer to Anthony Bidaud?"
"I do. I haven't forgotten him, nor little lady, nor that skunk of an
uncle of hers.
"We have much to talk over, you and I," said Basil, restraining the
impulse to speak immediately of Annette, "but what is between us
must first be settled and clearly understood. You are right about
Anthony Bidaud. He would have been the first, but he died before
his intentions could be fulfilled. Next to him you stand, and surely
you would not have been the friend you were to me if you had not
esteemed and trusted me."
"That goes without saying."
"As I was then, Corrie," continued Basil, earnestly, "so I am now. I
have passed through the fire, and suffering may still await me, but I
am and hope to remain, unchanged. Let us take up the thread Of
friendship where it was broken off, on the goldfields, when Newman
Chaytor and I were working together and when you endeavoured to
persuade me to come home with you. Ah, what might I have been spared
had I accepted your generous offer! Corrie, if ever there was a time
in my life when I most needed a true friend, it is now. There is vital
work before me to do, and you, and you alone, can help me. By Heavens,
if you desert me I doubt whether I should be able to prove that I am
I! Come, old friend, say that you will believe in me as of old, and
that you will stick by me as you would have done in the old Australian
days."
"Say no more," said Old Corrie. "I'll worry you no longer; it's
scarcely fair play, for, Master Basil, I never doubted you in reality;
but poverty is proud and suspicious, and often behaves like an
ill-trained watch-dog. And besides, there are times in some men's
lives when kindness is so rare and unexpected that it throws them off
their balance. I don't pretend to understand half you have said about
yourself, but I'll wait till you explain, and then if I can help you
in any way, here I am, ready. I am wondering whether something that
happened to me would be of interest to you--but, no, it is a foolish
thought. Doubtless you have seen her, and now I come to think of it,
perhaps there lies part of your trouble."
"Seen whom?" asked Basil.
"Little lady."
"No," cried Basil, in great excitement, "I have not seen her, and I
would give the best years of my life to find her. You know where she
is; you can take me to her!"
"Steady, lad, steady. I haven't seen her, and can't take you to her,
but there's a sign-post that may show the way. There's no certainty in
it; it's just a chance. What do you say if I lead up to it? It's late
in the night, but I've no inclination to close my eyes, knowing I
shouldn't sleep a wink, I'm that stirred up."
"Neither could I sleep, Corrie. Let us sit and talk and smoke; here's
a spare pipe and tobacco--and you shall tell me in your own way."
Corrie nodded, and filled his pipe, and lit it Basil did the same, and
waited in anxious expectancy, while Corrie puffed and contemplated the
ceiling meditatively.
"In my own way, Master Basil?"
"In your own way, Corrie."
"A roundabout way, but there's plenty of time before daybreak, and
then a couple of hours sleep will make us both fit. Old bushmen like
ourselves won't miss one night's rest."
CHAPTER XXXV.
There was distinct tenderness in Old Corrie's face as he watched the
curling wreaths of smoke.
"I don't lay claim to being a poet," he said; "I leave that to my
betters; but they almost seem to me to belong to poetry, these rings
of smoke that come and go. They bring back old times, and I could
fancy we were in the bush, sitting by the camp fire before turning in
for the night, spinning yarns, and as happy as blackbirds in spring.
There's no life like it, Master Basil, say what they will of the
pleasures of the city. Pleasures! Good Lord! To think of the lives
some lead here and then to speak of pleasures! I'm not going to
preach, however; the ship's been battered about, but it has reached
port,"--he touched Basil's hand gratefully--"and here sits the old
bushman recalling old times. I shan't dwell upon them because I know
it would be trying your patience. I'd like you to give me a little
information about yourself before I go on."
"Ask whatever you wish, Corrie."
"I left you on the goldfields, mates with Newman Chaytor, of whom, as
you know, I did not have a good opinion."
"However badly you thought of him, you were justified."
"You found him out at last."
"I found him out at last."
"Did it take you long?"
"Years."
"Sorry to hear it. Did you get a proper knowledge of him suddenly or
gradually?"
"Suddenly."
"And all the time he was practising on you?"
"He was."
"Master Basil," said Old Corrie, gravely, "you were never fit to
battle with human nature; you never understood the worst half of it."
"Perhaps not, Corrie, but I understand it now. Newman Chaytor is a
black-hearted villain."
"I am not surprised to hear you say so; I had my suspicions of him
from the first. Unreasonable, I grant you, no grounds to go upon; but
there they were, and I am sorry, for your sake, that they proved true.
Where's my gentleman now?"
"In Europe, somewhere. I am hunting for him; it will be a dark day for
the traitor when I come face to face with him."
Old Corrie looked at Basil keenly from under his eyebrows. "Do you
want my assistance here?" he asked.
"I do. You must be with me, by my side, when he and I are together.
With your aid, I succeed; without it, I fail. Do you require an
incentive? I will give you two."
"I require none; it is sufficient that you want me and that you
believe I can be of assistance to you."
"Still, I will give you the two incentives. One is, that it is not
alone Newman Chaytor I am fighting: linked with him, if I have not
been misinformed, is an associate worthy of him--Gilbert Bidaud."
"Little lady's uncle. A precious pair, he and Chaytor. If I needed
spurring, this would do it."
"The other is, that I am not only fighting to defeat these scoundrels,
but to save your little lady Annette."
"Enough, enough," said Old Corrie; "I'll bide my time to learn.
Meanwhile, I pledge myself to you. Why, Master Basil, to give those
two men their deserts, and to serve you and little lady, I'd go
through fire and water. I will unfold my budget first, and will make
it as short as I can. When I left you on the goldfields, I did what
many another foolish fellow has done, went to Sydney and spent a week
or two there on the spree. What kind of pleasure is to be got out of
that operation heaven only knows, but it is supposed to be the correct
thing for a brainless, lucky gold-digger to do, and it leaves him
probably with empty pockets, and certainly with a headache and
heartache that ought to teach him to be wiser in future. There was no
excuse for me: I wasn't a young man, and wasn't fond of drink, and
when at the end of a fortnight I came to my sober senses, I said,
'Corrie, you're an old fool,' and I never said a truer thing. That
fortnight cost me a hundred pounds, I reckon. I treated every man
whose face I recognised, and a good many that were strange to me, and
I think it was the face of a gentleman I met in Pitt Street, who
looked at me in a kind of wonder, that pulled me up short. Somehow or
other he reminded me of you, Master Basil, though he wasn't a bit like
you; but he was a gentleman, and you are a gentleman, and the thought
ran into my head like a flash of fire, 'What would Master Basil think
of me it he saw me now?' It staggered me, and I felt as if I was
behaving like a traitor to you to so forget myself. You had given me
your friendship, and I was showing that I was unworthy of it. I made
my way back to the hotel I was staying at, and plunged my head into a
bucket of water, and kept it there until I had washed away the fumes
of half the cursed liquor I had poured down my throat. Then I went to
my bedroom, locked the door, threw myself on the bed, and slept myself
sober. 'Never again, Corrie, old boy,' I said, 'never again.' And I
never did again, although I did some foolish things afterwards that
were quite as unwise though less disgraceful. I took ship home and
landed at St. Katherine's Docks with four thousand pounds in my
pocket. Yes, Master Basil, I had made that much and more on the
goldfields, and it ought to have lasted me my life. You shall hear how
long it _did_ last me. As a matter of course I was regularly knocked
over when I walked through the London streets. The crowds of people,
the gay shops, the cabs and 'busses, and carriages, the hurly-burly,
the great buildings, almost took my breath away. I looked back at my
old life in the woods, swinging my axe, felling trees, and splitting
slabs, with my laughing jackass on a branch near me, and the hum of
nature all around me, and I hardly knew whether I was awake or
dreaming. Was I happy in the London streets? I can't say; I was
certainly bewildered, and that, mayhap, prevented me from thinking of
things in a sensible way. I was looking in a shop window, speculating
whether I oughtn't to buy some of the bright ties for sale there, when
a voice at my elbow says 'Good day, mate.' 'Good day, mate,' said I,
though the man was a stranger to me, at least I thought so at the
moment, but he soon unsettled my thought. 'Where have I met you,
mate?' said he. 'In what part of the world?' 'On the goldfields,
perhaps,' said I, like an innocent pigeon. 'Most likely,' he said, on
the goldfields. 'Your face strikes me as familiar, but I don't
remember your name.' 'My name is Corrie,' said I; 'Old Corrie I used
to be called.' 'No,' he said, shaking his head; 'I don't remember it.
I've seen you on the goldfields, that's all, and it's only because I
never forget a face that I took the liberty of speaking to you. I ask
your pardon.' 'No offence, mate,' I said, and I shook the hand he held
out before he left me. Now, Master Basil, if that man had said, when I
told him my name, that we were old acquaintances, I should have been
suspicious of him, but his honest admission (it seemed honest) that he
only recognised my face because he'd seen it once or twice on the
goldfields--which would have been the most natural thing in the
world--made me look upon him with favour, and as he walked away, I
gazed after him with a feeling of regret that he should leave me so
quickly. He may have gone a dozen yards when he looked back over his
shoulder, and seeing me staring after him, turned with a smile, and
joined me again. 'It looks churlish scudding off so unceremoniously,'
said he, 'when I might by chance be of service to you. When did you
arrive?' 'I landed this morning,' I said, and I mentioned the name of
the ship. 'Have you friends in London?' he asked. 'No,' said I, 'I am
a stranger here.' 'Then you haven't taken lodgings yet,' said he.
'No,' I answered, 'and to tell you the truth I am puzzled where to
go.' He offered to advise me, and I gladly availed myself of the
offer. 'Come and have a chop with me first,' said he, and we went to
an eating-house all gilt and glass--I found out afterwards that the
street we were in was Cheapside--and had a chop and some beer. He
threw half-a-sovereign to the waiter, but I objected to it saying I
would pay. He insisted, saying he had invited me; but I insisted too,
saying I had plenty of money, and would take it as a favour if he
would let me have my way. The friendly wrangle ended in each of us
paying his own score, and then as though we had known each other all
our lives, we went out together to a quiet hotel, in a narrow street
in the Strand, down by the river, where I engaged a bedroom. I'll cut
a long story short, Master Basil, so far as my new friend goes, by
telling you how it ended with me and him. He was so clever, and I was
so simple, that he wormed himself completely into my confidence, and I
thought myself lucky in having made such a friend. He told me all
about himself, and I told him all about myself; it was a regular case
of Siamese twins: we were never apart. One day he spoke of
speculation, and of doubling one's money in a week, and doubling it
again when the opportunity offered, which wasn't too often. 'Of your
four thousand pounds, you make eight,' said he, 'of your eight
thousand you make sixteen, and if you like to stop, why there you are,
you know.' Yes, there I was, and no mistake. The opportunity that
presented itself to my confidential friend was something in my way--a
quartz reef on the Avoca, to be formed into a company. He showed me
figures which I couldn't dispute, and didn't wish to dispute. The
truth is, Master Basil, he had dazzled me. Sixteen thousand pounds was
certainly better than four, and to be content with one when you had
only to put your name on a piece of paper to secure the other was the
act of a simpleton. The upshot of it was that I went into the company
and signed away the whole of my money with the exception of a hundred
pounds, and very soon found out that I had signed it away for ever and
a day. Good-bye, my three thousand nine hundred pounds, and good-bye
to my dear friend who had tickled me into his web and made mincemeat
of me. I never saw anything of either money or friend again."
Old Corrie paused to load his pipe, which gave Basil time to remark:
"You said just now that I knew nothing of the worst side of human
nature. How about yourself, Corrie?"
"It was my one mistake, Master Basil," replied Corrie composedly.
"There's no excuse for me; I was an old fool. Let me have four
thousand pounds again, and see if I'm bit a second time. Now, being
stranded with about enough to keep a fellow but little more than a
year, what was I to do? If I had been the wise man I'm trying to make
myself out to be, I should have taken passage to Australia, and taken
up my old life there. But more than one thing held me back, and kept
me here. First, there was a foolish pride; to retreat was to confess
myself beaten. Second, there was the chance of meeting with the friend
who had diddled me; it was about as strong as one thread of a spider's
web, but I dangled it before me. Third, I had never known what it was
to be without a crust of bread, and therefore had no fears on that
score. Another thing, perhaps, which only just now occurs to me, kept
me in this country. When I was a youngster there was a fatalist among
my acquaintances. He was the only thoroughly happy man I have ever
known. Nothing worried or disturbed him; he was a poor man, and he
never grumbled at being poor; he met with misfortunes, and he accepted
them smilingly, and never struggled against them; if he had broken his
leg, and it had to be amputated, he wouldn't have winced during the
operation. He had what he called a philosophical theory, and he
explained it to me. 'Nothing that anyone can do,' he said, 'will
prevent anything occurring. Everything that is going to happen is set
down beforehand, and an army ten million strong couldn't stop a straw
from blowing a certain way if fate ordained that it was to blow that
way. You can't prevent yourself from being imposed upon, from being
poor, from being rich, from being sick, from being healthy, from
living till you're a hundred, from dying when you're twenty, from
having a wife and blooming family, from living alone in a garret.
Therefore,' said he, 'it's of no use bothering about things. Do as I
do--take 'em easy.' 'But how,' I said once to him, 'if I've got a
different temper from yours, and worry myself to death about trifles?'
'Then you are much to be pitied,' said he, 'and I shall not trouble
myself about you.' I pressed, him, though, a little. 'If a man is
good?' I asked. 'He is fated to be good,' he answered. 'If he is a
murderer?' I asked. 'He is fated to be a murderer,' he answered. 'If
he is born to be hanged, hanged he will be, as sure as there's a sun
above us.' Well, now, Master Basil, perhaps it was fated that I should
remain in England in order to meet with a certain adventure which I
will tell you of presently, and afterwards to meet you here in London
to-night to assist you to a fated end."
"It is a hateful theory," said Basil. "Were it true, vice would be as
meritorious as virtue, and monsters of iniquity would rank side by
side with angels of goodness. Go on with your story, Corrie, and put
fatalism aside."
"So be it. Anyway, there I was, as my friend said, with a hundred
pounds in my pocket instead of sixteen thousand. I wasn't quite devoid
of prudence; I knew that a hundred pounds wouldn't last very long, and
that it would be as well if I could hit upon some plan to earn a
livelihood. It was the hop-picking season. 'I'll do a little hopping,'
said I, and off I set towards the heart of Kent for an autumn tour,
seasoned with so many or so few shillings a day. On the second night
of my tramp I missed my way. I was in a woody country, with the usual
puzzling tracks and fences. The night was fine, but very dark. Camping
out in England is a very different thing from camping out in
Australia, and I didn't intend to camp out here if I could help it.
But I was tired, and I squatted myself on the grass which grew on a
hill side, and thought I'll rest an hour and then stumble onwards on
the chance of reaching a village where I could get a night's lodging.
I was very comfortable; my legs hung down, there was a rest for my
back, and without any intention of doing so, I fell asleep. I was
awakened by something alive and warm quite close to me; I could not
see what it was, because when I opened my eyes I found that the night,
from being dark, had got black. There was not a star visible--everything
was black, above, below, around. But what was the object close
to me? I put out my hand and felt flesh covered with hair. 'A
dog,' thought I; but passing my hand along the body, I dismissed the
dog idea in consequence of the size of the animal. It was not high
enough nor smooth enough for a horse. A donkey, perhaps; but if a
donkey, why was it muzzled? The creature uttered no sound while my
hand was upon it, but when I took my hand away to get a match--the
only means at my command to obtain a view of my strange companion--it
put its head upon my arm, and then a foot, just as though it wanted to
pull me along in some particular direction--and then I heard a growl.
It made me start, though it was not a threatening growl, and I
wondered what sort of animal this could be that had attached itself to
me at such a time and in such a place. The next sound I heard was the
clank of a chain. I should have taken to my heels if I had not been
deterred by the thought that it might be safer to keep still, so I
softly took out my matchbox and struck a light--and there, with only
a few inches between our faces, was a great brown bear. I was
startled, but I soon got over my fears. I struck half a dozen matches,
one after the other, to get a good look at my new mate, and with the
lighting of each fresh match I became more assured. I took its paw in
my hand, and found that its claws had been pared down; it opened its
mouth, and there was scarcely a tooth in it; I happened to hold up my
arm, with the lighted match in my hand, and the bear immediately stood
on its hind legs and pawed the air. I jumped immediately at the right
conclusion. The creature was a harmless performing bear, and it had
either escaped from its master, or the man was not far off, and it
wished to lead me to him. I made an experiment. I rose, picked up the
end of the chain and cried, 'March!' March the bear did, and I after
it, for about a mile, and then it lay down by something on the road,
and moaned. I declare, Master Basil, there was a human sound in that
moan, and I knelt by its side and took a man's head on my knee. He was
a foreigner, but could speak fairly good English, and he told me that
he had met with an accident, having slipped on his ankle, and could
not walk. 'Bruno went for assistance,' said Bruno's master. 'Good
Bruno! Good Bruno!' The kind voice of the man attracted me: the
affection between bear and master attracted me; and I asked what I
could do, saying the country was strange to me, and I did not know my
way. 'But I know,' said the man; 'there is a village two miles off.
Help me to get on Bruno's back, and we will go there, if you will be
so good as to keep with me.' I said I would keep with him, partly
because I wanted a bed to sleep in myself, and partly because I should
be glad to be of service to him. With some difficulty I got him on
Bruno's back--the man was in pain, but he bore it well--and the three
of us trudged through the dark roads to the village, the man with his
head on my shoulder to keep his balance. It wasn't easy to get a
lodging; every house was shut, and then there was the bear, that
nobody cared to take in, not believing it was a harmless creature.
However, we managed it at last; Bruno was fastened up in an empty
stable, and I helped its master to a room where there were a couple of
straw beds. His ankle was badly sprained, and the next morning it was
very little better. He managed to limp out, and the pair of us,
leading the bear, trudged to a common where a village fair was being
held, and there Bruno's master began to put the bear through its
performances. Pain compelled him to stop, and he asked me to take his
place, instructing me what words and gestures to use to make the
patient creature do this or that. I got along so well that I was quite
proud of myself, and the comicality of my suddenly becoming a showman
never struck me till the evening, when the day's work was done. You've
come to something, Corrie,' said I, and I shook with laughter. After
tea the man counted up the takings, which amounted to close on ten
shillings, and divided them into three parts. 'One for Bruno,' said
he, 'one for me, one for you.' He pointed to my share, and I took it
and pocketed it as though I had been in the business all my life.
Again, Master Basil, I'm going to cut a long story short. I could talk
all night about my adventures with Bruno and its master, but I must
come to the pith of my story. Take it, then, that the three of us
travelled about for nearly twelve months, just managing to pick up a
living, that my foreign mate fell sick and had to go into a hospital,
that he died there, and that at his death I found myself with Bruno on
my hands, established as a regular showman. I accepted the position; I
could do nothing else; I couldn't run away from the bear because I
felt I should in some way be held answerable to the law for desertion;
we belonged to each other, and it wasn't at my option to dissolve the
partnership. My little stock of money was diminished by this time in
consequence of my mate's illness and the expenses of his funeral, and
I knew that Bruno's antics would always earn me a few shillings a
week. So there we were, Bruno and I, going about the country with
never a word or growl of disagreement between us till we came to a
fashionable sea-side place called Bournemouth. I had gone through the
performances, and Bruno and I were walking from street to street
looking for another pitch when I was struck almost dumb with amazement
at a sound that reached my ears. It was the voice of a bird speaking
some words in a loud key, and the words were--what do you think,
Master Basil?"
"I can't imagine, Corrie," replied Basil.
"The words were, 'Little lady, little lady! Basil and Annette! Basil,
Basil, Basil--dear Basil!'"
"Corrie," cried Basil, in a voice of wonder and joy, "you are not
deceiving me!"
"No, Master Basil, I am telling you the plain truth. You may imagine
by your own feelings the effect those words had upon me. What bird but
the magpie I had trained and taught for little lady could have uttered
them? And after all these years too! I could scarcely believe my ears,
but there was the bird, piping away at the window--I turned and saw it
in a cage--calling to me, in a manner of speaking, to come and say how
do you do? I went straight up to the house and knocked at the door.
The woman who opened it started back at sight of the bear. 'It won't
hurt you, ma'am,' I said, 'there's not a bit of vice in it. I've come
to ask you something about a bird you've got. It's an old friend of
mine, and I trained it for a young lady in Australia, and taught it
some of the things it says.' 'Sure enough,' said the woman, keeping as
far away from Bruno as she could, the bird's an Australian bird, and
the young lady it belongs to was born in Australia. Emily's not at
home now----' 'Not Emily, ma'am, begging your pardon,' I said,
interrupting her; 'Miss Annette's the young lady I mean. Her father's
name was Bidaud, and Basil, one of the names I taught the magpie to
speak, was a dear friend of hers and mine.' 'Oh, yes,' said the woman,
'I know all about that. My daughter Emily is Miss Bidaud's maid, and
she is taking care of the bird for her mistress for a little while.
Emily's home for a holiday, but she's gone to see some friends in
London, and won't be back till the day after to-morrow. Can I do
anything of you?' 'You can tell me, if you please,' said I, 'where
Miss Annette is. I'm sure she'll be glad to see me,' My idea was,
Master Basil, to see little lady and ask her if she had any news of
you, though I wanted, too, to see her for her own sake. Well, all at
once the woman grew suspicious of me, and instead of speaking civil
she spoke snappish. 'No,' she said, 'I shan't tell you anything about
Miss Bidaud. You're a showman, travelling about with a big, nasty
bear, and likely as not you're up to no good.' I didn't fire up; the
woman had fair reason on her side. 'I'm a respectable man, ma'am,' I
said, 'and it's only by accident I came into company with Bruno. My
name's Corrie, and Miss Annette would thank you for telling me where
she is.' But she wouldn't, Master Basil; all that I could get out of
her was that I might come and see Emily the day after to-morrow, and
her daughter could then do as she liked about telling me what I wanted
to know. I went away with the determination to come back and have a
talk with little lady's maid, but things don't always turn out as we
want them to do. Very seldom indeed. That night there was a great
hubbub in the place I was stopping at. Bruno had broke loose and gone
goodness knows where, and all sorts of stupid stories got about that
the bear was mad and was biting everybody it met. I had to go in
search of the creature, and the police kept me in sight. A pretty
dance Bruno led me. I was hunting for it three days and nights, and
when I found it at last it was in a sorry plight. I shall never forget
that evening, Master Basil. I don't know the rights of the story, but
I was certain that Bruno had been set upon by dogs and men--it had
marks of fresh wounds upon its body--and been hunted from place to
place. When I caught sight of the bear it was lying by the side of a
little pool, and at a little distance were some twenty men and boys
pelting it with stones. I scattered them right and left, and knelt by
Bruno's side. The poor beast tried to raise its head, but couldn't,
and I got some water from the pool, which was all mudded with the
stone-throwing, and bathed its mouth. It thanked me with its eyes--it
did, Master Basil--and did its best to lick my hand. Its chest went up
and down like billows of the sea, and once it gave a great sob as if
its heart was broke. After that it got quieter, but it could neither
eat nor drink. A policeman came up and told me to move on. 'Come,
Bruno,' I said, 'march, my man. The law's got its eyes on you.' The
creature actually managed to stand, and, more than that, got up on its
hind legs as it did when it was performing. It pawed the air a little,
and looked at me for orders, and then fell down all of a heap. 'Come,'
said the policeman, 'you must move on, the pair of you.' 'Not
possible, the pair of us,' said I, sorrowfully. 'Try if your truncheon
can bring it to life.' Bruno dead was much more difficult to manage
than Bruno alive. I had to pay money to get rid of its body, and then
somebody summoned me for a scratch or a bite Bruno had given him, he
said, and I had to pay money for that. All this took me some time, and
I had very little money left at the end of it. I hadn't the heart to
go back to Bournemouth to get little lady's address. What should I do
with it when I got it? Go to her and beg? No, I was too proud for
that. Most likely she was with her uncle, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud, the
gentleman who wouldn't respect a dead brother's word, and I knew
what I might expect from him. So I gave up the idea and came to
London--came here to starve, Master Basil, for I could get no work to
do, and have gone through more than I care to tell of. If I hadn't met
you to-night I should have wandered about the streets, as I've done
for many and many a night already; but I'll not dwell upon it. I've
told my story as straight as I could."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"It is a strange story," said Basil, "but less strange than the story
I have to relate. We have both experienced the pangs of hunger and
solitude, with wealth and luxury all around us. What chiefly interests
me is your adventure in Bournemouth. Emily, you said, is the name of
Annette's maid?"
"So her mother said."
"And the mother's name?"
"I ascertained that--Crawford."
"Do you know the name of the street in which she lives?"
"Lomax Road. I put it down on paper."
"If we were in Bournemouth, you could take me to the house?"
"Straight."
"We will go there to-morrow; there will be little sleep for us
to-night, Corrie. As regards Annette do you draw any conclusions about
her character--for the Child and the woman are frequently at odds with
one another--from the incident of the bird?"
"I do; Master Basil. I draw the sign of constancy. None but a constant
nature would have kept the bird so long, would have valued it so long,
would have taught it new words.
"New words!"
"Yes, Master Basil. If it said 'dear Basil' once, it said it twenty
times while the woman and I were talking. When I gave the bird to
little lady it couldn't say 'dear,' so she must have taught the lesson
with her own pretty lips. A straw will tell which way the wind blows."
"Thank you, Corrie. When you have heard me out you will understand
what all this means to me." The recital of his adventures occupied him
over an hour, and Corrie listened with bent brows and without a single
word of interruption. His pipe went out, and he made no attempt to
relight it; the only movement he made was to turn his head
occasionally, as though something Basil had just said had inspired a
new thought. Basil brought his narrative down to this very night, and
paused only when he came to where Old Corrie accosted him at the
street door. "What do you think of it, Corrie?" he asked, when he had
finished. "It is wonderful," said Corrie. "My story is but a molehill
by the side of your mountain. There's no time to lose, Master Basil; a
day, an hour, may be precious, if little lady is to be saved."
"No time shall be lost," said Basil; "an hour's rest in our clothes
after we've done talking, and at daybreak we are off to see how soon
and how quickly we can get to Bournemouth. There is a question I
haven't asked you. How long is it since you were in Bournemouth?"
"It must be six months, quite; but I kept no account of time. What a
fool I was not to go back and see Emily Crawford!"
"We'll waste no time in lamenting. What is past is past, and no man
can foresee what is in the future. Do you see, now, how important your
evidence is likely to be to me? Without it I might be compelled to
pass through life bearing the shameful name of the villain who
betrayed me. Corrie, there are anxious and dreaded possibilities in
the future to which I dare not give utterance. I can only hope and
work. Now let us rest."
He wanted Corrie to take his bed, but Corrie refused, and, throwing
himself on the floor, was soon asleep. Not so Basil; the events of the
night had been too exciting for forgetfulness, and though he dozed off
now and then, his brain did not rest a moment. He was none the worse
for it in the morning; despite the trials he had undergone his
naturally strong constitution asserted itself and enabled him to bear
more than an ordinary amount of fatigue. The moment he arose from his
bed Old Corrie jumped to his feet as brisk as a lark.
"I'm a new man, Master Basil," he said; "the prospect of something to
do is as good as wine to me. There's no curse like the curse of
idleness."
They washed and breakfasted, and then went out. It was early morning,
and there were not many people astir.
"We are going first," said Basil, "to see Mr. Philpott, of whom I told
you last night. I have an impression that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is not in
England. If we are fortunate enough in striking the trail, and he is
in a foreign country, the task we are set upon may be long and
difficult. I am debating whether it would be advisable to ask Philpott
to accompany us."
"From your opinion of him," said Corrie, "he is a man to be trusted."
"Thoroughly."
"In a foreign country I should be next door to useless, except to
prove that you are yourself. Mr. Philpott is accustomed to such jobs
as this, and knows the tricks of hunting men down. I should say take
him."
"I will, if he is agreeable. He doesn't know who I really am, though
he has perhaps a suspicion of the truth, and it will be necessary that
I should tell him my story. If he can come with us I shall have no
hesitation in confiding in him."
They found the Philpott family at breakfast.
"I thought we were early birds, sir," said Mr. Philpott, while his
wife dusted two chairs for the visitors, "but there are other birds, I
see, more wide-awake than we are. Why, it's barely seven o'clock!
Breakfast done when the clock strikes--that's my notion of bringing up
a family."
"I've something of importance to say to you," said Basil, "when you've
finished."
"Finished now, sir," said Philpott; "always ready for business. We'll
talk outside if you don't mind. Mother hasn't had time to do the rooms
yet." They walked up and down the quiet street, and after Basil had
ascertained that Philpott was able and willing to accompany him, and
that the next train for Bournemouth did not start for a couple of
hours, he communicated to Philpott all he considered it necessary that
worthy man should know of his history.
"A singular story, sir," said Philpott, "about as good as anything
that's come my way up to now. I always told mother there was
something out of the common about you. That Mr. Chaytor must be an
out-and-outer--as cunning as they make 'em now-a-days. It's as well
you should have a man like me with you. I know the ropes; you don't.
Let's get to the office, sir. I must give 'em notice I'm going away on
an important job. Luckily there's nothing very particular on hand just
now." This preliminary was soon accomplished, and Basil and his
companions arrived at Waterloo Station a few minutes before the train
started for Bournemouth. On the road it was arranged that Basil should
go alone to Mrs. Crawford's house.
"The woman might be frightened," said Philpott, "at three men coming
to make inquiries. To a gentleman like you she will be open and
frank."
Leaving Old Corrie and Philpott on the beach, Basil walked to Lomax
Road, the number of the house in which Mrs. Crawford lived being 14,
as he was informed by an obliging resident. He lingered outside, and
looked up at the windows for signs of the magpie, but no sound reached
his ears, and with somewhat of a despondent feeling he knocked at the
door. So much depended upon the next few minutes! If he should have to
leave Mrs. Crawford unsatisfied, without a clue to guide him, he would
be no further advanced than on the day he first set foot in London.
All he wanted was a starting point, and he vowed to leave no stone
unturned to obtain it, and that once he gained it, he would follow it
up till it led him to the end. The door was opened, and a
decent-looking woman stood before him.
"Mrs. Crawford?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to speak to you upon a subject very dear to me; I can offer no
other excuse for intruding upon you."
"There was an unconscious wistfulness in his voice, which interested
Mrs. Crawford. There is no surer way of winning a woman's sympathies
than by appealing to them in some such way as this, and making them
understand it is in their power to assist you.
"Are you a Bournemouth gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford.
"No, I have never been in Bournemouth before to-day. I have travelled
a long distance to see you."
"Will you walk in, sir?"
He followed her to the sitting-room. A little girl some seven or eight
years old was sitting there, turning over the pages of a child's
picture-book.
"Run and play, Genie," said the mother.
"Your little girl?" asked Basil, drawing the child to his knee.
"Yes, sir." Basil took half-a-crown from his pocket. "Ask mamma,
by-and-by, to buy you a toy with this."
"What do you say, Genie?" cried the gratified mother.
"Thank you, sir," said the child, holding her bashful head down.
Basil gave her a kiss, and she ran to her mother with the half-crown,
and afterwards left the room, shyly glancing at Basil, whose kind
manners, no less than the half-crown, had won her heart. And the
mother's also, it is almost needless to say.
Basil looked around the walls. No sign of a bird. Then he turned to
the mantel-shelf and saw there the portrait of a young woman, bearing
in her face a strong resemblance to Mrs. Crawford.
"Another daughter of yours," he observed. "I can see the likeness."
"Yes, sir, and a good girl, and a good daughter."
"I am sure she is. Might I inquire her name?"
"Emily, sir."
"Is she at home?"
"No, sir; she is abroad with her mistress."
Basil's heart beat high with hope already there was something gained.
"Am I mistaken in my belief," he asked, "that her mistress is Miss
Annette Bidaud?"
"That is the young lady's name, sir. I hope you will excuse my asking
why you keep on looking round the room, and why you looked up at the
windows of the house in the same way before you knocked at the
street-door? I saw you, sir."
"I was looking for an old friend I had an idea was here."
"An old friend, sir?"
"Yes, a magpie that Miss Bidaud brought with her from Australia."
Mrs. Crawford's face flushed up, and she said in a tone of vexation:
"It was here a little while, sir, and it got me into trouble. But it
was nobody's fault but my own. Excuse me again, sir--you speak as if
you knew Miss Bidaud."
"I knew her intimately; she and I were, and I hope are, very dear
friends. Her father and I had a great esteem for each other."
"That was in Australia, sir?"
"That was in Australia. Miss Bidaud was but a child at the time."
"You have seen her since, I suppose, sir?"
"I have not. To be frank with you, that is the object of my visit to
you. I earnestly desire to know where she is."
"She is a beautiful young lady now, sir," said Mrs. Crawford;
diverging a little; from the expression on her face she seemed to be
considering something as she gazed attentively at Basil. "Perhaps you
can recognise her."
She handed Basil an album, and he turned over its pages till he came
to a portrait which rivetted his attention. It was the portrait of
Annette; he recognised it instantly, but how beautiful she had grown!
An artist had coloured the picture, and the attractive subject must
have interested him deeply, so well and skilfully was the colouring
done. The gracefully-shaped head, the long, golden-brown hair, the
lovely hazel eyes, magnetised Basil, as it were. There was a pensive
look in the eyes, and something of wistfulness in the expression of
the mouth, which Basil construed into a kind of appeal. It may be
forgiven him if he thought that it was to him the mute face was
appealing. Long and earnestly did he gaze: reminiscences of the happy
hours they had passed together floated through his mind; her
confidence, her trust in him, and her father's last words on the
evening on which he had accepted the guardianship of his child, were
never less powerful and, sacred in the sense they conveyed of a duty
yet to be performed than they were at this moment. When, at length, he
raised his eyes from the portrait, Mrs. Crawford saw tears in them.
Had she had any doubts of her visitor, these tears would have
dispelled them.
"Is she not lovely, sir?"
"She has the face of an angel."
"That is what my Emily says, sir; she dotes on my young lady, sir, and
would work her fingers to the bone to serve her."
"Miss Miss Bidaud, then, has one faithful friend by her side."
"You may say that, sir. There have been mistresses and servants but
there never was mistress and servant so bound to each other as my
Emily and my young lady."
"They are in Europe?"
"Oh, yes, sir, they are in Europe. I'll tell you presently where, but
I must finish what I was saying at first. It was about the magpie--the
bird you were looking for--as sensible a feathered thing as ever piped
a note. Emily wanted badly to come and see me, and some other of her
relations in England, and it happened that her uncle and guardian Mr.
Gilbert Bidaud--you know the gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford,
breaking off suddenly; she had noticed a dark flash in Basil's eyes at
the mention of the name.
"I had a brief acquaintance with him in Australia," replied Basil.
"Do you like him, sir? Is he a friend of yours?"
Before he replied he looked attentively at her, and a tacit
understanding seemed to pass between them. Without further hesitation
he answered:
"I do not like him. He is no friend of mine."
Mrs. Crawford nodded her head in a satisfied manner, and said:
"The more likely you are to be a friend of Miss Bidaud's. Well, sir,
it happened that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud was going to pay a flying visit to
several foreign places, and, of course, was going to take my young
lady with him. He never lets her out of his sight if he can help it,
but Emily is very nearly a match for him. I don't say quite, but very
nearly, Emily _is_ clever. Mr. Bidaud made a great fuss about taking
the bird and the cage with them on this journey, and wanted my young
lady to leave it behind, but she wouldn't, and proposed instead that
Emily should have her holiday while they were away and should take
care of the bird and take it back when her holiday was over. That is
how the bird came to be here. Eight months ago it was, and Emily was
away on a visit, when a man with a great ugly bear came to the house
and began to ask questions about the bird. He said just what you said,
that it was an old friend of his, and that he'd trained it for my
young lady in Australia. He knew my young lady's name, and he wanted
me to tell him where she was to be found. Well, sir, I don't know
how it was, but I got suspicious of him. What business could a
common-looking man like him have with a young lady like Miss Bidaud?
As like as not he wanted to impose upon her, and it wasn't for me to
help him to do that. It didn't look well, did it, sir, that a man
going about the country with a bear should be trapesing after my young
lady? So I was very short with him, and I refused to tell him
anything, but said if he liked to come in a day or two Emily would be
home, and then he could speak to her about my young lady. He went
away, after leaving his name--Corrie, it was--and I never set eyes on
him again. That seemed to prove I'd done right, but I hadn't, for
Emily said, when she came home, that my young lady thought a good deal
of this Mr. Corrie, and had often spoken of him, and that he did train
and give her the bird, just as he said he had. Emily said my young
lady would be very sorry when she heard I'd turned Mr. Corrie away,
and that she would give a good deal if she could see the poor man.
Every letter I get from my daughter she asks me if I've seen anything
more of Mr. Corrie, and to be sure if I do to tell him where my young
lady is stopping. I could beat myself with vexation when I think of
it. Perhaps you could tell me something of him, as you were all in
Australia at the same time."
"I can. He is here with me in Bournemouth."
"Here in Bournemouth, sir! Oh, what a relief you have given me!"
"He told you a true story, Mrs. Crawford, every word of it, and is a
sterling, honest fellow. You see how wrong it is to judge people by
their appearance."
"Perhaps it is, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, a little doubtfully, and
added, with excusable flattery, "I judged you by yours, sir. I hope
you will bring Mr. Corrie here, but not his bear, sir, and I'll beg
his pardon."
"No need to do that; Corrie is the last man to blame you for doing
what you believed to be right. As for the poor bear, it is dead. I
will go and fetch Corrie presently, and you can make it up with him;
but tell me now where Miss Bidaud is to be found."
"She is in Switzerland, with her uncle and aunt, sir."
"I want the exact address, Mrs. Crawford, if you please."
"Here it is, sir, on a piece of paper. It is my Emily's writing, sir."
Basil wrote down the address: "Villa Bidaud, Fernex, near Geneva,
Switzerland." His hand trembled as he wrote. At last he was fairly on
the track of the traitor. His heart beat tumultuously, and for a
moment he was overcome with dizziness; but he immediately recovered
himself, and continued the conversation. "Do you write to your
daughter to this address?"
"Yes, sir."
"Villa Bidaud. That sounds as if it were a long-established
residence."
"They live there on and off, sir, for a few weeks or a few months at a
time. I think when they go travelling the house is shut up."
"Your daughter has doubtless given you a description of the house. Is
it small or large?"
"Large, I should say, and very old. There must be a good many rooms in
it, and it stands in the middle of a very large garden."
"Mrs. Crawford, look at me."
Somewhat surprised at the request, Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil, and
saw a face quivering with earnestness, and eyes in which truth and
honour shone.
"Yes, sir," she said, and waited. "I want you to be certain that I am
a man who is to be trusted."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"That I am a man who would do no woman wrong, and that in my present
visit to you I am animated by an honest, earnest desire to serve the
young lady your daughter serves and loves."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"Being certain of it," said Basil, "is there nothing more you can tell
me that might aid me in my desire to be of service to Miss Bidaud? I
gather from what you have said that your daughter is sincerely
attached to her young mistress, and she will know whether Miss Bidaud
is happy or not."
"I'm not sure, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, speaking slowly, "whether
I've a right to tell everything, you being a stranger to me."
"But not a stranger to Miss Bidaud," said Basil, eagerly, "remember
that, Mrs. Crawford. Next to her father, I was in Australia her
dearest friend----"
"Are you sure of that, sir?" interrupted Mrs. Crawford. "We sometimes
deceive ourselves. My young lady, to my knowledge had a friend in
Australia--a young gentleman like yourself--she thought all the world
of. Emily says she was never tired of speaking about him and of his
kindness to her. His name is Mr. Basil Whittingham. Perhaps you are
acquainted with him?"
"I know something of him," said Basil. He had been on the point of
disclosing himself, but remembrance of the part Newman Chaytor was
playing checked him in time.
"Of course, there may be others," continued Mrs. Crawford, "and it
isn't for me to dispute with you; but if there's one thing that is
more positive than another, it is that my young lady thought all the
world of Mr. Whittingham. You are Miss Bidaud's friend, and you don't
seem to think much of her uncle. That's the way with us. My Emily
hates the very sight of him--though she doesn't let him see it, you
may be sure, sir--because of the way he behaves to Miss Bidaud. How I
come to know so much about Mr. Whittingham is, because all the letters
he wrote to Miss Bidaud from Australia were addressed to my care. If
they hadn't been, my young lady's uncle or aunt would have got hold of
them and she would never have seen them. When they arrived I used to
put them in an envelope and address them to my Emily--not to Villa
Bidaud, but to different post-offices, according to the directions she
gave me."
"Were there many of these letters?" asked Basil, keeping guard upon
his feelings.
"About one every six or seven months, sir."
"Are you aware whether they afforded pleasure to Miss Bidaud?"
"Yes, sir, they gave her the greatest possible pleasure. She was
always happy after she got one, so my Emily wrote to me. That makes it
all the stranger."
"Makes what all the stranger?" Again Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil
with a possible doubt of the wisdom of her loquacity; but she was
naturally a gossip, and the sluice being open the waters continued to
flow.
"Well, sir, my young lady had set her heart upon Mr. Whittingham
coming home--that much my daughter knew from what she said; and,
although she said nothing about it to Emily, there was something else
she set her heart upon. There are some things, you know, sir, a
delicate-minded young lady doesn't tell her best friend till they're
settled; and perhaps Miss Bidaud herself didn't quite know what her
feelings for Mr. Whittingham were. She was very young when she left
Australia, and her uncle hadn't been anxious to introduce her to
society, so since she's been home she has seen very little of young
men. But lookers on can see most of the game, sir, and my Emily said
to me, 'When Mr. Whittingham comes home there'll be a match made up,
you see if there won't, mother.' 'But how about the uncle?' I asked,
for it was pretty clear to me, from what I heard, that there was no
love lost between Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Whittingham. Then my Emily tells
me that, for all my young lady's gentle ways and manners, she
sometimes showed a will of her own when anything very dear to her was
in question. That is how she has been able to keep the bird Mr. Corrie
gave her; if it hadn't been that she was determined, her uncle would
have made away with it long ago. I didn't quite agree with Emily. I
argued like this, sir. Supposing, when Mr. Whittingham came home, he
and my young lady found they loved each other, and made a match of it.
So far, all well and good; but the moment Mr. Bidaud discovered it, he
would take steps. He is Miss Bidaud's natural guardian, and my young
lady is not yet of age. What would her uncle do? Whip her away, and
take her where Mr. Whittingham couldn't get at her. Perhaps discharge
Emily, and so deprive Miss Bidaud of every friend she has, and of
every opportunity of acting contrary to him. He's artful enough to
carry that out. I don't quite know the rights of it, but Emily says he
has control of all my young lady's fortune, and she don't believe he
has any of his own. Well, then, does it stand to reason that he would
let the money he lives upon slip through his fingers through any
carelessness of his own, or that he would hand it quietly over to a
man he hates like poison? That's the way I urged, sir, but it's all
turned out different. Of course you know, sir, that Mr. Basil
Whittingham's come home."
"I have heard so," said Basil, quietly.
"And has come into a great fortune!"
"I have heard that, also."
"Miss Bidaud was overjoyed when she saw him, and her uncle was the
other way. But if Emily's last two letters mean anything they mean
that things have got topsy turvy like. Mr. Whittingham and Mr. Bidaud
are great friends now, and as for my young lady being happy, that's
more than I can say. There's no understanding young people now; it was
different in my time; but there, they say the course of true love
never runs smooth. One thing seems pretty plain--there's a screw loose
somewhere in Villa Bidaud. And now, sir, I've told you everything, and
likely as, not I've been too free, and done what I shouldn't. If I
have done wrong I shall never hear the last of it from Emily."
"You will live to acknowledge," said Basil, "that you have done right,
and that your confidence is not misplaced. I thank you from my heart,
and am grateful for the good fortune that led me to you. Mrs.
Crawford, I don't like to offer you money for the service you have
rendered me, though I hope I shall be in the humour to insist, before
long, upon your allowing me to make a fitting acknowledgment. But
there is something I should wish to purchase of you."
"I have nothing to sell, sir, that you would care to have."
"I would give more than its weight in gold," said Basil, laying his
hand upon the album, "for the portrait of Miss Bidaud. You can have no
idea of the value it would be to me, and how much I should esteem your
kindness. Let me have it, I entreat you."
"I don't like to part with it," said Mrs. Crawford, looking admiringly
at Basil, "but I can't refuse you. Take it, sir."
Basil quickly availed himself of the permission, and put a sovereign
on the table, saying, "For little Genie. Buy her a pretty frock with
it." Then wishing her good day, and thanking her again he left her to
rejoin Old Corrie and Mr. Philpott on the beach, and communicate the
good news to them. Half-an-hour later Old Corrie paid a visit to Mrs.
Crawford, and received her profuse excuses for the abrupt manner in
which he had behaved to him.
"Nobody can blame you, ma'am," said Corrie, "for fighting shy of a
bear. It's a wonder to me now how I came to be mates with the
creature. But he was a worthy comrade, ma'am, rough as his outside
was--a deal worthier than some men I've met with. And I shall never
forget it, ma'am, because in the first place it brought me straight to
you, and in the second place it's taking me straight to a little
lady."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had established his position
as Basil Whittingham, he had obtained possession of Basil's fortune,
he was on a familiar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings
respecting the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had
bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, no difficulty
whatever. The evidence in his possession, proving himself to be the
man he represented himself to be, was complete; and there being no
grounds for suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, and
on the high road.
He went to London, and remained there only a few days. He made no
attempt to see his parents, and was careful to avoid the neighbourhood
in which they lived. With a large fortune at his disposal, and being
fertile in methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few
pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself; but his
character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is supposed he ever
allowed himself to yield to the dictates of humanity. He knew that his
parents were in direst poverty--his mother's last letter to him made
this very clear--but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion
for the mother who idolised him or the father he had brought to ruin.
Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled every action of his life.
His own ease, his own pleasures, his own safety--these were paramount,
and pioneered him through the crooked paths he had trod since boyhood.
The correspondence he had kept up with Annette rendered it an easy
matter for him to find her. He had apprised her that he was starting
for home, and had directed her not to write to him again to Australia.
In this last letter he informed her that he had come into a great
fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by business matters
for a few weeks that he would not be able to see her immediately he
arrived in England. He gave her instructions how to communicate with
him at home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her heart for
him. It is hard to say how many times Annette read this letter. Basil
was on his way home--coming home, coming home, coming home--she kept
on repeating the magic words; and there was a light in her eyes, music
in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last he was coming,
the friend whom she could trust, the man her dear father had loved and
honoured. She would see him soon, for he would not linger over the
business he had to transact; her hand would be in his, his eyes on her
face--and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had she changed since
he last saw her? Would he know her again, or would she have to say,
"Basil, I am Annette?" No! that would not be necessary; she had sent
him her portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would pick
her out of a thousand women. She had changed--yes, she was aware of
that, and aware, too, that she was very beautiful. What woman is not
who has grace and beauty for her dower; and is there a woman in the
world who is not proud of the possession, and who does not smile and
greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon the bright reflection of
a brighter reality? Annette was innocently glad that she was fair, and
all through her gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked
her for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The quality of
vanity there was in this thought was human and natural. The name of
Basil represented to her all that there was of nobility, goodness, and
generosity. In Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in
life. She worshipped an ideal. He had asked her to keep a corner in
her heart for him. Was not her whole heart his? And he was coming
home--home! The word assumed a new meaning. It would be truly home
when Basil was with her.
"You are excited, Annette," said Gilbert Bidaud, who, although he
seldom indulged in long conversations with his niece, noted every sign
and change in her. Only in one respect had he been baffled; he had not
succeeded in discovering how the correspondence between Basil and
Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, Emily, but that
shrewd young person was so extraordinarily careful and astute that he
could not lure her, for all the traps he set, into betraying herself.
He hinted once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but
Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no farther.
"Emily is my maid," said Annette, "and no one but I have a right to
discharge her."
"And you do not mean to do so?" said Gilbert Bidaud.
"No, uncle, I do not mean to do so."
"Even though I expressed a wish that she should go."
"Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving me. I am fond
of her. If she goes, I go too."
"You go! where?"
"Where you would not find me, uncle."
Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She might fall into
other hands, and herself and fortune be lost to him. He was not quite
sure of his position in respect to Annette, and his best safety lay in
not disturbing the waters. His brother's affairs in Australia had been
administered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here in
Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for him. He had
Annette's fortune absolutely in his control; he had used her money for
his own purposes, for he had none of his own; he had kept no accounts;
in worldly matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become
wiser so long as she was in his charge. She was obedient and docile in
most ways, the only exceptions being her feeling for Emily, and the
secret correspondence she was carrying on with Basil. These matters
were not important; they did not trench upon his authority or
position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, sentimental
girl would write, and Basil's letters were probably harmless enough.
Besides, he was at a safe distance. Time enough to fight when the
enemy was in view. "He will marry," thought Gilbert Bidaud, "he will
forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is safest." So time
went on, outwardly calm, till Annette received Basil's letter
announcing his intended return to England. It was then that Gilbert
noted the change in her. They were on the continent at the time; of
late years Gilbert seldom visited England; there was more enjoyment
and greater security for him in his own country and in others more
congenial to him. He purchased, with Annette's money, a villa in
Fernex, which he called Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his
own name; he had come to regard Annette's fortune as his; if
troublesome thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to his own
cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might present themselves.
"You are excited, Annette," he said.
She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was impossible; her restless
movements, her sparkling eyes, her joyous face, were sufficient
confirmation of her uncle's statements. But to admit it would lead to
questions which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was
silent.
"My dear niece," said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth voice, "there is
not that confidence between us which I should wish to exist. Why? Have
I oppressed you? Have I treated you harshly? You can scarcely so
accuse me. Have I not allowed you to have your own way in all things?
You have had perfect liberty, have you not? Be frank with me. I have
at heart only your interests. I wish only to secure your happiness.
When your poor father--my dear brother--died, you were almost a baby,
a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. I said to my
heart--it is my habit, my dear niece, to commune with myself--I said
to my heart, 'Annette is a child, an infant, with strong affections
and attachments. You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are
closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. She will not
regard you with favour; she will not understand you.' And so it was.
It was my unhappy duty to be stern and hard with some you regarded as
friends; it was my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we
commenced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you are, stood aloof
from you and exercised the duties of guardian and uncle without
showing that my heart was filled with love for you. Thus have we
lived, with a spiritual gulf dividing us. My dear niece, you are no
longer a child, you are a woman who can think for herself, who is open
to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you the hand of amity,
of love. Take it, and tell me how I can minister to your happiness."
It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he had ever
made to her, and she was deceived by his specious frankness. She could
not refuse the hand he held out to her, and as she placed hers within
it, she reflected, "When Basil arrives they must meet. They were not
friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing accomplished if they
can be made friends here, through me. Then Basil can come freely, with
uncle's consent, and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke
to me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as well as
he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great love for me, but may it
not have been partly my own fault. If they have wounded me, may I not
have wounded them?"
Gilbert Bidaud saw that she was reflecting upon the new view he had
presented to her, and he did not disturb her meditations. Presently
she said:
"Uncle, I have had some good news."
"It delights me," said Gilbert Bidaud. "In your own good time you
shall confide it to me."
"I will confide it to you now. Basil is coming home."
"See now," said Gilbert, in a tone of great good-humour, "how you have
misjudged me. Here have you, my ward, over whom I have the right to
exercise some authority, been corresponding with a young gentleman
between whom and myself there are differences of opinion. Candidly I
admit that I did not look upon him with love. Know now for the first
time that on the plantation I was warned against him, that he had
enemies who spoke of him as an adventurer. How was I to know that
those who spoke thus spoke falsely? You may answer, being a woman who
has cherished in her heart a regard for her Australian friend, 'You
should have asked me; I would have told you the truth about him.' Ah,
but consider. What were you? A mere infant, innocent, guileless,
unsuspecting. I venerate childhood, and venerate it the more because
it has no worldly wisdom. Happy, happy state! Would that we could live
all our lives in ignorance so blissful! Then there would be no more
duplicity, no more cheating and roguery. But it is otherwise, and we
must accept the world. Therefore the young gentleman and I crossed
swords on the first day we met, and from that time have misunderstood
each other. In my thoughts, perhaps, I have done him wrong; in his
thoughts, perhaps, he has done me wrong. And my niece, the only child
of my dear brother, sided with the stranger against me. I was wounded,
sorely wounded; and when I discovered that you and he were writing to
each other secretly, I spoke harshly to you; I may even have uttered
some foolish threats. What man, my child, can be ever wise, can ever
say the right words, can ever do the right things? None, not one, and
I perhaps, who have peculiar moods and temper, less than many. But
see, now, what came of those harsh words, those foolish threats? You
still correspond with your friend Basil, and I stood quietly aside and
interfered not. Could I not have stopped the correspondence, if I had
been seriously determined to do so? Doubt it not, my child. At any
moment I could have done so. But I said, 'No, I will not spoil
Annette's pleasure; it is an innocent pleasure; let it go on; I will
not interfere. One day my niece will do me justice. And it may be,
that one day her friend Basil and I will better understand each
other.' Is it not so?"
"Indeed, uncle," said Annette, timidly, "it is I who have been in the
wrong."
"No, no," said Gilbert, interrupting her, "I will not have you say so.
The fault was mine. What say the English? You cannot put an old head
on young shoulders. I expected too much. From to-day we commence
afresh. Eh, my dear child?"
"Yes, uncle."
"So be it," he said, kissing her. "We misunderstand each other never
again. It is agreed. Our friend Basil--I will make him my friend if he
will let me; you shall see--is coming home. He shall be welcome."
"Uncle, you remove a weight from my heart."
"It is what I would do, always. A weight is also removed from mine.
How long will our friend Basil be before he appears."
"I do not know exactly. He will write."
"He will write," echoed Gilbert merrily, pinching Annette's cheek. "We
have our secret post-office--ah, ah! Tell him it must be secret no
longer. Write openly to him; he shall write openly to you. He has been
many years in Australia. Has he grown rich on the goldfields? Did he
find what they call a golden claim?"
"He does not say; but I think he did not get rich there."
"Not get rich there. Did he get rich anywhere, or does he come poor?"
The picture of a needy adventurer rose before him, and had he not been
a master in cunning he would have betrayed himself.
"He writes," said Annette, "that his uncle has left him a large
fortune."
Gilbert drew a long breath of relief. Easier to cope with Basil rich
than poor. If Basil wanted Annette, and Annette wanted him, why, he
would make a bargain with the young man, who, being wealthy, would not
be greedy for Annette's money. Gilbert Bidaud was a keen judge of
character, and he knew Basil to be a manly, generous-hearted
honourable fellow, who would be more likely to despise than to covet
money with the girl he loved. If that were so, Gilbert saw a road to
immunity for the past and a life of independence in the future. There
was a striking resemblance in certain features of his character and
that of Newman Chaytor, as there is in the natures of all purely
selfish men.
"That is a pleasant thing to hear," he said. "I congratulate him from
my heart." He would have added, "And I congratulate you," but he
restrained himself; it was delicate ground, and it would be better to
wait. Subsequently, in a conversation with his sister, he expressed
himself more freely. Basil would be received and welcomed--yes, but he
would be carefully sounded and observed, and she was to play her part
both with Annette and her lover. It pleased Gilbert to call him so,
but it did not please the girl's aunt.
"You have foolish ideas," she said. "Annette was thirteen years when
we took her from the plantation. What kind of love could a man have
for such a child?"
"You will see, you will see," said Gilbert. "This Basil is what we
call an eccentric, and it is because he is so that I have settled upon
the plan of bringing them together under our noses. Remember, my idiot
of a brother left me not a coin. We have our future to look to, and
gentleman Basil is the man to make it sure for us. Would you wish to
have to slave for your bread as you used to do--and often not get it?"
"No; but if I have an enemy I like him at a distance."
"Foolish woman! If I have an enemy I like him here, close to me, where
my hand can reach him. I will have him--if I have the choice--as I
have now--in the light, not in the dark."
Annette also had a conversation with her trusty maid Emily concerning
this new revelation in Gilbert Bidaud's character. Annette was very
enthusiastic about it, and very self-reproachful concerning the past,
but Emily looked grave and shook her head.
"I'd rather agree with you than not, miss," she said, "but I don't
think I can about your uncle."
"You must not be obstinate and prejudiced, Emily," said Annette, with
mild severity.
"I'll try not to be, miss, but if an animal is born a donkey, a donkey
he remains all the days of his life."
Annette laughed, and said, of course, but what _did_ Emily mean?
"It's a roundabout way of explaining myself," said Emily. "And there's
different kinds of donkeys, some mild, and that'll take the whip as
patient as a wooden dummy; others that'll kick out and let fly at you
with their heels. The same with horses, the same with dogs, the same
with cats."
"What _do_ you mean, Emily?"
"Only when vice is in an animal you can't wheedle it out of him. No
more you can out of a man or a woman. I don't say they can help it,
but what's born in 'em _must_ come out. If I'm born sly I keep sly,
and the chances are I grow slyer as I grow older. I don't believe in
sudden changes, miss, and if you'll excuse me I'll wait a little
before I make up my mind about your uncle."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.