Basil and Annette

"I offered you money last night," said the woman, impressed by what he said, but making no comment upon it. "Will you not accept it now?"

"I, thank you-no," he said bowing to her with humility. "Farewell."

CHAPTER XXX

Basil's mind was quite clear when he left the house, and as he had bowed his head to the bereaved mother when she declared him to be Newman Chaytor, the villain who had betrayed and cast her off, so did he bow his head to the elder woman in the shop below, who flung upon him a look of anger and abhorrence as he passed from her sight. In the light of the infamous wrong inflicted upon this family, the wrong inflicted upon himself seemed to be lessened. Suffering and humiliation were his portion, but not shame; herein Newman Chaytor was powerless. There had grown in his mind an ideal presentment of womanhood which shed a refined and delicate grace upon all his dealings with the sex. His knowledge of the world had taught him that some had fallen and were vile, but he had no harsh thoughts even for these hapless ones, whom he regarded with tender pity. There were women with whom he had come in contact whose images were touched with sacred light. His mother was one, Annette was another; and it was partly this good influence which enabled him to bear, with some degree of moral fortitude, the weight of the troubles through which he was passing. A heavy load had been added to these troubles by the accusation which now had been brought against him; another man's sins had been thrust upon his shoulders, and the circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he could scarcely hope to break it down. He had said that he would pray for a miracle to aid him in his bitter trials, and indeed it seemed as if nothing short of a miracle would serve him. But although none occurred to bring the truth to light, new experiences were awaiting him as strange as any within his ken, and one, with some sweet touch of humanity in it, was to come indirectly through the enemy who had played him false.

Of the fourpence he had left one penny went that day for food, and he contrasted his position with that of a shipwrecked man cast away in a boat, helpless on a wild and desolate sea, with starvation staring him in the face. "Among these millions," he thought, "I cannot be the only one; there must be others adrift as I am. Heaven pity them!" It was curious that, revolving this theme in his mind, he looked about for men and women whose state resembled his own, and fancying he saw some, longed for money more for their sake than for his own. Only in small natures is grief entirely selfish. One question continually presented itself. What could he do to better himself-what do to turn the tide? He saw people begging in the roadways, and others fighting desperately for dear life, their weapons a few boxes of matches. If he had known where to purchase half-a-dozen boxes for the threepence which still remained of his fortune he would have risked the venture, but he did not know where to go for the investment, and those he asked for information scowled at him or turned away, conscious perhaps that their ranks were overcrowded, or that the addition of one to the horde of mendicants would lessen their chances. During these times he gained pregnant knowledge of a social nature. Living entirely in the streets, pictures presented themselves in poor and rich thoroughfares alike. His poverty made the contrasts startling. Ladies in carriages nursing over-fed lapdogs; small morsels of humanity shuffling along with their toes peeping out of their boots. In Covent Garden hothouse fruit at fabulous prices, and white-faced mortals picking up refuse and stealthily devouring it. Grand parties in great mansions, priceless jewels flashing as the ladies stepped out of their carriages; in a street hard by a woe-worn girl asleep on a doorstep, with a pallid baby in her arms. These pictures did not embitter him; he pitied the poor and envied not the rich, and had it been his good fortune to be employed as a descriptive writer, his pen would not have been dipped in gall. He did not purposely linger as he walked the streets, for the reason that when he lagged he attracted the notice of policemen, who followed him slowly, and quietly noted his movements. On such occasions, feeling himself an object of suspicion, he would quicken his steps to escape closer observation. Through all these sad wanderings he was ever on the watch for Newman Chaytor; he would not allow himself to sink into absolute apathy; while life remained he would do what lay in his power to lift himself out of the slough of despond. Only when his strength was exhausted would he lie down and die. Thus did he endure three more doleful days, at the end of which his last penny was spent. "The end is coming," he thought, and waited for it. He had been five nights now without a bed, and on three of these nights had been soaked to the skin. This exposure, with lack of nourishing food, had already told upon a system constitutionally sound and healthy. That the end was coming was no idle reflection; he felt it in his bones. Whither should he turn for succour? Naturally strong, and willing and anxious to work even for the barest pittance, he found himself more forsaken and powerless in this city of unrest than Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island. Charity is proverbially cold; it is frozen indeed when a willing man is driven to such a pass.

Another day passed, and another soaking night, and then fever threatened. Delirious fancies took possession of him, haunted, tortured and deluded him. He laughed aloud in the street, and aroused to momentary reason by the looks of the passers-by, shambled away in silence that engirt him as with iron bands-to break out again presently when he was in another street. Each night some impulse for which he sought no reason led his steps in the direction of the bridge where he had met Newman Chaytor's victim; had he seen her again, and she had offered him money, it is doubtful whether he would have had the strength to refuse.

Exhausted and spent, having been thirty hours without food, he clung to the buttress of the bridge, and with dim eyes looked forward on the river's lights. There seemed to be some meaning in their unrest; from the mysterious depths messages from another world came to his dazed mind. "Presently, presently," he thought, "but I should like first to see Annette, and undeceive her. I would give my best heart's blood to set myself straight with her. Too late to save her-too late, too late!" He had no idea of seeking eternal rest by deliberate action, only that he felt it was very near, and could not be long delayed.

How he craved for food! How the demon hunger was tearing at his vitals! His head fell forward, his mouth sucked his coat sleeve. A policeman touched his arm; he languidly raised his head, and the policeman gazed steadily at him, and then proceeded on his beat without speaking a word. Maybe he recognised that a case of genuine suffering was before him. Basil remained in the same position, his eyes turned in the direction the officer was taking. But he did not see him; he was blind to all surrounding things. Therefore it was that he had no consciousness of the presence of an old woman, poorly dressed, who had stopped when the policeman stopped, and appeared rooted to the spot as her eyes fell upon Basil's face. Suddenly the emotion which for a brief space had overpowered her, found voice. With a piercing scream she tottered towards Basil, cleared the grey hair from her eyes, and peered up into his face. Then with a piercing scream, she cried:

"Newman! My son, my darling, darling son! O God be thanked for restoring you to me!"

She threw her trembling arms around him, but Basil did not feel them, and had no understanding of her words. With a dolorous groan he slid from her arms to the ground, and lay there without sense or motion. Nature's demands had reached a supreme point, and the groan which issued from his lips was the last effort of exhausted strength.

Although the bridge appeared to be deserted, with only the policeman, the old woman, and Basil in view, a small knot of persons, as if by magic, instantly surrounded the fallen man and the woman who knelt by his side. The policeman, attracted by the scream, turned, and slowly sauntered towards the group.

"What's the matter, mother?" asked an onlooker.

"It's my son," moaned the woman, "my dear son, Newman. He has come from the goldfields, and is dying, dying."

"Don't look much like a goldfields man," observed one of the group. "Where's his nuggets?"

"He has had a hard time," continued the woman, whom the reader will recognise as Mrs. Chaytor. "He wrote to me about his hardships. See what they have brought him to. Will none of you help me? Here is money-I am not so poor as I look; my poor husband has had a bit of luck. For pity's sake help me! O my son, my son!"

"I am a doctor," said a gentleman, pushing his way through. Kneeling by Mrs. Chaytor's side, he lifted Basil's head on his knee, and made a rapid examination. "The poor fellow is starving, I should say. Run, one of you, and fetch a quartern of brandy-and some water if you can get it."

Mrs. Chaytor held out a trembling hand, and a woman snatched the money from lit and darted off. The policeman, who had by this time joined the group, shook his head disapprovingly.

"You've seen the last of that," he said.

He was mistaken, however; the woman returned with two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other water. With these the doctor moistened Basil's lips, and forced a few drops down his throat.

"You see," he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Chaytor, "that he is not yet dead. Whether he lives or dies depends not upon himself. I think I heard you say you are his mother."

"I am his unhappy mother," sobbed Mrs. Chaytor. "Oh, how I have prayed for his return, and he is sent to me now like this! It is cruel, it is unjust. Save him for me, doctor, and I will bless you to the last hour of my life!"

"We will see what can be done. Do you live near here?"

"We live in Southwark Road."

"Here is a cab passing. Let us get him into it; there is no time to lose."

A dozen arms were ready to assist him, but Basil had grown so thin that the kind doctor lifted him with ease, and put him in the cab. Then, giving the driver the address which he obtained from Mrs. Chaytor, they drove off quickly, Mrs. Chaytor holding Basil in her arms, and crooning over him as the priceless treasure of her life.

CHAPTER XXXI

"Am I awake or dreaming?" This was the thought that passed through Basil's mind as he opened his eyes. Two weeks had passed since he had been rescued from death; and for the most of that time he had been unconscious. But certain floating impressions were his, which now, as his eyes travelled round the walls of the room in which he lay, he endeavoured to recall. It was not without difficulty that he succeeded, but after long and determined-if in his weak state such a word may be used-effort, these impressions began to marshal themselves. But just at the moment that memory reasserted its power an interruption occurred, and Basil, bent upon his mental task, closed his eyes, and waited once more for solitude.

An old woman stole softly into the room, and crept with noiseless tread close to his bed. She stooped over him, kissed him tenderly, arranged the bedclothes about him, smoothed his pillow, and kissed him again. What touched his feelings deeply was the exceeding tenderness of these kisses, which could only have been bestowed upon one who was very dear. What meaning lay in this strange tenderness to him who not so long since was forsaken by all, and coming from one whose face was absolutely unfamiliar to him? For with excusable cunning he had partially raised his lids without being observed, and his half-veiled eyes rested upon the woman who was attending him. She was an old woman with grey and white hair, and there were signs of deep suffering on her lined face. She looked like one who had experienced great trouble, but Basil noted also in her countenance an expression of gratitude which relieved the weight of years and care which lay heavy upon her. He allowed his lids to droop, and setting aside awhile the task upon which he was engaged when she entered the room, ransacked his memory for a clue. He could find none, even though his mental efforts sent him wandering weakly among his childhood's days. While thus engaged, with his eyes still closed, he was conscious that another person had entered the room, and the words which passed between them reached his senses.

"Good morning," in the cheerful voice of a man.

"Good morning, doctor."

"Doctor! He was being cared for, then, and friends were by his side. Of this he was assured; he required no further proof than the tender actions of the woman and the soft voice in which she returned the doctor's greeting. But why should these stranger's care for him? for strangers to him they were, though their intentions could not be doubted.

"How is our patient this morning?"

"No worse, I hope, doctor. He has been very, very quiet."

"That is a good sign."

Basil felt the doctor's fingers on his pulse, and then his head was gently raised, and he knew that his temperature was being taken. He betrayed no consciousness of their presence; perhaps the conversation would supply him with the clue for which he was seeking.

"The fever has almost gone; in a few days he will be quite well. Has he not spoken at all?"

"No, doctor."

"Not even in his sleep?"

"No, doctor, not a word has passed his lips."

"All the signs are good. Has he opened his eyes?"

"No, doctor. If he only would! If he would only recognise me! I could die happy, then."

"You must not talk of dying. All that belongs to the past."

"No, doctor," said the woman, with a sigh, "it belongs to the future."

"I stand corrected in my philosophy. But, tush, tush! We must not have you breaking down. I shall insist upon your getting a nurse for our young gentleman here."

"No, doctor, no," in almost a fierce tone, "no one shall nurse my dear boy but myself. Have I waited all these years to let another woman take my place?"

"Be calm. But I warn you that you are overtaxing yourself, and at your time of life it is not safe. You have done your duty; no woman can do more."

"I will not allow anybody else to take my place. It belongs to me; it is my right."

"There, there, don't agitate yourself. I hope our young friend will be grateful for what you have done for him."

"He will be; he always has been; you do not know his nature-the most loving, the tenderest. Can you not see it in his face?"

"It is a good face, and I have taken something more than a doctor's interest in the case. It is, indeed, a mercy that you came across him on the bridge a fortnight ago. Had he fallen into the hands of strangers it is hardly likely he would have pulled through. It was touch and go with him."

"Providence led my steps. I am humbly, humbly grateful."

"You saved him from death-I may tell you plainly now that he is in a fair way of recovery. And how is our other patient?"

"Still the same, doctor. Will you go and see him?"

"You must come with me; he is suspicious of me, as you know, and would order me out of the room if you were not by."

"Can I leave my dear boy with safety?"

"With perfect safety; he will not awake from sleep for a long time yet, and when he does it will not harm him to find himself alone."

"He must not find himself alone-I will not have it, I will not, I will not!"

"Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will sleep for hours; it is nature's restorative."

"Doctor," said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that Basil was deeply moved, "he will recover?"

"He will. Come; I have not much time at my disposal."

He walked to the door, but before she left the room, Basil felt her tender hands about him again, ministering to his ease and comfort. Presently he knew by the closing of the door that he was alone again. Then he applied himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed through his mind in fair order.

He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, the meeting of the young woman on the bridge, his visit to her house, and the cruel accusation she brought against him. When he struggled against it she had desired him to come into the light, and had said, "You are Newman Chaytor." With this pronouncement and condemnation he left her, and the look of abhorrence the woman's mother had cast upon him lived in his memory as a burning brand. Then followed the days through which he starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking forward on the river's lights, and waiting for death. He had no remembrance of what subsequently occurred on that night and on many days and nights afterwards. Sounds of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the words that were spoken: except that on one occasion something had reached his senses to the effect that the room in which he lay was unhealthy, and that it would be better if he were removed to more airy quarters. He was dimly conscious that this was done, and that gentle hands had lifted him from his bed, and that he was carried to another house through fresher air which flowed softly over his fevered brow. Had this really been done, or was he deluding himself with fancies? He opened his eyes, and gazed around. The room was large, and there was but little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. There was a pleasant paper on the walls, the device being flowers, the colours of which, though subdued, had some healthful brightness in them. On a table near his bed were medicine bottles, a basin with soup jelly in it, and a plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was being nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was something more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt devotion, in these evidences and in what he had lately heard. The woman to whom he owed this great debt had saved him from death-the doctor had said as much, and Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have been her motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had rendered him a service it would be hard, if not impossible for him to repay. Saved from death! To what end? That he might live to clear himself from the foul accusation which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish the guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, indeed, that could never be repaid. Exhausted with thought, he sank into slumber, with a growing hope in his heart that there might yet be some brightness for him in the future.

When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes they fell upon the form of the woman who had tended him. She was kneeling by his bed, gazing upon his face. A shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her clearly.

"Newman!" she said in a low voice of joy, and she half rose and stretched forth her arms.

That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the voice of joy, the agonized appeal of love expressed in her eyes, arrested his speech. And indeed at that moment there suddenly flashed upon his mind some glimmering of the truth.

"Who speaks?" he asked, awed and stricken by the appeal.

"Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, my son, don't break my heart by saying you don't know me! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy, kiss me, give me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you turn from me!"

He could not repulse her; he felt that the sentence upon this loving heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing what he did, he held out his hands. She seized and kissed them again and again, then fell upon his neck and pressed him convulsively to her.

"Who are you?" he said softly.

"Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you not hear me? Have I spoken too soon? O Newman, Newman, give me one kiss, one kind look. My poor heart is breaking!"

"Tell me who I am," said Basil.

"You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in His infinite mercy has sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer the little time that remains to us."

Her mouth was close to his; her quivering lips pleaded for the kiss for which she yearned. He could not resist her; their lips met; her tears gushed forth.

"Forgive me," he said: "I have been ill so long, and my mind may be wandering still. Is it the truth that I am Newman Chaytor?"

"Yes, my dear, yes, you are the only being left to us on earth, the only link of love we have. If it distresses you to think, if the effort is too painful, rest till the morning; I will watch over you. Heaven has heard my prayers; my darling is restored to me. I can die happy now. The clouds have passed away; there is nothing but sunshine; your future shall be happy; we will make it so. Fortune has smiled upon us. Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful-and just as you have come back to us. But we will not speak of it to-night; we will wait till to-morrow, when you will be stronger."

"No, tell me something more-I am strong enough to listen."

"Oh, my poor boy, you have suffered much, you have had great troubles!"

"Yes, great and bitter troubles. Bring the lamp nearer. Am I changed?"

"Only a little paler than you used to be and a little thinner. There is no other change in you. Your father-"

"My father!"

"He lives, Newman, he lives, but he is very ill, and I can see that the doctor fears for him. But he loves you still. Do not think hardly of him, Newman; he will not be long with us. Say that you forgive him!"

"What have I to forgive?"

"There speaks the noble heart of my darling boy. You can bring peace and comfort to him, as you have brought it to me. You can brighten his last hours. You will do it, will you not, my dear boy?"

"What lies in my power," said Basil slowly, "to repay you for your goodness to me, that I will do."

"I was sure of it, I was sure of it. You will find him changed, Newman; he wanders in his mind sometimes, but you will be gentle with him."

"Yes I will be gentle with him."

"We will forget the past-there shall be nothing in our hearts but love and forgiveness."

"Listen a moment. If anybody came to you and said I am not your son, would you believe him?"

"You ask it to try me, but you little know your mother's heart. If an angel from heaven were to come and say so, I should not believe him; I should know it was an evil spirit that spoke. I was going to speak to you of our good fortune. Shall I go on?"

"Yes, go on."

"It happened only a week before I met you-O, heaven be praised for it! – on the bridge. Do you remember, when everything went wrong with us and we were plunged in poverty, that your father still had some shares in mining companies left, shares that were supposed not to be worth the paper they were printed on? Do you remember it, my dear boy?"

"Well?"

"It is only three weeks ago that a gentleman found out where we were living-we were very, very poor, Newman-and told us that these shares were valuable, were worth a great deal of money. Fortunately your father had not destroyed them, and fortunately, too, when the gentleman called it was on one of your father's sensible days. He found the shares, and some of them have been sold. We are now rich-yes, my dear boy, rich. We should never murmur against heaven's decrees; it was all ordained-that this should happen at the time it did, and that I should meet you a few days afterwards, in time to save you. Newman, my dear, you had not a penny in your pockets."

"I was starving."

"My poor boy, my poor, poor boy! Oh, how cruelly we have treated you!"

"You must not say that. You are the soul of goodness; you have saved me from death, from despair, from shame, from degradation. I have something to live for now. Hope revives. I have an enemy who has conspired to ruin my life. What shall be done to him?"

"He must be punished."

"He shall be."

"The monster! To conspire against my dear lad. If I were not old and weak, I would seek him out myself. He should learn what a mother could do for a beloved son."

"He shall be punished, I say, and his punishment shall come through those who are nearest to him, and should be dearest."

"It sounds hard, Newman, but it is just, it is just."

"I am tired," said Basil, "I can talk no more; I want to sleep."

"Sleep, my dear boy; I will watch by you."

"No, you must seek rest yourself; I insist upon it; it will do me good to know that you are resting after your long labour."