Basil and Annette

Mr. Philpot took down the names and addresses of Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham and of the lawyers in London who transacted that gentleman's affairs when Basil was last in England; also the name of Mr. Basil Whittingham.

"Any address to this name, sir?" asked Mr. Philpott.

"None. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham is, or was-for I understand he is dead-a gentleman of considerable fortune; Mr. Basil Whittingham is his nephew; the lawyers whose names I have given you transacted the old gentleman's business for many years, but I am not aware whether they have continued to do so."

"That is easily ascertained."

"Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had neither wife nor children, and some years since it was his intention to leave all his property to his nephew. The young man, however, offended his uncle, and the old gentleman thereupon informed his nephew that he had destroyed the will he had made in his favour, and that Mr. Basil Whittingham might consider himself disinherited. Do you understand it thus far?"

"It is perfectly clear, sir."

"The relations between the uncle and his nephew were completely broken off. Mr. Basil Whittingham-who had some private fortune of his own, but had got rid of it-being disappointed in his expectations, left England for Australia, where he resided for a considerable time."

"For how many years shall we say, sir."

"Five or six. When he was near his end the uncle relented of his decision, and made another will-I am supposing that he really destroyed the first, which may or may not have been the case-by which his original intention was carried out, and his nephew was constituted sole heir to the property."

"Good."

"This property, I believe, was not in real estate, but in cash and securities which were easily convertible. The knowledge of his kindness reached the nephew's ears in Australia, and he returned home and took possession of the fortune."

"Very natural."

"I wish these details to be verified, or otherwise, Mr. Philpott."

"I undertake to do so, sir."

"I wish also to ascertain where Mr. Basil Whittingham is now residing."

"Can you give a clue, sir?"

"A very slight one, I am afraid. The last I heard of the nephew was that about eighteen months ago he was in Paris, in the company of a Mr. Edward Kettlewell, a money-lender, whose offices are, or were, in London. I am under the impression that Mr. Basil Whittingham and Mr. Kettlewell may have had some business transactions with each other. If so, it should not be difficult to trace Mr. Basil Whittingham through Mr. Kettlewell."

"It may I be more difficult than you imagine," said Mr. Philpott. "These money-lenders are difficult persons to deal with. They are as jealous of their clients as a cat of her kittens. 'Hands off,' they cry; 'this is my bird.' Hold hard a minute, sir. I have this year's 'London Directory,' downstairs."

He left the room, and returned bearing the bulky volume, which he proceeded to consult. No Mr. Edward Kettlewell, money-lender or financial agent, was to be found in its pages. There were plenty of Kettlewells, and a few Edwards among them but not one who dealt in money.

"Still," said Mr. Philpott, "it may be one of these. He may have retired, he may have left the country, he may be dead. I will look through the directories for a few years past, and we will see if we can find him."

"My information concerning him," said Basil, "is not very exact, and may after all be incorrect; but with or without his assistance it is most important that the address of Mr. Basil Whittingham should be ascertained."

"I will do my best, sir; no man can do more."

"There is another matter, of which I must beg you not to lose sight. Shortly after Mr. Basil Whittingham arrived in Australia he came in contact with a gentleman, M. Anthony Bidaud, who owned a plantation in Queensland. This gentleman had a daughter, quite a child then, whose name is Annette. M. Anthony Bidaud died suddenly, and left no will. On the morning of his death a brother and sister-the brother's name, Gilbert-presented themselves at the plantation, and the brother administered the estate, and assumed the guardianship of his niece. The plantation was sold, and the little girl, with her uncle and aunt, came to Europe. Between the child and Mr. Basil Whittingham there existed a bond of affection, and since his return to England he has succeeded-so my information goes-in establishing friendly relations with M. Gilbert Bidaud. If you are fortunate enough to trace Mr. Basil Whittingham, my impression is that the knowledge will lead you straight to M. Gilbert Bidaud and his sister and niece, to discover whom I consider of far greater importance than the young man. Now, Mr. Philpott, if you have grasped the situation, are you prepared to set to work?"

"I will not lose a day, sir; I commence my inquiries to-morrow; and as you inform me that you are not exactly rich it may be convenient if I present a weekly account, including all charges to date, so that you may know how you stand as to expenses. Then you can go on or stop at your pleasure."

"It will be the best plan," said Basil.

Mr. Philpott was very much puzzled that night when he thought over the commission entrusted to him. "He says nothing of himself," thought the private inquiry agent, "nor of the particular interest he has in the matter-a very particular interest, for I never saw any one more in earnest than he is. His voice absolutely trembled when he spoke of the uncle and Mdlle. Annette. Now that would not happen if he were acting as an agent for another person. What is the conclusion, then? That he is acting for himself. Does this Mr. Basil Whittingham owe him money? Perhaps. And yet it does not strike me as an affair of that kind. Well, at all events, he has acted openly and straightforwardly with me so far as he and I are concerned. It is not often a client tells you that he is living under an assumed name. I must ask the wife if his shirts and handkerchiefs are marked." His curiosity, however, was destined not to be appeased; his wife told him that Basil's clothing bore no initials-which, according to Mr. Philpott's way of thinking, betokened extreme caution, and whetted his curiosity. He did not, however, allow this to interfere with the zealous exercise of his duties. Proceeding step by step he presented his weekly reports to Basil. In the course of a short time Basil's worst suspicions were confirmed. Newman Chaytor had come home and, representing himself to be Basil Whittingham, had experienced no difficulty in establishing his position and administering his uncle's estate. This done, he had disappeared, and Mr. Philpott was unsuccessful in tracing him.

"But," said Basil, "would not a man, arriving from a country so distant as Australia, in such circumstances have to prove his identity?"

Mr. Philpott opened his eyes at this question; to use his own term, he "smelt a rat."

"Certainly he would," replied Mr. Philpott. "But that was simple enough in Mr. Basil Whittingham's case. He had been in correspondence with his uncle for some time previous to his departure from Australia."

"What do you tell me?" cried Basil.

"It is an established fact," said Mr. Philpott, expressing no surprise; but Basil's tone no less than his words, opened his eyes still further. "A few days before Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's death he wrote to his nephew in Australia, announcing his change of intention. This letter was forwarded to Mr. Basil by his uncle's lawyers, who, as you now know, are not the same he employed in former years."

"Basil Whittingham," said Basil, unable to repress his excitement, "received these letters in Australia?"

"Undoubtedly. He brought them home with him, and others also which he had previously received from his uncle's lawyers."

"There was a regular correspondence with them, then?"

"Yes, extending over a considerable time."

This was a fresh and startling revelation to Basil. Newman Chaytor had not only personated him in England, but had personated him at a distance, receiving letters intended for him and forging letters in reply.

"He robbed me of my papers," groaned Basil inly, "and obtained possession of the means to prove him the man he represented himself to be. The base, unutterable villain! He smiled in my face, a living lie! And I trusted in him, believed in him, laid my heart bare to him, and all the time he was planning my destruction. Just Heaven! Give me the power to bring him to the punishment he deserves!"

But did the foul plot go farther than this? Every time Chaytor returned from the colonial post-office it was with the same answer-there were no letters for Basil Whittingham. And the had received and answered them; they were on his person while he was uttering the infamous falsehood, smiling in Basil's face the while. To what depths would human cunning and duplicity go! The tale, related to Basil by one who had been wronged, would have sounded incredible. He would have asked, "Is not this man labouring under some monstrous delusion?" But the bitter experience was his, and no tale would now be too wild for disbelief. Again he asked himself, did the plot go farther than what had already come to his knowledge? Newman Chaytor, going to the post-office for letters for him, would receive all addressed to his name.

What if Annette had written? It was more than possible, it was probable; it was more than probable, it was true. At this conclusion he quickly arrived. Annette had redeemed her promise; she had written to him as she said she would, and had received Chaytor's letters in reply. This explained how it was that Chaytor had been able to find Annette and her uncle. Did Gilbert Bidaud suspect, and was he trading upon the suspicion; and were the two villains conspiring for the destruction of the poor girl's happiness? Basil looked round pitifully, despairingly, as though invoking the assistance of an unknown power.

"You seem disturbed," said Mr. Philpott, who had been attentively observing him.

"The news you have imparted," said Basil, "is terrible. Is there no way of discovering this Basil Whittingham?"

"We might advertise for him," suggested Mr. Philpott.

Basil shook his head. "If he saw the advertisement he would not answer it."

"Hallo," thought Mr. Philpott, "our absent friend has done something that would place him in the criminal dock." Professionally he was in the habit of hiding his hand, so far as the expression of original thought went. "But some one who knows him," he said, "might see the advertisement, and answer for him."

Basil caught at the suggestion. "Advertise, then, and in such a manner as not to alarm him."

"Trust me for that," said Mr. Philpott, with great confidence. "I know how to bait my line."

But the advertisements meet with no response. Worked up to fever heat, Basil instructed Mr. Philpott to spare no expense, and the inquiry was prosecuted with wasted vigour, for at the end of two months they had not advanced a step. Basil was in agony; he grew morbid, and raised up accusing voices against himself. The reflection that Annette, the sweet and innocent child who had given him her heart, should be in the power of two such villains as Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor was an inexpressible torture to him. He had accepted from her father a sacred trust-how had he fulfilled it? He inflicted exquisite suffering upon himself by arguing that it was he who had betrayed her, that it was through him she had been brought to this pass. Had she not known him she would never had known Newman Chaytor; had he not worked upon her young affections and extracted her promise to write to him it would have been impossible that Chaytor should ever have crossed her path. He pressed into this self-condemnation all the cruel logic his mind could devise. As he walked the streets at night Annette's image arose before him and gazed upon him reproachfully. "You have compassed my ruin." It seemed to say, "you are the cause of my corruption, of my dishonour." He accepted the accusation, and groaned, "It is I, it is I, who have made your life a waste!" Of all the dolorous phases through which he had passed this perhaps was the worst. But he had yet another bitter experience to encounter. On a Saturday evening Mr. Philpott said:

"I must speak honestly. I have done all I could, and nothing has come of it. I might continue as long as you continued to engage my services, but it would be only throwing your money away."

It was an unusual confession for a man in his line to make. Private inquiry agents have generally the quality of the leech, and will suck the last drop of blood out of a client, but Basil had won the commiseration of his landlord.

"I must take the case into my own hands," said Basil gloomily. "I intended, indeed, to tell you as much myself-for pressing reasons. I thank you for all you have done for me."

"Little enough," said Mr. Philpott "I wish you better luck than I have had. Mind you, I don't give it up entirely, but if I do anything more it will not be for pay."

"You are, and have been, very kind. Have you made out your account?"

Mr. Philpott presented it, and Basil settled it. Then he said: "Will you ask your wife to step up and see me?"

"Yes, sir. Now don't you be cast down, sir; it is a long lane that has no turning, and there's no telling at any moment what may turn up. I should like to take the liberty of asking one question."

"Ask it."

"If, after all, the search should be successful, is it likely you would be in a better position than you are now? I am taking a liberty, I know, but I don't mean it as such. You told me at first you were not overburdened with funds; if it has been all going out and none coming in, you must be worse off now."

"I am very much worse off, Mr. Philpott. I will answer your question. Should I succeed in finding the man I am hunting-a poor hunt it has proved to be, with no quarry in view-I have reason to believe that I should obtain funds which would enable me to discharge any liabilities I may incur."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Philpott, pushing across the table the money which Basil had paid him; "then suppose I wait."

"No," said Basil gently, "take it while you are sure of it, and you have a family."

"But I can afford to wait, sir. If I lost ten times as much it would not break me."

"I must insist upon you taking it, Mr. Philpott."

It was the pride of the poor gentleman, who would leave himself penniless rather than leave an obligation unsettled. Mr. Philpott recognised it as such, and recognised also that it marked the difference between them-which increased the respect he felt for Basil. He pocketed the money reluctantly.

"Send your wife up to me, Mr. Philpott."

"I will, sir."

Basil had indeed pressing reasons for dispensing with Mr. Philpott's further services. The larger expenses of the last few weeks had brought his funds to a very low ebb. He took out his purse and counted his worldly wealth; it amounted to less than two pounds. He was standing at poverty's door. In Australia, on the goldfields, it would not have mattered so much. Earnest labour there can always ensure at least food for the passing day; it is only the idle and dissolute and men without a backbone who have to endure hunger; but here in this overcrowded city hunger is no rare experience to those who are willing to toil. Needless to say that the watch and chain which had been presented to Basil in Princetown was no longer in Basil's possession. The prospect before him, physically and morally, was appalling.

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," said Basil, and Mrs. Philpott entered the room.

"My husband tells me you wish to see me, sir," said the landlady.

"Take a seat, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil. "I hope you have brought your weekly account; you should have given it to me yesterday."

"Friday's an unlucky day, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, fencing.

"But to-day is Saturday," said Basil, with a smile.

"There's no hurry, sir, I assure you."

Basil looked at her and shook his head. His look, and the weary, mournful expression on his face, brought tears to the good creature's eyes.

"I must insist upon having the account, Mrs. Philpott."

"Well, sir, if you insist," said Mrs. Philpott, reduced to helplessness; "it is only the rent, seven shillings."

"There are breakfasts," said Basil, "with which you have been good enough to supply me. I have not kept faith with you. When I took these rooms I promised to pay always a fortnight's rent in advance; lately I have not done so."

"How could you pay, sir, when you didn't know what the breakfasts came to?"

"That does not excuse me. Oblige me by telling me how much I owe you."

"If you won't be denied, sir, it's twelve and tenpence."

"There it is, and I am infinitely obliged to you. Mrs. Philpott, I am sorry to say I must give you a week's notice."

"You're never going to leave us, sir! Is there anything wrong with the rooms? We'll have it put right in a twinkling."

"The rooms are very comfortable, and I wish I could remain in them; but it cannot be."

"You must remain, sir, really you must. I won't take your notice. You must sleep somewhere Philpott will never forgive me if I let you go."

Her consciousness of the strait he was in, and her pity for it, were so unmistakable-her desire to befriend him and her sympathy were so clearly expressed-that Basil covered his eyes with his hand, and remained silent awhile. When he removed his hand he said:

"I am truly sensible of your goodness, Mrs. Philpott, but it must be as I say."

"Think better of it, sir," urged Mrs. Philpott. "You are a gentleman and I am only a common woman, but I am old enough to be your mother, and I don't think you ought to treat me so-so" – exactly the right word did not occur to her, so she added-"suddenly. Here you are, sir, all alone, if you'll excuse me for saying so, and here we are with more rooms in the house than we know what to do with. Why, sir, if you'll stay it will be obliging us."

All her kindly efforts were unavailing. She asked him to make the notice a month instead of a week, and then she came down to a fortnight, and made some reference to clouds with silver linings; but Basil was not to be prevailed upon, and she left the room in a despondent state.

"We'll keep an eye on him if we can," her husband said to her when she gave him an account of the interview. "I may find out something yet that will be of use to him. It is a strange case, old woman, and I don't mind confessing that I can't see the bottom of it."

CHAPTER XXIX

Sternly resolved to carry out his determination not to occupy rooms for which he could not pay, Basil left Mrs. Philpott's house on the appointed day. It was his wish to quit without being observed, but Mrs. Philpott was on the look-out and lay in wait for him. Before he reached the street door she barred his way in the landing.

"You're not going away, sir," she said reproachfully, "without wishing the children good-bye."

In honest and affectionate friendship there is frequently displayed a pleasant quality of cunning which it does no harm to meet with, and in her exercise of it Mrs. Philpott pressed her children into the service. Basil had no alternative but to accompany her into the parlour, where the four little fellows were sitting at the table waiting for dinner.

"You'll excuse me a minute, sir," said the good woman; "if I don't fill their plates before they're five minutes older they'll set up a howl."

Out she bustled, and quickly returned with a mighty dish of Irish stew.

"Philpott says," said Mrs. Philpott as she placed the steaming dish on the table, "that no one in the world can make an Irish stew like mine; and what father says is law, isn't it, children? I always have dinner with them, sir; perhaps you'll join us. I really should like to know if you're of my husband's opinion. Now this looks home-like" – as Basil, who had independence of spirit, but no false pride, took his seat at the table where a chair and a plate had already been set for him-"almost as if father was with us, or as if the children had a great big brother who had been abroad ever so many years, and had popped in quite sudden to surprise us."

All the time she was talking she was filling up the plates, and the little party fell-to with a will, Basil eating as heartily as the rest. Mrs. Philpott was delighted at the success of her ruse, but she was careful not to show her pleasure, and when Basil said, in answer to her inquiry, that he had had enough, she did not press him to take more. When dinner was over the children had to be taken out of the room to have their faces washed; they were brought back for Basil to kiss, and then were sent into the street to play policemen.

"You'll let us hear of you from time to time, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, as she and Basil stood at the street door. "Philpott is regular downhearted because of your going. I'm not to let your rooms again, he says, so there they are sir, ready for you whenever you do us the pleasure to come. We're getting along in the world, sir, and the few shillings a-week don't matter to us now."

"I am truly glad to hear it, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil.

"There was a time," continued Mrs. Philpott, "when it did matter, and when every shilling was worth its weight in gold in a manner of speaking. We've had our ups and downs, sir, as most people have, and if it hadn't been for a friendly hand heaven only knows where we should be at this present minute. We were in such low water, sir, we didn't know which way to turn. Philpott says to me, 'Mother,' he says- I hope I'm not wearying you, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, breaking off in the middle of her sentence.

"Pray go on," said Basil, feeling that it would be churlish to check her.

"It's a comfort, sir," continued Mrs. Philpott, "to open one's heart. It doesn't make me melancholy to look back to those days, though my spirit was almost broke at the time; I'm proud and grateful that we've tided them over, with the help of God and the good friend He sent us. 'Mother,' says Philpott to me, 'I'm on my beam ends. We're in a wood, and there's no way out of it.' 'Don't you go on like that, father,' I says; 'you keep on trying, and you'll see a way out presently.' For I'm one of that sort of women, sir, if you won't mind my saying as much, who never give in and don't know when they're beat. I don't mean to say I don't suffer; I do, but I put a brave face on it and never: say die. 'You keep on trying, father,' I says. 'Now haven't I kept on trying?' says he. 'For eight weeks I've answered every advertisement in the paper, and applied for a job in hundreds and hundreds of places without getting the smell of one. I'm ashamed to look you in the face, mother, for if it wasn't for you our boy would starve.' We only had one then, sir, and as for being ashamed to look me in the face Philpott ought to have been ashamed to say as much. All that I did was to get a day's charing wherever I could, and a bit of washing when I heard there was a chance of it, and that was how we kept the wolf from the door. But I fell ill, sir, and couldn't stir out of doors, and was so weak that I couldn't stand at the wash-tub without fainting away. Things were bad indeed then, and Philpott took on so that I did lose heart a bit. Well, sir, when we'd parted with everything we could raise a penny upon, when we didn't know where we should get our next meal from though it was only dry bread, heaven sent us a friend. An old friend of Philpott's, sir, that he hadn't seen for years, and that he'd been fond of and kind to when he was a young man, before he kept company with me. Philpott had lent him a couple of pound, and he'd gone off to America, and, now, sir, now, in the very nick of time, he came home to pay it back. Did you ever see the sun shine as bright as bright can be in a dark room at ten o'clock at night-for that was the time when Philpott's friend opened the door, and cried, 'Does Mr. Philpott live here?' It shone in our room, sir, though there was never a candle to light it up, and Philpott was sitting by me with his head in his hands. Philpott starts up in a fright-when people are in the state we were brought to the least unexpected, thing makes their hearts beat with fear-he starts up and says, 'Who are you?' 'That's Philpott's voice,' says our friend. 'I'd know it among a thousand; but don't you know mine, old fellow? And what are you sitting in the dark for?' Then he tells us who he is, and Philpott takes hold of his hand and says he's glad to see his old friend-which he couldn't, sir-and, ashamed of his poverty, pulls him out of the room. He comes back almost directly, and stoops over me and kisses me, and whispers that heaven has sent us a friend when most we needed one, and I feel my dear man's tears on my face. Then, sir, if you'll believe me it seemed to me as if the sun was shining in our dark room, and all the trouble in my mind flew straight away. From that time all went well with us; it was right about face in real earnest. Philpott's friend had another friend who got my husband in the force, and now we've got a bit of money put by for a rainy day, and don't need the rent for a couple of empty rooms."