Basil and Annette

"It shall be exactly as you say, darling. You are the best, the handsomest, the cleverest son a foolish mother ever had."

Kisses and caresses sealed the bargain. Within twenty-four hours he knew that everything his father had told him was true. The family were ruined, and but for Mrs. Chaytor's private fortune would have been utterly beggared. They moved into a smaller house and practised economy. Little by little Chaytor received and squandered every shilling his mother possessed, and before the year was out the sun rose upon a ship beating on the rocks.

"Are you satisfied?" asked his father, from whom Chaytor's doings could no longer be concealed.

"Satisfied!" cried Chaytor, trembling in every limb. "When your insane speculations have ruined us!"

Then he fell into a chair and began to sob. He had the best of reasons for tribulation. With his mind's eye he saw the prison doors open to receive him. It was not shame that made him suffer; it was fear.

Again, and for the last time, he went to his mother for help.

"What can I do, my boy?" quavered the poor woman. "What can I do? I haven't a shilling in the world."

He implored her to go to his father. "He can save me," cried the terror-stricken wretch. "He can, he can!"

She obeyed him and the father sent for his son.

"Tell me all," he said. "Conceal nothing, or, as there is a heaven above us, I leave you to your fate."

The shameful story told, the father said, "Things were looking up with me, but here is another knock-down blow, and from my own flesh and blood. I accept it, and will submit once more to be ruined by you."

"Bless you, father, bless you," whined Chaytor, taking his father's hand and attempting to fondle it. Mr. Chaytor plucked his hand away.

"There is, however, a condition attached to the promise."

"What condition?" faltered Chaytor.

"That you leave England and never return. Do you hear me? Never. You will go to the other end of the world, where you will end your days.

"To Australia?"

"To Australia. When you quit this country I wish never to hear from you; I shall regard you as dead. You shall no longer trade upon your mother's weak love for you. I will not argue with you. Accept or refuse."

"I accept."

"Very well. Go from this house and never let me look upon your face again."

"Can I not see my mother?" whined Chaytor, "to wish her good-bye?"

"No. You want to hatch further troubles. You shall not do so. Quit my house."

With head bent low in mock humility, Chaytor left the house. He had no sincere wish to see his mother; he had got out of her all he could, and she was of no use to him in the future. The promise his father made was fulfilled; the fresh forgeries he had perpetrated were bought up, but one still remained of which he had made no mention. This was a bill for a large amount which he had accepted in the name of Rivington, Sons and Rivington. It had still two months to run, and Chaytor determined to remain in England till within a week or two of its becoming due; something might turn up which would enable him to meet it. He loved the excitement of English life; Australia was banishment; but perhaps after all, if he were forced to go it might be the making of him. He had read of rough men making fortunes in a week on the goldfields. Why should not he?

The last blow proved too much for Mr. Chaytor; it broke him up utterly. He was seized with a serious illness which reduced him to imbecility. The home had to be sold, and he and his wife removed to lodgings, one small room at the top of a house in a poor neighbourhood. There poverty fell upon them like a wolf. Five weeks afterwards Chaytor, slouching through the streets on a rainy night, saw his mother begging in the roadway. The poor soul stood mute, with a box of matches in her hand. Chaytor turned and fled.

"I am the unluckiest dog that ever was born," he muttered. "Just as I was going to see if I could get anything out of her!"

It was now imperative that he should leave England, and he managed to get a passage in a sailing vessel as assistant steward at a shilling a month. He obtained it by means of forged letters of recommendation, and he went out in a false name. This he would have retained had it not been that shortly after his arrival in Australia he met a man who had known him in London, and who addressed him by his proper name. It was not the only inconvenience to which an alias subjected him. There was only one address in the colonies through which he could obtain his letters, and that was the Post Office. Obviously, if he called himself John Smith he could not expect letters to be delivered to him in the name of Newman Chaytor. Now, he was eager for letters from the old country; before he left it he had written to his mother to the effect that he was driven out of it by a hard-hearted father, and that if she had any good news to communicate to him he would be glad to hear from her. At the same time he imposed upon her the obligation of not letting anyone know where he was. Therefore, when his London acquaintance addressed him by his proper name, saying, "Hallo, Chaytor, old boy!" he said to himself, "Oh hang it! I'll stick to Newman Chaytor, and chance it. If mother writes to me I shall have to proclaim myself Chaytor; an alias might get me into all sorts of trouble."

Why did he write to his poor mother, for whom he had not the least affection, and what did he mean by expecting her to have any good news to communicate to him? The last time he saw her, was she not begging in the streets? Well, there was a clear reason; he seldom did anything without one; and be sure that the kernel of that reason was Self. His father, from the wreck of his fortune, had managed to preserve a number of shares in some companies which had failed, among them two mining companies which had come to grief. Now, it had happened before and might happen again, that companies which were valueless one day had leaped into favour the next, that shares which yesterday could have been purchased for a song, to-morrow would be worth thousands of pounds. Suppose that this happened to the companies, or to one of them, in which his pauper father held shares. He was his father's only child, and his mother would see that he was not disinherited. Chaytor was a man who never threw away a chance, and he would not throw away this, remote as it was. Hence his determination to adhere at all hazards to his proper name. The perilous excitements of the last two or three years had driven Basil Whittingham out of his mind, but having more leisure and less to occupy his thoughts in the colonies, he thought of him now and then, and wondered whether the old uncle had relented and had taken his nephew again into his favour. "Lucky young beggar," he thought. "I wish I stood in his shoes, and he in mine. I would soon work the old codger into a proper mood." His colonial career was neither profitable nor creditable, and he had degenerated into what he was when he and Basil came face to face in Gum Flat, an unadulterated gambler and loafer. The strange encounter awoke within him forces which had long lain dormant. He recognised a possible chance which might be worked to his benefit, and he fastened to it like a limpet. When he said to Basil that he was in luck be really meant it.

A word as to his false beard and whiskers. In London he had had a behind-the-scenes acquaintance, and in a private theatrical performance in which he played a part he had worn these identical appendages as an adjunct to the character he represented. He had brought them out with him, thinking they might be serviceable one day. Before he came to Gum Flat he had got into a scrape on another township, and when he left it, had assumed the false hair as a kind of disguise. Making his appearance on Gum Flat thus disguised, he deemed it prudent to retain it, and when he came into association with Basil he thanked his stars that he had done so; otherwise he might have drawn upon himself from the man he called his double a closer attention than he desired.

CHAPTER XII

In the middle of the night Basil awoke. He had had a tiring day, but when he had slept off the first effects of the fatigue he had undergone, the exciting events of the last two days became again the dominant power. He dreamt of all that had occurred from the interview between himself and Anthony Bidaud, in which he had accepted the guardianship of Annette, to the moment of his arrival on Gum Flat. Of Newman Chaytor he dreamt not at all; this new acquaintance had produced no abiding impression upon him.

He lay awake for some five minutes or so in that condition of quiescent wonder which often falls upon men when they are sleeping for the first time in a strange bed and in a place with which they are not familiar. Where was he? What was the position of the bed? Where was the door situated: at the foot, or the head, or the side of the bed? Was there a window in the apartment, and if so, where was it? Then came the mental question what had aroused him?

It was so unusual for him to wake in the middle of the night that he dwelt upon this question. Something must have disturbed him. What?

Was it fancy that just at the moment of his awakening he had heard a movement in the room, that he had felt a hand upon him, that he had heard a man's breathing? It must have been, all was so quiet and still. Suddenly he sat straight up on the stretcher. He remembered that he was in the township of Gum Flat, sleeping in a strange apartment, and that men with whom he had not been favourably impressed must be lying near him. This did not apply to Newman Chaytor, who had been kind and attentive, and whom he now thought of with gratitude. There was nothing to fear from him, but the other three had gazed at him furtively and with no friendly feelings. He had exchanged but a few words with these men, and those had been words of suspicion. When he entered the store, after attending to his horse, they had not addressed a word to him. It was Chaytor, and Chaytor alone, who had shown kindness and evinced a kindly feeling. And now he was certain that someone had been in the room while he slept, and had laid hands on him. For what purpose?

He slid from the stretcher, and standing upright stretched out his hands in the darkness. Where was the door?

Outside the canvas building stood Chaytor's three mates, wide awake, with their heads close together, as they had been inside on the return of Basil and Chaytor from the stable. They were conversing in whispers.

"Did he hear you?"

"No. If he had moved I would have knocked him on the head."

"Have you got it?"

"Yes, it is all right."

"Pass it round."

"No; I will keep it till it's sold; then we'll divide equally."

"What do you think it's worth?"

"Twenty pounds, I should say."

"Little enough."

"Hush!"

The sound of Basil moving about his room, groping for the door, had reached them.

"If he comes out, Jim, you tackle him."

"Leave him to me. Don't waste any more time. Get the horse from the stable."

Basil, unable to find the door, stumbled against the calico portion which divided his room from that in which Chaytor slept.

"Who's there?" cried Chaytor, jumping up.

"Oh, it's you," said Basil, recognising the voice. "Have you got a light?"

"Wait a moment."

But half dressed he represented himself to Basil, with a lighted candle in his hand.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Basil, "but I am not easy in my mind. Perhaps it is only my fancy, but I have an idea that someone has been in my room."

"Let us see." They proceeded to the three compartments which should have been occupied by the three men. They were empty.

"It was not fancy," said Basil. "What mischief are they up to? Come along; we will go and see."

Chaytor hesitated. He was not gifted with heroic qualities, and he knew that his three mates were desperate characters.

"Did you have any money about you?" he asked.

"None. Why, where's my watch?" It was gone. There was a hurried movement without; he heard the sound of a horse's feet. "They are stealing Corrie's horse," he cried, "after robbing me of my watch! Stand by me, will you?"

He rushed out, followed, but not too quickly, by Chaytor. The moment he reached the open a pair of arms was thrown around him, and he was grappling with an enemy. In unfamiliar ground, enveloped in darkness, and attacked by an unseen enemy, he was at a disadvantage, and it would have fared ill with him had he not been strong and stout-hearted. Jim the Hatter, who had undertaken to tackle him soon discovered that the man they were robbing was not easily disposed of. Down they fell the pair of them, twisting and turning, each striving to obtain the advantage, Basil silent and resolved, Jim the Hatter giving tongue to many an execration. In the midst of the struggle the ruffian heard his mates, the Nonentities, moving off with Basil's horse. His experience had taught him that "honour among thieves" was a fallacious proverb; anyway, he had never practised it himself, and he trusted no men. With a powerful effort he threw Basil from him and ran after his comrades. During the encounter Chaytor had kept at a safe distance, but now that there was a lull he came close to Basil.

"They have half throttled me," he gasped, tearing open his shirt and blowing like a grampus. "Are you hurt?"

"No," said Basil. "We may catch them yet."

And he began to run, but the ruffians had got the start of him, and knew the lay of the ground. Guided by his ear he stumbled on, across the plains, through a gully riddled with holes, and finally up a steep range, followed by Chaytor, panting and blowing. He had many a fall, and so had Chaytor (who thought it well to follow suit, and cried out from time to time, "O, O, O!"), and thus the flight and the pursuit continued, the sounds from the flying men and Old Corrie's horse growing fainter and fainter, until matters came to a sudden termination.

Half-way up the range, which was veined with quartz, a shaft had been sunk and abandoned. The miners who had done the work had followed a gold-bearing spur some fifty feet down, in the hope of coming upon a golden reef. But the spur grew thinner and thinner, the traces of gold disappeared, and they lost heart. Disappointed in their expectations, and out of patience with their profitless labour, they shouldered their windlass and started off to fresh pastures. Thus the mouth of the shaft was left open and unprotected, and into it Basil dropped, and felt himself slipping down with perilous celerity.

It was fortunate that the shaft was not exactly perpendicular, After following the spur down for twenty feet the miners had found that it took an eccentric turn which necessitated the running in of an adit. This passage was about two yards long, when the spur dipped again, and the shaft was continued sheer into the bowels of the earth. It was this adit which saved Basil's life. When he had slipped down the twenty feet he felt bottom, and there he lay, bruised, but not dangerously hurt.

He cried out for help at the top of his voice, and his cries were presently answered.

"Below there!" cried Chaytor, lying flat on the ground above, with his ear at the mouth of the shaft.

"Is that you, Mr. Chaytor?" cried Basil.

Chaytor (aside): "He remembers my name." (Aloud): "Yes, what's left of me. Where are you?" (Which, to say the least of it, was an unnecessary question.)

Basil: "Down here."

Chaytor (blind to logical fact): "Alive?"

Basil (perceiving nothing strange in the question, and therefore almost as blind): "Yes, thank God!"

Chaytor: "Any bones broke?"

Basil: "I think not, but I am bruised a bit."

Chaytor: "So am I."

Basil: "I am sorry to hear it. Have the scoundrels got away?"

Chaytor: "Yes, they're a mile off by this time."

Basil (groaning): "Old Corrie's mare! What will he think of me?"

Chaytor: "It can't be helped."

Basil: "In which direction have they gone?"

Chaytor: "Haven't the slightest idea. I warned you against them."

Basil: "You did. You're a good fellow, but what could I do?"

Chaytor: "Neither of us could have prevented it."

Basil: "I am not so sure. I ought to have stopped up all night, and looked after what wasn't my own."

Chaytor (attempting consolation): "Why, you couldn't keep your eyes open."

Basil (groaning again): "I ought to have kept my eyes open. I had no right to sleep after your warning."

Chaytor: "I did what I could."

Basil: "You did; you're a true friend." (Chaytor smiled.) "How am I to get up from here?"

Chaytor: "That's the question. How far are you down?"

Basil: "Heaven knows. It seems a mile or so."

Chaytor: "There's no windlass."

Basil: "Isn't there?"

Chaytor: "And it's pitch dark."

Basil: "It's as black as night down here. Can't you go for help?"

Chaytor: "I'll tell you something. There isn't a soul on the township but ourselves."

Basil: "Not one?"

Chaytor: "Not one. We must wait till daylight; then I'll see what I can do."

Basil: "There's no help for it; it must be as you say. You'll not desert me?"

Chaytor (in an injured tone): "Can you think me capable of so dastardly an act?"

Basil: "Forgive me; I hardly know what I'm saying. I deserve that you should, for giving utterance to a thought so base."

Chaytor: "It was natural, perhaps. Why should you trust me, a stranger, whom you have known for only a few hours?"

Basil: "I do trust you: it was an unnatural thought. You are a noble fellow-and a gentleman."

Chaytor: "I hope so. Can I do anything for you while you are waiting?"

Basil: "I am devoured by thirst. Can you manage to get a drink of water to me?"

Chaytor: "I can do that; but you must have patience. I shall have to go back to the township to get a bottle and some string. Shall I go?"

Basil: "Yes, yes. Be as quick as you can."

Chaytor: "I won't be a moment longer than I can help."

Then there was silence. Chaytor departed on his errand, and Basil was left to himself. His right arm was bruised and sore, but he contrived to feel in his pockets for matches. A box was there, but it was empty, and he remembered that he had struck the last one at the end of his long ride from Bidaud's plantation, just before he arrived in Gum Flat. He knew, from feeling the opening of the adit, that it was likely he was not at the bottom of the shaft, and he was fearful of moving, lest he should fall into a pit. He thought of Newman Chaytor. "What a good fellow he is! I should be dead but for him. It is truly noble of him to stick to me as he is doing. He has nothing to gain by it, and he is saving my life. Yes, I will accept his proposal to go mates with him, for I have no place now on Bidaud's plantation. Poor Annette-poor child! I hope she will be happy. I hope her uncle and Aunt will be kind to her. I must see her again before I go for good, and then we shall never meet again, never, never! I would give the best twenty years of my life-if I am fated to live-to be her brother, with authority to protect her and shield her from Gilbert Bidaud. He is a villain, a smooth-tongued villain, a thousand times worse than these scoundrels who have robbed me and brought me to this. What will Old Corrie say when he hears I have lost his mare? Will he think I am lying-will he think I have sold his horse and pocketed the money? If so, and it gets to Annette's ears, how she will despise me! I must see her, I must, to clear myself. Gilbert Bidaud will do all he can to prevent it, and he may succeed; but I will try, I will try. If I had a hundred pounds I would buy another horse for Old Corrie, a better one than that I have lost, but I haven't a shilling. A sorry plight. There is only one human being in the world I can call a friend, and that is Mr. Chaytor, who has taken such a strange fancy for me. Yesterday there was Old Corrie, there was Anthony Bidaud, there was Annette. One is dead, the others may cast me off, It is a cruel world. How long Mr. Chaytor is! It seems an age. Shame on you, Basil, for reviling! There is goodness, there is sweetness, there is faithfulness in the world. Don't whine, old man. All may yet be well, though for the life of me I can't see how it is to be brought about."

Then he fainted, but only for a few seconds; when he opened his eyes again he thought hours must have elapsed.

In truth Chaytor was absent no longer than was necessary, but he was also mentally busy with the adventures of the last few hours. The man whose phantom shadow had haunted him in London was now at his mercy. Basil's life was absolutely at his disposal. To leave him where he was in that desolate spot at the bottom of a deserted shaft would be to ensure for him a sure and certain death, and if he wished to make assurance doubly sure, all he had to do would be to roll a great stone upon him. But that would be a crime, and, hardened as he was, he shrank from committing it. Not from any impulse of mercy, but because he had nothing at present to gain from it. There was much to learn, much to do before he nerved himself to a desperate deed which, after all, might by some stroke of good fortune be unnecessary. And indeed it was only the accident which had befallen Basil that darkened his soul with cruel suggestion. The sleeping forces which lurk in the souls of such men as Newman Chaytor often leap into active life by some unfortuitous circumstance in which they have no direct hand.

He was back at the shaft, leaning over it, with a bottle of water not too tightly corked, to the neck of which was attached a long piece of cord.

"Are you there?" he called out.

"Heaven be thanked!" said Basil. "What a time you have been."

"I have not been away an hour."

"Is that really so?"

"It is, but it must have seemed long to you."

"Weeks seem to have passed."

"I have a bottle of water which I will send down to you."

"God bless you!"

"When you get it, loosen the string from the neck of the bottle, and I will send down what remains of the flask of brandy. It will do you no harm."

"I can never repay you for your goodness to me."

"Yes, you can. Look out."

The bottle of water was lowered, and afterwards the flask of brandy: Basil took a long draught of water, half emptying the bottle, and sipped sparingly of the brandy.

"You have given me life, Mr. Chaytor."

"Psha! I have done nothing worth making a fuss about. Oblige me by dropping the Mr."

"I will. With all my heart and soul I thank you, Chaytor."

"You are heartily welcome, Basil. There is a light coming into the sky."

"Sunrise! How beautiful the world is!"

"Listen," said Chaytor; "I will tell you what I am going to do."

CHAPTER XIII

"I am listening," said Basil.

"There is no windlass, as I have told you," said Chaytor, "so I must devise something in its place to pull you up. The mischief is that I am alone, and have no one to help me. However, I must do the best I can. I am going to roll the trunk of a tree to the top of the shaft, then tie a rope firmly round it so that you can climb into the world again. It must be dreadful down there."

"It is," groaned Basil.

"I can imagine it," said Chaytor, complacently; "but you mustn't mind biding a bit. No man could do more than I am doing."

"Indeed he could not."

"The tree is six or seven hundred yards off, and I daresay I shall be an hour over the job. I can't help that, you know."

"Of course you can't. I can't find words to express my gratitude for all the trouble you are taking. And for a stranger, too!"

"I don't look upon you as a stranger; I feel as if I had known you all my life. I suppose, though, it is really but the commencement of a friendship which will last I hope till we are both old men."

"I hope so too."

"A little while ago I was saying to myself, I will never trust another man as long as I live; I will never believe in another; I will never again confide in man or woman. I have been deceived, Basil."

"I am truly sorry to hear it."

"Yes, I have been deceived. Friend after friend have I trusted, have I helped, have I ruined myself for, to find them in the end false, selfish and unreliable. I was filled with disgust and with shame for my species. 'I renounce you all,' I cried in the bitterness of my soul. But now everything seems changed. Since you came my faith in human goodness and sincerity and truth is restored. I don't know why, but it is so. I can rely upon your friendship, Basil?"