Basil and Annette

"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."