BASIL.
It is nineteen years since Richard Yorke stood in the dock at Cross Key
and heard the words of doom. Almost a whole generation of his
fellow-creatures has passed away from the earth. Old men have died,
young men have become old, and babes have grown to be young men. There
are but some half dozen persons in the world who, if reminded of him by
some circumstance, can recollect him dimly. There are two who still keep
him in their thoughts continually, just as he was--like a picture which
bears no longer any resemblance to its original--and even these never
breathe his name.
Here is a young fellow walking with his mother along Oxford Street who
is not unlike him, who might be himself but for those nineteen years;
and the girl that walks upon the other side of him might also be Harry
Trevethick. Youth and beauty are not dead because Richard Yorke is dead,
or as good as dead. The name of this girl is Agnes Aird, a painter's
daughter, who is also a teacher of his art. The lad is her father's
pupil, and has learned beneath his roof a lesson not included in the
artistic course; you may know that by the way in which his eyes devour
the girl, the intonation of his voice when he addresses her, the silent
pressure of the arm on which her fingers rest. Charles Coe is in love
with Agnes, and in all his studies of perspective beholds her, a radiant
figure beckoning him on to a happy future. His pencil strays from its
object to portray her features--to inscribe her name beside his own. Mr.
Coe, his father, exceedingly disapproves of this projected alliance, and
has forbidden the young people to associate. This ukase, however, can
scarcely be obeyed while the whole party are inmates of Mr. Aird's
residence, who "lets off" the upper part of his house as furnished
apartments, which the Coes have now inhabited as lodgers for some weeks.
Solomon (now a very well-to-do personage, and a great authority on
metalliferous soils) has come to town on business, and left to his wife
the choice of a residence; and she, to please her son, had chosen the
artist's dwelling, upon whose door-plate was inscribed the fact that he
was a professor of drawing. Solomon was not displeased that his son's
tastes lay in that direction; it might be useful to himself hereafter in
the matter of plans and sections; but he is violently opposed to this
ridiculous love affair, which is to be stamped out at once. To that end
he has instructed Mrs. Coe to look for lodgings in a distant quarter,
and it is on that errand that we now behold her. It is characteristic of
the Harry whom we once knew that she permits these young people to
accompany her--and one another--on the very quest that has their final
separation for its object. She can not resist making them happy while
she can; and she can refuse her Charley nothing. Moreover, Solomon is in
the City, looking after his mining interests, and need never know.
In appearance, however, Harry Trevethick is greatly changed. She is but
seven-and-thirty, yet has already passed into the shade of middle life.
Her hair, though still in profusion, is tinged with gray; her features
are worn and sharp; her brow is wrinkled; and in her once trustful eyes
dwells a certain eager care, not mere distress or trouble, but an
anxiety which is almost Fear.
The three are now in one of the streets which unite Cavendish Square
with Oxford Street, as a busy babbling rill connects the unruffled lake
with the roaring river. It is composed both of shops and private houses,
the latter of which in some cases deign, notwithstanding their genteel
appearance, to accommodate visitors by the week or month.
"This is the sort of locality your father wished for, Charley," remarked
Mrs. Coe, looking about her; "it seems central, and yet tolerably quiet.
Let us try this house."
The name of "Basil," without prefix, was engraved upon the door-plate;
and in a corner of the dining-room window lurked an enameled card with
"Apartments" on it.
"There is no need to drag Agnes and you in," Mrs. Coe went on, as they
stood waiting for the bell to be answered. So Charles, well pleased, was
left outside with the young girl, while his mother "went over the
house." In a few minutes, however, she reappeared, and in a somewhat
hurried and excited tone observed, "I think this place will do, my
dears; but there is a good deal to talk about and settle, which will
take me some time. Therefore I think you had better go home together,
and leave me." Then, without waiting for a reply, she retired within and
closed the door.
"How very curious!" exclaimed Agnes, wondering.
"Oh, not at all," said the young man, cheerfully; "my mother likes to do
things for herself, and I dare say has not a very high opinion of our
judgment in domestic matters. You don't seem over-pleased, it seems to
me, Agnes, at the notion of a _tête-à-tête_ with your humble servant;"
and Mr. Charles pouted, half in fun and half with annoyance.
"No, no; it is not that, Charles," answered the girl, hastily. "You know
I have no pleasure equal to that of being with you; but I don't like
your mother's looks; she had such a strange air, and spoke so
differently from her usual way. I really scarcely like to leave her."
"My dear Agnes, you don't know my mother," returned Charles, laughing.
"One would sometimes think she had all the care of the world upon her
shoulders when every thing is going as smooth as oil. You don't
appreciate the grave responsibility of taking furnished lodgings for a
week certain. Come along, you little goose." And, drawing her still
hesitating arm within his own, he marched away with her.
Yet Agnes had reason for what she said; and Charles, somewhat selfish as
he was, would have foregone his flirtation and remained by his mother's
side had he seen her the moment after the house door had shut her in.
With a throbbing heart, and a face as white as the handkerchief she
passed over her damp brow, she leaned against the wall of the passage,
ere, with trembling steps, she approached the open parlor door. An aged
woman stood in the centre of the room, with hair as white as snow, but
with a figure straight as a poplar, and drawn up rigidly to its full
height.
"Why do you come back again?" cried she, in accents soft as milk, yet
bitter as gall. "Why do you cross my threshold, you false witch, when
there is nothing more to blight and blast? Did you think I should not
know you, that you dared to come? I should know you among all the
fair-faced fiends in hell."
"Mercy, mercy, Mrs. Yorke!" cried Harry, feebly; and she fell upon her
knees, and made as though she would have clasped the other's garments
with her stretched-out arms.
"Don't touch me, lest I strike you," answered the old woman, fiercely,
"as, nineteen years ago, I would have struck you on your cruel lips, and
spoiled the beauty that was the ruin of my boy! May _you_ have sons to
perish through false wantons, and to pine in prison! May _you_ be
desolate, and without heart or hope, as I am! Go, devil, go, and rid me
of your hateful presence!"
"Hear me, hear me, Mrs. Yorke!" pleaded the other, with clasped hands.
"Strike me, spit upon me, if you will, but only hear me! Abject as I
look, wretched as I feel--as I knew I must needs look and feel--I have
longed for this hour to come, as my boy longs for his bridal morning!"
"May he wake the next to find his bride a corpse; or, better still, to
find her false, like you."
"I am not false; I never was; Heaven knows it!" cried Harry,
passionately. "I do not blame you for your bitter words. I have earned
your curses, though I meant to earn your blessing."
"My blessing!" Contempt and hatred struggled for the mastery in her
tone. "Richard, Richard! in your chains and toil, do you hear this? This
woman meant to earn my blessing!"
"Upon my soul--whose salvation I would have imperiled to save him--I did
my best, although it seemed my worst," cried Harry. "That I was weak and
credulous and fearful is most true; but indeed, indeed, I was faithful
to your son. My father--he is dead, madam, and past your judgment" (for
the fury in the other's eyes had blazed up afresh at the mention of
him)--"deceived me with false hopes; for fear alone--though I was timid
too--would never have caused me to break the promise I had passed to
you. He said, if I disgraced myself and him by the perjury I
contemplated, that he would thrust me from his door forever; that in the
lips of all the world my name would become another word for shame and
infamy; that even the man I loved would loathe me when I had thus served
his turn. I answered him, 'No matter, so I save my Richard.' Then he
said, 'But you will not save him; you will ruin him, rather, by this
very evidence you purpose to give. We have proof enough of this Yorke's
guilt, no matter what you swear; and we have proof, besides, of his
having committed other offenses, if we choose to adduce it. All you will
effect is to make yourself shameful.' Then I hesitated, not knowing what
to think. 'The case is this,' argued my father: 'I have no grudge
against this young scoundrel, since the money has been all recovered,
and I don't want revenge--else, as I say, I can easily get it. But I'll
have him taught a lesson; he must be punished for the wrong he has done,
but not severely. Before the judge passes sentence, I, the prosecutor,
will beg him off: such an appeal is always listened to, you know, and I
will make it. But if you dare to speak for him, as I hear you mean to
do--if you, my daughter, call yourself thief and trollop to save his
skin, then shall he rot in jail! He shall, by Heaven! His fate hangs on
my lips, not yours,'"
"Can this be true?" mused the old woman.
"It _is_ true, so help me Heaven!" cried Harry. "I was a fool, a poor,
weak, shuddering fool, but not a traitress. If you were in court, and
saw me look at him--the smile I gave by which I meant to assure him all
was well, however ill it seemed--You _did_ see it; I see you did. You do
believe me. Oh, thank Heaven--thank Heaven!"
She began to sob and cry, and caught hold of the old woman's hand and
kissed it, while the other stood silent, still in doubt.
"Oh, madam, pity me. That you have suffered torments for long years is
plain to see, and yet you have not, though he was your son, been
tortured as I have. You could not have freed him by a word as I could;
and oh, I did not utter it! I seemed to be his judge, his jailer, the
cause of all his woes, to the man I loved--and loved beyond all others!
I hated my own father for his sake. I"--she shuddered--"I was married to
Richard's rival. You at least have been alone, not companioned night and
day by one who helped to doom him. Your case is hard and bitter--but
mine! not our own Richard, in his chains and toil, has suffered what _I_
have suffered! Look at me, madam, and tell me if I speak truth or lie."
"Yes, yes," mused Mrs. Yorke, in tender tones, and passing her fingers
over the other's silvering hair and haggard face; "I do--I must believe
it. I should not have known you to-day had you not called me by my name.
You must have mourned for him indeed. Is this the cheek he loved to
kiss? Is this the hair a lock of which I took to comfort him in prison?
Poor soul--poor soul!"
"How is he, madam?" whispered Harry, hoarsely. "Is he well? Is he free?"
"Not yet, Harry. In a year hence he will be. I had a letter only
yesterday. But you must never see him; and if you really love him--I
speak it for his sake, not theirs--you must never let him set eyes on
your husband or your boy."
"I do not wish to see him; it would be too terrible to bear," groaned
Harry.
"But he must not see _them_," insisted the other, gravely. "You must put
the sea between yourselves and him, or there will be murder done. His
wrath is terrible, and will be the destruction of both them and him. The
hope of vengeance is the food he lives upon, and without which he would
have perished years ago. Even if you persuaded him, as you have
convinced _me_, that you yourself are innocent of his ruin, that would
only make him firmer in his purpose against your husband. He will have
his life-blood, and then his own will pay for it. If I had not seen you,
I meant to see this man, and give him warning six months before Richard
left the prison."
"Solomon would never heed it," exclaimed Harry, "nor even believe it if
I told him."
"He will believe _me_," said the other, composedly. "You must bring him
here that I may tell him. Your Solomon must be a fool indeed not to
hearken when a mother warns him against her own son. Mind, I do not
blame my Richard, woman!" continued Mrs. Yorke, with sudden passion; "he
has had provocation enough; it is but right to kill such vermin, and I
could stand by and smile to see him do it. But they must be kept apart,
I say--this man and Richard--lest a worse thing befall him than has
happened already."
"Never to see him more!" moaned Harry, covering her face with her hands;
"never to tell him I was not the wretch I seemed! only to fear him as an
enemy to me and mine--"
"Ay, and to himself," interrupted the other, gravely. "If you would not
inflict far more on him than you have done already; if you would not--as
you will, if you neglect my warning--designedly bring him to a shameful
death, as you have involuntarily doomed him to a shameful life, keep
these two men apart. If you love this son of yours, remove him from the
reach of mine."
"Great Heaven!" cried Harry, shuddering, "would he harm my boy--my
innocent boy?"
"Ay, as he would set his heel upon his father--the viper and his brood.
It is no idle menace he has breathed so cautiously that the whisper
might well escape even another ear than mine, in every letter for these
many years. He thirsts for liberty, not for his own sake, but for the
slow-ripening vengeance it shall bear. He will have it, unless we save
him from himself by saving them from him, as sure as yonder inky cloud
will fall in storm. The thought of it was full grown in his mind when he
wrote from Cross Key: '_They are dead to me, those three, at present_,'
and forbade me ever to mention them by name; and since then he has
thought of nothing else. The day of retribution is about to dawn. I say
again, beware of him."
"But he must be mad to cherish--"
"Perhaps he is," interrupted the old woman, coldly; "he will not be less
dangerous on that account to those who made him mad."
There was a long silence. Then Harry, in submissive tones, inquired what
Mrs. Yorke would have her do.
"Bring your husband hither," returned she. "Take the rooms up stairs,
and leave the task of telling him his peril to me: the sooner it is done
the better. There is but a year at most--not much too long to sell his
goods, and get him away across the world, erasing every footstep behind
him. If he leave one--no matter how slight the clew--Richard will track
him like a blood-hound."
"We will come here at once--to-morrow," cried Harry, eagerly.
"Good. My name is Basil now, remember; not that it is likely," she
added, bitterly, "that you will call me Yorke from habit; it is not a
household word with you, I reckon."
"It is never breathed," said Harry, simply; "but, oh, madam, I _think_
of him, indeed I do! He was my first love, and my last; and though he
should kill me for the crime, of which I have shown myself guiltless, I
should pray God bless him with my latest breath. Yet he must curse _me_
forever! He must never know but that I was the willing agent of his
ruin!"
"'Tis true, I dare not mention your name, Harry," said Mrs. Yorke,
sadly; "and, if I told him, all the knowledge of the deception practiced
on you would only make him the more bitter against your husband--the man
who, by connivance in your father's cruel falsehood, obtained you for
his wife, while his rival pined in prison. I do not blame you for your
marriage--I know the force of stern necessity too well. But do not
imagine that Richard could forgive you: he never, never could."
"I know it, I know it," sighed Harry, shuddering, "and yet he would pity
me if he did but know what my life has been--almost as much as I have
pitied _him_. But you, madam, _you_ at least have forgiven me; you
believe me; you will not refuse to bless me, as his mother, before I
go."
"I believe you, and therefore I forgive you," answered Mrs. Yorke, with
tenderness; "and if I believed in blessings, and had the power of
bestowing them, you should have your wish. From henceforth we two are
friends--though I never thought to kiss your cheek again, Harry--and
must work together for the good of him we love in common. You will be
here to-morrow for certain, then?"
"Without fail we shall."