Basil and Annette

"Ah, you're philosophical, you are," growled Chaytor, "but I'm not so easy minded. Just think of it, and bring a little spirit to bear upon it, will you?"

"Off you go," said Basil. "I'm listening."

"Here we are on Dead Man's Flat, and here we've been these last three weeks. Just four days and three weeks ago we struck our claim in Mountain Maid Gully, having got two ounces and three pennyweights for our month's hard work. That contemptible parcel of gold brought us in barely eight pounds, the gold buyer pretending to blow away sand before he put it in the scale, but blowing away more than two pennyweights of the stuff, and reducing it to a little over two ounces. We weighed it in our own gold scales before we took it to him, and it was two ounces three pennyweights full weight. You can't deny that."

"I've no intention of denying it. Don't be irritable. Go on, and let off steam; it will do you good."

"I want to point out this thing particularly," fumed Chaytor, "so that we can get to the rights of our ill luck, get to the bottom of it, I mean, and find out the why and the wherefore. Eight pounds we receive for our gold, when we should have received eight pounds ten; not a sixpence less; but the world is full of thieves. Now, that eight pounds gives us a little under twenty shillings a week a man. I would sooner starve."

"I wouldn't-though I've had bitter blows, Chaytor."

"Not worse than I have."

"It is the pinching of our own shoes we feel, old fellow. We're a selfish lot of brutes. Thank you for pulling me up. I'm sorry for you, Chaytor."

"And I'm sorry for you. Thinking our claim worthless we leave Mountain Maid Gully, and come here to Dead Man's Flat. We are ready to jump out of our skins with joy, for we come just in time-so we think. Here's a new lead struck, with big nuggets in it, and we mark out our claim exactly one hundred and twenty feet from the prospector's ground. They get one day twenty ounces, the next day twenty-eight, the next day forty-two-a fortune, if it lasts."

"Which it seldom does."

"It often does, and even if it lasts only six or seven weeks it brings in a lot. 'We're in luck this time,' I say to you, and I dream of nuggets as big as my head. The gutter, we reckon, is forty feet down, and we reach it in three weeks. Everybody round us is making his pile-why shouldn't we? But before we strike the lead a digger comes up, and says, 'Hallo, mates, have you heard about the claim you left in Mountain Maid Gully?' 'No,' say we, 'what about it?'-'Oh,' says the digger, 'only that two new chums jumped in after you'd gone away and found out it was the richest claim on the goldfield. They took a thousand ounces out of it the second week they were at work.' What do you say to that, Basil?"

"Jolly hard luck, Chaytor."

"Cursed hard luck, I say."

"Strong words won't better it."

"They're a relief. You take it philosophically, I admit; I growl over it like a bear with a sore head. I'd like to know why there's this difference between us."

"I'll try and tell you presently, when you've finished about the two claims."

"All right. I shouldn't be much of a man if the news about the ground we ran away from didn't rile me. I was so wild I could hardly sleep that night. But when I heard that in the next claim to the one we're working now a nugget weighing a hundred and fifty ounces was found I thought perhaps we'd got a richer claim than the one we'd deserted. So I bottled up my bad temper, and went on working with a good grace. And now we're on the gutter again, and here's the result." He held out the tin dish, and gazed at the tiny specks of gold with disgust. "Why it's the very worst we've struck yet."

"Not quite that. We've had as bad. What shall we do? Stick to it, or try somewhere else?

"We daren't go away. Stick to it we must. If we left it and I heard afterwards the same sort of story we were told about our claim on Mountain Maid, I should do somebody a mischief. You agree with me, then, that we remain and work the claim out?"

"I agree to anything you wish, Chaytor. I will stay or go away, just as you decide."

Chaytor looked at him with an eye of curiosity. "Were you ever a fellow of much strength of character, Basil?"

"I think so, once; not in any remarkable degree, but sufficient for most purposes."

"And now?"

"And now," replied Basil, taking his pipe from his mouth, and holding it listlessly between his fingers, "the life seems to have gone out of me. The only tie that binds me to it is you. I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude, old fellow, and I wish I could do something to repay it. But in tying yourself to me you are tied to a log that keeps dragging you down. The ill luck that pursues us come from me. Throw me off and fortune will smile upon you."

"And upon you?"

"No. The taste of all that's sweet and beautiful has gone out of my mouth; I'm a soured man inside of me; you're a thousand times better than I am. What is bitterness in you comes uppermost; it pleases you to hide the best part of you; but you cannot hide it from me, for I've had experience of you and know you. Now I'm the exact reverse. Outwardly you would think I'm an easy-going, easy-natured fellow, willing always to make the best of things, and to look on the brightest side. It is untrue; I am a living hypocrite. Inwardly I revile the world; because of my own disappointments I can see no good in it. Good fortune or bad fortune, what does it matter to me now? It cannot restore my faith, it cannot destroy the shroud which hangs over my heart. That is the difference between us. You are a thoroughly good fellow, I am a thoroughly bad one."

"It was not always the same with you. How have you become soured?"

"Thorough experience. Look here, Chaytor, it is only right you should be able to read me. You have bared your heart to me, and it is unfair that I should keep mine closed. There have been times when business of your own has called you to Sydney. We were never rich enough to go together, so you had to go alone, while I remained, in order not to lose the particular luckless claim we happened to be working in, and out of which we were always going to make our fortune. On the occasions of your visits you have executed a small commission for me, entailing but little trouble, but upon the successful result of which I set great store. It was merely to call at the Post-Office, and ask for letters for Basil Whittingham. The answer was always the same: there were none. Every time you returned and said, 'No letters for you, Basil,' I suffered more than I can express. There was less light in the world, my heart grew old. I believe I did not betray myself; at all events, I took pains not to do so."

"I never knew till now, Basil," said Chaytor falsely, and in a tone of false pity, "that you thought anything at all of not receiving letters. You certainly succeeded in making me believe that it did not matter one way or another."

"That is what I have grown into, a living hypocrite, as I have said. Why should I inflict my troubles upon you? You have enough of your own, and I have never been free from the reproach that evil fortune attends you because you persist in remaining attached to me. But the honest truth is, I suffered much, and each time the answer was given there was an added pang to make my sufferings greater. I'll tell you how it is with me, or rather how it was, for were you torn from me, were I pursuing my road of life alone, I should feel like a ghost walking through the world, cut off from love, cut off from sympathy. Not so many years ago-and yet it seems a lifetime-it was very different. I know I loved my dear mother, and perhaps in a lesser degree, but still with a full-hearted love, I loved my father. You know the whole story of my life; I cannot recall an incident of any importance in my career in the old country and in others through which I travelled which I have omitted to tell you. Partly it was because you took so deep an interest in me, partly because it gratified me to dwell upon matters which gave me pleasure. Yes, although my shot was pretty well expended when I left England for Australia, there is nothing in my history there which causes me regret. Until the death of my father everything looked fair for me. It was a good world, a bright world, with joyous possibilities in it, some of which might in the future be realised. I spent my fortune in paying my father's debts, and though it alienated my uncle from me and ruined my prospects, never for one moment did I regret it. There was no merit due to me in doing what I did; any man of right feeling would have done the same; you would have been one of the first to do it. Well, I came out to the Colonies with a light heart and nearly empty pockets. I had my hardships-what mattered? I was young, I was strong, I was hopeful, I believed in human goodness. So I went on my way till I came to Anthony Bidaud's plantation. There the sun burst forth in its most brilliant colours, and all my petty trials melted away. Had my nature been soured, it would have been the same, I think, for love is like the sun shining upon ice. I met a man and a friend in Anthony Bidaud; we understood and esteemed each other. I met a little maid to whom my heart went out-you know whom I mean, little Annette. You never saw her, Chaytor. When she came to Old Corrie's hut on the day we left Gum Flat, after you snatched me from a cruel death and nursed me to strength, you were wandering in the woods, and did not join us till she had gone. If you had met her you might have some idea of the feelings I entertained towards her, for although she was but a child at the time, there was a peculiar attraction and sweetness about her which could not have failed to make an impression upon you. You are acquainted with all that passed between me and Annette's father, of the project he entertained of making me guardian to his little daughter, and of his strange and sudden death; and you are also acquainted with the unexpected appearance of Gilbert Bidaud upon the scene, and what afterwards transpired, to the day upon which he and his sister and Annette left the colony for Europe. The little maid promised faithfully to write to me from Europe, and I gave her instructions, which she could scarcely have forgotten, how to communicate with me. Her letters were to be directed to the Sydney Post-office, and she was to let me know how to communicate with her. Well, unreasonably or not, I fed upon the expectation of these promised letters, but they never came. We must have some link of affection to hold on to in this world if life is worth living, and this was the link to which I clung. From old associations in England I was absolutely cut away, not one friend was left to me; and when I arrived at Anthony Bidaud's plantation and made Annette my friend, I felt as if all the sweetness of life dwelt in her person. It was an exaggerated view perhaps, but so it was. Since that time three years have passed, and she is as one dead to me, and I suppose I am as one dead to her. For some little while after she left I used to indulge in hopes of wealth, in hopes of striking a golden claim and becoming rich. Then I used to say to myself, I will go home and wait till Annette is a woman, when I will take her from the hateful influence of Gilbert Bidaud, and-and-but, upon my honour, my thoughts got no farther than this; my dreams and hopes were unformed beyond the point of proving myself her truest and best friend. But her silence has changed my nature, and I no longer indulge in hopes and dreams, I no longer desire riches. The future is a blank: there is no brightness in it. If it happens that we are fortunate, that after all our ill luck we should strike a rich claim, I will give you my share of the gold freely, for I should have no use for it."

"I would not accept it, Basil," said Chaytor; "we will share and share alike. Have you no desire, then, to return to England?"

"I shall never go back," replied Basil. "My days will be ended in Australia."

"Where you will one day meet with a woman who will drive all thoughts of Annette out of your head."

"That can never be."

"You think of her still, then?"

"As she was, not as she is. I live upon the spirit of the past."

He spoke not as a young man, but as one who had lived long years of sad and bitter experiences. In this he was unconsciously doing himself a great wrong, for his heart was as tender as ever, and in reality he had intense faith in the goodness of human nature; but the theme upon which he had been dilating always, when he reflected upon or spoke of it, filled his soul with gloom, and so completely dominated him with its melancholy as to make him unintentionally false to his true self.

"The question is," said Chaytor, "whether it is worth while to brood upon such a little matter. The heart of a child-what is it? A pulse with about as much meaning in it as the heart of an animal. There is no sincerity in it. I have no doubt you would be amazed if you were to know Annette as she is now, almost a woman, moulded after her uncle's teaching, and therefore repulsive in nature as he was. You are wise in your resolve to make no attempt to shatter an ideal. I have suffered myself in love and friendship, and I know better than you how little dependence is to be placed in woman. Let us get back to the claim. We'll not give it up till we've proved it quite worthless."

CHAPTER XIX

Had Basil been acquainted with the extent of Newman Chaytor's baseness and villainy he would have been confounded by the revelation. But unhappily for himself he was in entire ignorance of it, and it was out of the chivalry of his nature that he placed Chaytor on an eminence, in the way of human goodness, to which few persons can lay claim. But Basil was a man who formed ideals; it was a necessity of his existence, and it is such men who in their course through life are the most deeply wounded.

Chaytor's visits to Sydney were not upon business of his own, he had none to take him there; they were simply and solely made for the purpose of obtaining the letters which arrived for Basil from England, and any also which might arrive for himself; but these latter were of secondary importance. In his enquiries at the Post-office he was always furnished with an order signed, "Basil Whittingham" (of which he was the forger) to deliver to bearer any letters in that name. Thus he was armed to meet a possible difficulty, although it would have been easy enough to obtain Basil's letters without such order. But as he had frequently observed he was a man who never threw away a chance.

As a matter of fact, he received letters both for himself and Basil, which he kept carefully concealed in an inner pocket. He had become a man of method in the crooked paths he was pursuing, and these letters, before being packed away, were placed in a wrapper, securely sealed, with written directions outside to the effect that if anything happened to him and they fell into the hands of another person they should be immediately burnt. This insured their destruction in the event of their falling into the hands of Basil, for Chaytor had implicit faith in his comrade's quixotism and chivalry, at which he laughed in his sleeve.

It has already been stated that Chaytor had made himself a master of the peculiarities of Basil's handwriting. Having served his apprenticeship in his disgraceful career in England he could now produce an imitation of Basil's hand so perfect as to deceive the most skilful of experts, who often in genuine writing make mistakes which should, but do not, confound them. Shortly after Annette and her uncle and aunt had taken their departure from Australia he wrote to Basil's uncle in England. It is not necessary to reproduce the letter; sufficient to say that it was chatty and agreeable, that it recalled reminiscences which could not but be pleasant to the old gentleman, that it abounded in affectionate allusions, and wound up with the expression of a hope that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would live till he was a hundred in health and happiness. There was not a word in the letter which could be construed into the begging of a favour; it was all gratitude and affection; and the writer asked whether there was any special thing in Australia which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would like to have. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said the wily correspondent, "than to obtain and send it to you in memory of dear old times. I will hunt the emu for you; I will even send you home a kangaroo. God bless you, my dear uncle! I have been a foolish fellow I know, but what is done cannot be undone, and I have only myself to blame. There, I did not intend to make the most distant allusion to anything in the past that has offended you, but it slipped out, and I can only ask your forgiveness." In a postscript the writer said that his address was the Post Office, Sydney, not, he observed, that he expected Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham to write to him or answer his letter, but there was no harm in mentioning it. It was just such a letter as would delight an old gentleman who had in his heart of hearts a warm regard for the young fellow whose conduct had displeased him. Chaytor had some real ability in him, which, developed in a straight way, would have met with its reward; but there are men who cannot walk the straight paths, and Chaytor was one of these.

Two months afterwards, before any answer could have reached him, Chaytor wrote a second letter, as bright and chatty as the first, brimful of anecdote and story, and this he despatched, curious as to the result of his arrows. They hit the mark right in the bull's-eye, but Chaytor was not quite aware of this. However, he was satisfied some time afterwards at receiving a brief note from a firm of lawyers-not from Messrs. Rivington, Sons and Rivington, to whom he had been articled, but from another firm, and for this he was thankful-which said that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had received his nephew's letter, and was glad to learn that he was in good health and spirits. That was all, but it was enough for Chaytor. In the first place it proved that his handwriting was perfect and the circumstances he spoke of correct. In the second place it proved that Basil's uncle had a soft spot left for him and that the writer had touched it. In the third place it proved that his letters were welcome, and that others would be acceptable.

"A good commencement," thought Chaytor. "I have but to play my cards boldly, and the old fool's forty thousand pounds will be mine. What a slice of luck for me that Rivington, Sons, and Rivington no longer transact his business! At a distance I could deceive them. At close quarters their suspicions might be excited, although I would chance even that, if there were no other way. I wonder how long the old miser will live. I am not anxious that he should die yet; things are not ripe; there is Basil to get rid of." He was ready and resolved for any desperate expedient to compass his ends, and he kept not only the letters he received, but copies of the letters he sent, for future guidance, if needed. Be sure that he continued to write, and that he made not the slightest reference to any hope of becoming the old gentleman's heir, or of being reinstated in his affection. It is strange how a man's intellect and intelligence are sharpened when he is following a congenial occupation. Machiavelli himself could not have excelled Newman Chaytor in the execution of the villainous scheme he was bent upon carrying out. He became even a fine judge of character, and not a word he wrote was malapropos. Let it be stated that, despite the risk he was running, he derived genuine pleasure from the plot he had devised. He thought himself, with justice, a very clever fellow; if all went on in England as he hoped it would he had no fear as to being able to silence or get rid of Basil on the Australian side of the world. He would be a dolt indeed if he could not remove a man so weak and trustful as Basil from his path. He had other letters from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's lawyers, and he knew, from a growing cordiality in their tone (a sentiment in which lawyers never of their own prompting indulge in their business transactions) that they were dictated by the old gentleman himself. His interpretation of Basil's uncle not writing in his own person was that he had made up his mind not to have any direct personal communication with his nephew, and that being of an obstinate disposition, he was not going to break his resolution. "For all that," thought Chaytor, "I will have his money. I'll take an even bet that he has either not destroyed his old will, or that he has made a new one, making Basil his heir. Newman Chaytor, there are not many men who can beat you."

He received other letters as well from other persons-from his old mother, addressed to himself, and from Annette, addressed to Basil. Certainly when he went to Sydney his hands were full, and he had enough to do. He did not grudge the labour. He saw in the distance the pleasures of life awaiting him, and it is a fact that in time he came to believe that they were his to enjoy, and that Basil had no rightful claim to them. It was he, Newman Chaytor, who had schemed for them, who was working for them. What was Basil doing? Nothing. Standing idly by, without making an effort to come into his own. "This is the way men get on," said Chaytor to himself, surveying with pride the letter he had just finished to Basil's uncle, "and I mean to get on. Why, the trouble of writing this letter alone is worth a thousand pounds. And what is the risk worth, I should like to know? I am earning double the money I shall get."

The letters of his old mother to himself were less frequent-not more than one every nine or ten months. They always commenced, "My dearly beloved son," and they plunged at once into a description of the difficulties with which she and her poor husband were battling. Her first letter gave him a piece of news which caused him great joy. It informed him that a certain bill which Chaytor had left behind him, dishonoured, had been bought by his father, at the sacrifice of some of the doubtful securities which he had saved from the wreck of his fortune. "You can come home with safety now, my dear son," wrote the unhappy old woman. "Well, that is a good hearing," mused Newman Chaytor; "I was always afraid of that bill; it might have turned up against me at any moment, but now it is disposed of, and I am safe. So, the old man still had something left worth money all the time he was preaching poverty to me. Such duplicity is disgusting. He owes me a lot for frightening me out of the country as he did. And here is the old woman going on with the preaching about hard times and poverty. Such selfishness is wicked, upon my soul it is." It was true that his mother's letters ran principally on the same theme. They had not a penny; they lived in one room; their rent was behindhand; her husband was more feeble than ever; they often went without food, for both she and he were determined to starve rather than appeal to the parish. Could not her dear son send them a trifle, if it was only a few shillings, to help them fight the battle which was drawing to its close? She hoped he would forgive her for asking him, but times were so hard, and the winter was very severe. They had had no fire for two days, and the landlady said if they could not pay the last two weeks' rent that they would have to turn out. "Try, my dear boy, try, for the sake of the mother who bore you, and who would sell her heart's blood for you, if there was a market for it."

These letters annoyed Chaytor, and he thought it horribly hard that his mother should write them. "It is a try on," he thought; "the old man has put her up to it. I ought to know the ins and outs of such transparent tricks. 'Now, write this,' says the old man; 'Now write that. We must manage to screw something out of him: work upon his feelings, mother.' That's the way it goes. I'll bet anything they've got a smoking dinner on the table all the time, but Newman's at a distance, and can't see it. Oh, no, I can't see anything; a baby might impose upon me." He never thought of the night he saw his mother begging in the roadway with a box of matches in her hands. Some men are gifted with the power of shutting out inconvenient memories, as there are others who never lose sight of a kindness they have received or of a debt that is justly due. Long before this the reader has discovered to which class Chaytor belonged.

Nevertheless he replied to the letters, cantingly regretting that he was unable to send his dear old mother the smallest remittance to help her on in her struggles. "How is it possible," he wrote, "when I am myself starving? It is months since I have had to work sixteen hours a day breaking stones on the road for a piece of dry bread. The hardships I have endured, and am still enduring, are frightful. This is a horrible place for a gentleman to live in. I should not have been here if father had not driven me away. It almost drives me mad to think that if he had not been so hard to me, if he had allowed me to stop at home and manage his affairs, I could have pulled them straight, and that we should all of us be living now in comfort and plenty in the only country in the world where a man can enjoy his days. You have no idea what kind of place this colony is. Men die like lambs in the snow, and the sufferings they endure are shocking to contemplate. I do not suppose I shall live to write you another letter, but if you can manage to send me a few pounds it may arrive just in time to save me." And so on, and so on. He took a keen delight in the duplicities he was practising, and he would read his letters over with a feeling of pride and exultation in his cleverness. "How many men are there in the world," he would ask himself, "who could write such a letter as this? Not many. Upon my word I'm wasted in this hole and corner. But there's by-and-by to come; when I get hold of that forty thousand pounds I'll have my revenge. No galley slave ever worked harder than I am working for a future I mean to enjoy." That may have been true enough, but the work of a galley slave was honest labour in comparison with that to which Newman Chaytor was bending all his energies.