Basil and Annette

"Are you sure you will not want me?"

"Quite sure; I am gaining strength rapidly; to-morrow I shall be almost well. Go."

"When did I disobey my dear lad?" said Mrs. Chaytor. "When did I disregard his slightest wish? He repays me with love, and I am happy, happy! This is the brightest night of my life, Newman. What have I done that such joy should be mine? It is more than I deserve. Yes, I will go, though I don't want rest-indeed, indeed I do not. I could stop up for weeks nursing my dear lad, and never feel fatigue." The tears rose in Basil's eyes as he gazed upon her worn and wasted face. "Good night, my dear, dear boy. God bless and guard you?"

He could not deny her the kiss for which she mutely pleaded, and she prepared to leave him; but she came back a dozen times to assure herself that he was comfortable, that there was not a crease on his pillow, that the clothes were smoothly laid over him, and to hover about him with soft accents of love. At length he pretended to be asleep, and she crept from the room so softly that he did not hear her footfall.

Being alone now, he could think of what had passed, of the revelation that had been made to him, of the position in which he stood, and how it behoved him to act. The woman believed him to be her son, the idol of her heart, the one supreme treasure which heaven and earth contained for her. In that belief she had rescued him from death, and by so doing had perhaps afforded him the opportunity to redeem his name and honour. To undeceive her would break her heart; of this he had no doubt. How perfect was her love! How tender and beautiful were its evidences! He remembered his own mother, and knew how pure was the love which existed between them; but never till this moment had it been given him to know to what wondrous extent a mother's love could go. That Newman had been a bad son, that he had been profligate and false-of this he was certain; such a nature as Newman's was capable of nought else; but all this was forgotten and forgiven. Nay, instead of entreaties for pardon being expected from him, it was himself that was asked to forgive. Something more than gratitude stirred his heart as he thought of Mrs. Chaytor's goodness, a feeling of pity and affection rose within him, and he bethought himself in what way he could repay her for the great service she had rendered to him.

Had it been Newman, indeed, whom she had rescued from death and dishonour, how would he have acted? Natures do not change, and Newman would have followed the bent of his. He would have brought fresh sorrows upon her head; he would have stripped her of her new fortune and squandered it in dissolute practices? Would it not be a fine revenge to make the end of her life sweet and beautiful by the loving care and gratitude it was in Basil's power to bestow. His heart glowed at the thought. The sterner part of his revenge could still be carried out. He would have means to prosecute his search for Newman and Annette, and it would be the easiest matter to find an excuse for absence, if it were necessary that he should go personally to seek them. Thus two good ends would be attained, one certain in the joy it would bring to a good woman's heart, the other as yet uncertain, inasmuch as the roads which would lead to it were enveloped in darkness.

Yes, he would have means to punish the guilty. But were those means his to use? Could he with justice employ them in the task upon which he was engaged, and which Mrs. Chaytor had saved him to prosecute? This was the question which now obtruded itself.

Why not? Had not Newman Chaytor, by the vilest conduct, by long systematic deceit and treachery, fraudulently obtained possession of his fortune, and was he not now using it for his own selfish pleasures? Could human cunning go further than Newman had done in his vile plot-could human baseness reach a baser depth? No. There would be a strange and inscrutable justice in using the villain's weapons to bring the villain to bay.

There was another consideration: Annette. If in the morning he declared himself to be Basil Whittingham, if he left the loving mother in sorrow and tribulation, and rejected the opportunity which, through no scheming on his part, had presented itself, if he threw himself once more penniless upon the world, what chance had he of finding Annette in time, maybe, to save her from a life of deepest unhappiness? This last consideration induced him to resolve upon his course of action. For the present he would allow matters to go on as they would. He would not undeceive Mrs. Chaytor; she should, for as long or as short a time as circumstances permitted, rest in a delusion which had filled her heart with joy. She should believe that he, Basil, was her son indeed, and he would work and wait for events.

But he would be strictly just, as far as he could. What money he used should be used to one end, and to one end only; unless, indeed (and a strange smile wreathed his lips as this view presented itself) collateral disclosures were revealed to him of Newman Chaytor's home life of villainy and treachery which pleaded for some kind of compensation. Then would he use some of Chaytor's money to repair the wrong. A devious road to justice, but a justifiable one. Having thus determined, sleep descended upon him.

CHAPTER XXXII

Early the next morning he awoke. The sun was shining into the room, and he was alone. There was some kind of stir in the house for which he could not account, and the cause of which he was curious to ascertain. Feeling that his strength had returned to him he rose from the bed, and although a natural weakness was upon him, he succeeded in partially dressing himself. While thus employed the door was opened and the doctor entered the room.

"Ah," said the doctor, "as I expected. You are yourself again." He was a young man, and had a cheery voice and manner, which, used with discretion, and not allowed to become too bluff, are invaluable aids to a medical practitioner.

"I am almost well, I think," said Basil.

"But we must be careful," said the doctor, "we must husband our strength. You have a good constitution, and that has served you." Although his voice was cheerful, he spoke with a certain reserve.

"Are you not here very early?" asked Basil.

"I am," replied the doctor, "much earlier than usual. The fact is I was called in."

"They are too anxious about me."

"Well, yes, but I was not called in to see you. Your parents required me?"

"For themselves?"

"For themselves. Are you strong enough to hear some grave news?"

"Let me know it, quickly."

"To be plain, your good mother has overtaxed herself; and your father's illness has taken a serious turn. Your mother did not wish me to tell you; she asked me to think of some excuse why she could not come to you; but in the circumstances the truth is best."

"Yes, the truth is best. Disguise nothing from me. See-I am really strong and well."

"You will do, if you are careful. As I said, your mother has overtaxed her strength, and she is now suffering from it. I warned her a score of times, but she would not leave your side, it is wonderful the devotion of these good women."

"Is it anything serious?"

"I fear so; she is old, and seems to have gone through some serious troubles."

"I will go and see her."

"Not till you have breakfast. I have ordered it for you, and if you will allow me, I will join you."

"You are very welcome."

The maid entered the room with a tray, which she placed on a table; the doctor threw open the window, saying, "Nothing like fresh air. Come, let us fall to."

Basil was much taken with him; he was a man of culture and refinement, and knew what he was about. As they proceeded with their breakfast he entertained Basil with light and agreeable conversation, and it was only when the meal was finished that he reverted to the subject of his professional visit.

"Has your mother," he inquired, "during late years endured privation?"

"I have been absent from England for a great many years," replied Basil evasively.

"And if she had," continued the doctor, "she would conceal it from you! it is in the nature of such women. But I am led to this belief by her condition; it is not only that she is suffering from the reaction of overtaxed endurance, but that she has no reserve strength to draw upon."

It was clear to Basil that he believed her case to be serious, and in great anxiety he accompanied the doctor to the sickroom. There were two beds in the room, one occupied by Mrs. Chaytor, the other by her husband. Mr. Chaytor was dozing, and Basil, gazing upon him, saw a white and wasted face, long drawn and thin as that of a man whose sands of life were fast running out. Mrs. Chaytor cast a look of reproach upon the doctor, as she murmured:

"You should not have told him, you should not have told him!"

"He was up and dressed, my dear lady," said the doctor softly, "when I went in to see him. You must trust me to do what's best for all of you."

"I will, I will," murmured Mrs. Chaytor. "You have restored my dear son to health. O, Newman, Newman!"

Basil bent over her, and kissed her; she tried to rise, but had not strength.

"How good you are, how good, how good!" she sobbed.

Basil was shocked at her appearance, which had undergone a sad change since the previous evening. The faithful couple, after a long and anxious life, seemed to be both waiting for the summons from the angel of death.

"It is my turn now to nurse you," said Basil, pityingly.

"No, you must not; the kind doctor has sent for a nurse; you must take care of yourself. There is a long and happy life before you, and you must not waste your days upon old people like us. Are your father's eyes closed."

"Yes."

"He wishes to speak to you when he wakes. He is quite sensible, and has something to say to you. Doctor, I must speak to my son alone."

He was about to forbid any serious conversation, but, looking attentively at her, he did not speak the words that came to his lips. He nodded, and beckoned to Basil, who joined him at the door of the room.

"I am going now," he said, "and shall return at noon. Do not let your mother exhaust herself. If she speaks excitedly, calm her down and beg her, for your sake-it is the appeal that will have the best effect upon her-to speak more slowly."

"But had she not better wait till she is stronger?"

The doctor gazed at him with serious eyes, "It will perhaps be as well not to wait. She seems to have something of importance to communicate to your By-and-bye may be too late?"

Inexpressively grieved, Basil returned to the bedside, and took Mrs. Chaytor's thin hand in his; her fingers clung to his convulsively.

"I must speak to you about your father," she said, and to save her the effort of raising her voice, Basil laid his head on the pillow close to her mouth. A beautiful smile came to her lips as he did so. "Always loving and considerate!" she murmured. "Always the same tender and unselfish lad! Newman, your father has not seen you yet; all the time you were lying ill he has been unable to rise from his bed. Don't contradict him, my dear lad."

"I will not," said Basil.

"He has strange fancies; he was always strange-but he has been good to me. Remember that, Newman, and bear with him for my sake."

"I will do so."

"Thank you, my dear boy. If he says anything about the past, listen in silence-even if it is hard to hear, listen in silence. He was not so considerate of you as he might have been, but we can't alter our natures, can we, my darling? He could never see that young people love pleasure, and ought to have it; he wanted you to be grave and serious, as he was, and he would not make excuses for little faults. Bear that in mind, my dear."

"Yes, I will."

"He said to me, 'I shall speak to Newman plainly,' and I know what that means. He may speak harsh words, but you will be prepared for them. He loves you in his heart, indeed he does, and intends to behave rightly to you. Yesterday he wrote a paper, which I think he will give you, and something else with it-something that will make your life easy and happy. You need never want again, my dear boy, never, never. Oh, how you must have suffered! And you were starving, and were too proud to come to us, who would have shared our last crust with you. Let me tell you about our fortune, Newman. When some cheques were brought to your father for the shares, he would not take them: he would take nothing but notes and gold; and the money was brought to him, and he has it now under his bed. 'If I put it into a bank,' he said, 'it will break, and I shall be ruined again. I will keep it always by me in cash.' I told him it wasn't safe, that we were old and might be robbed, but he would not listen to me. He was always self-willed, you must remember that; he would always have his way, and never thought that anyone was right but himself. I don't know how much money he has, but it must be thousands of pounds. He gave me a hundred pounds in gold to pay the house expenses; I have only spent forty, and there is sixty left. Here it is-take it, Newman; take it, my dear boy. If you love me don't refuse. That's right, put it in your pocket; all we have belongs to you-every farthing. 'When you want more,' he said to me, 'ask me for it and you shall have it.' He was never niggardly, I will say that of him; we had a beautiful home once, did we not? How happy you made it when you were little-and when you were big, too, my dear! One day, when you are married-I hope you will marry a good woman, who will love you with all her heart, and appreciate you-you will find out how happy a little child can make a home. Then you will think of me, will you not? – then you will know better what I mean."

Her breath was spent, and she could not continue. She closed her eyes, but her fingers tightened upon Basil's, and presently she began to babble incoherently. The entrance of the nurse who had been sent her was a welcome relief to Basil; the woman had received her instructions, and she went about her duties noiselessly. Mrs. Chaytor's grasp relaxed, and Basil removed his hand.

"You had best go," whispered the nurse; "she wants sleep."

Basil obeyed, and in his own room applied himself again to a review of his position. Strange indeed were the circumstances in which he found himself, but he saw no other course to pursue than that upon which he had already resolved. At noon the doctor called again, and his report was even less hopeful than on his previous visit.

"I can do nothing, I fear," he said; "the end is approaching. You must be prepared."

"Is there no hope for one?" asked Basil.

"For neither, so far as my judgment is to be trusted. It would be a satisfaction to you, perhaps, if a physician were called in."

"I think it should be done," said Basil, "but I am a stranger here and know no one."

"I will come at five o'clock, and bring a physician with me. Meanwhile, if your parents have any arrangements to make with respect to property, it should not be neglected. I am of the opinion that your father will have an interval of consciousness this evening, and then would be the proper time. In everything else you may trust the nurse I have sent in; she understands the cases thoroughly."

The physician's statement verified the warning.

"Their vital forces are spent," he said; "the end cannot be averted or arrested."

It was at eight o'clock that the nurse presented herself, and told him that his father had asked for him.

"Your mother is sleeping," she said; "speak as softly as you can."

He followed her to the room and took a chair by Mr. Chaytor's bed. He had strange thoughts as he entered. Suppose that Mr. Chaytor, seeing him for the first time should refuse to see the likeness to Newman which others had seen? In that case, how should he act? He was puzzled to answer, and, driven by circumstances into a position he had not sought, could but leave events to take their course, which they had already done independent of himself. But nothing of the sort happened. Mr. Chaytor's eyes dwelt upon his face, and then he called Basil by the name of Newman, and Basil had no alternative but to answer to it. The nurse sat discreetly by Mrs. Chaytor's side.

"Send that woman away," said Mr. Chaytor.

His words came with difficulty; his voice was choked. The nurse heard the demand, and as she passed from the room she whispered to Basil that she would be ready outside if he wanted her. For several minutes there was silence, a silence which Basil did not venture to break. Mr. Chaytor appeared to be engaged in the effort of marshalling his thoughts.

"You have come back in time," he said, "to see me die."

"I trust there is still hope," said Basil.

"There is no hope," said the sick man. "The doctors spoke together under their breath, and thought I could not hear. They were wrong; I heard every word they said. The fools forgot that a dying man's senses are often preternaturally sharpened. Mine were, 'He will die at sunrise,' they said. Very well. I shall die at sunrise. Oh, I don't dispute them; they know their business. Sunrise is some hours yet; I have time to speak, and I mean to keep my wits together till I have said what I have got to say. What you have to do is to listen. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," said Basil.

"I don't intend," continued the dying man, "to ask you questions, for I know what kind of replies you would give. What you are, you are, and of that I have had bitter experience. Your mother, lying there at the point of death-Oh, I heard that, too, when they were putting their heads together-believes in you, trusts you, thinks you the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one, and thinks me a black cloud whose only aim is to tarnish your brightness. Let her believe so. There was never any reason or any wisdom in her love; but she is a good woman. To him she loves she gives all, and asks for nothing in return. Whom she trusts is immaculate; she cannot see a spot upon him. That is how it stands, how it has always stood, between you and her. It is different with me. Ever since you became a man-heaven pardon me for calling you one! – you have been corrupt and vicious; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have been false to friendship, false to love; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have had but one idea-yourself, your vanities, your degraded pleasures, your low and envious desires; and I knew it. Why, then, should I ask you questions, knowing you would lie to me in your answers. For you are as glib of speech, Newman Chaytor, as you are cunning of mind. You have been absent from us a long time: doubtless you have a good recollection of the day on which I turned you from my house. We became stricken down; we became worse than poor; we became paupers. Your mother wrote to you when you were on the goldfields, and you sent back whining letters of your misfortunes. Your mother believed you and pitied you; I disbelieved you and despised you. At length you came home, and hunting for us to see whether there was another drop of blood you could suck from our empty veins, discovered that you could hope for nothing from us, and therefore kept aloof; for it is a fact that until a week previous to your mother meeting you on Westminster Bridge, we lived on beggary and charity. How do I arrive at this knowledge of your movements? From intuition, from the bitter experiences with which you supplied me. I must pause a little. I will proceed in a minute or two, when I get back my treacherous voice. Do not poison the silence with your voice. I prefer not to hear it."

It was dreadful to hear him. The choked utterances, the pauses between the words, the fixed determination to say what was in his mind, the stern tones, produced a painful impression upon Basil; but he had perforce to obey, and so he waited till the dying man resumed:

"If you had heard of my good fortune you would have leapt upon us like a wolf; but it did not reach your ears. Therefore you kept away from us, fearing, while you had one penny left, that we should beg a halfpenny of it. Your mother brought you home-not to these rooms at first, for we had not removed from our old quarters, but afterwards we came here for your pleasure. Well, for hers, too, perhaps," – his eyes softened a little as he turned them towards the bed in which Mrs. Chaytor lay-"and she was happy, for the first time for many, many years, because you were with us. I could not come to see you; it is eight months since I was able to crawl, but your mother gave me accounts of you, and I was not displeased that she was able to nurse you into strength. She has hastened her end through it, but that matters little to her. During this last week I have been thinking what I should do with my money, and I have allowed myself to be persuaded, most likely beguiled. Look beneath my bed; you will see a cashbox; bring it forth."

Basil did as he was directed, and produced the cashbox.

"It contains a portion of my wealth; there are some shares in it which may yet be valuable. I have made no will, but I give you the cashbox and the contents while I live; they are yours-a free gift. Beneath my bed, between the mattresses, is a larger sum which you may take possession of when I am gone; I make no disposition of it, and you may act as you please in regard to it. Take the key of the cashbox-it is hanging there, at the head of the bed; and I lay this injunction upon you, that you do not open the box until I am dead. In this I must break through the rule I laid down when I began to speak. You will obey me?"

"I will obey you," said Basil.

"It is a solemn promise?"

"It is a solemn promise."

"There is a look in your face I have never seen there before. Is it possible that a change has come over you?"

"I have none but kind and grateful thoughts for you."

"Is it true. Can it be true?"

"It is true." Then, like a whirlwind, there rushed upon Basil's mind a torrent of self-reproach. Was it right that he should allow the dying man to rest in his delusion? Was it not incumbent upon him that he should confess, here and now, that he was not Newman Chaytor? Whatever the consequences, was it not his duty to brave them? But before he could speak a word to this effect Mr. Chaytor raised himself in his bed with a terrible cry; and at that cry the nurse unceremoniously entered the room, and caught Mr. Chaytor in her arms. A little froth gathered about his lips, his head tossed this way and that; then movement ceased; his limbs relaxed, and the nurse laid him back in bed. Awe-stricken, Basil whispered:

"Is he dead?"

"No," said the nurse; "if any change occurs I will call you. Go-I can attend better to him alone."

"Can I not assist you?"

"No, you will be in my way. Hush! Go at once; your mother is stirring. Be sure I will call you, I promise faithfully."

Basil left the room, carrying the cashbox with him, which he placed under his own bed, putting the key in his pocket. He did not seek rest, his mind was too perturbed. Towards midnight the doctor called in, and gently informed Basil that within a few hours he would lose both his parents.

"In one sense," he said, "apart from the grief which such a loss bears with it, it is a happy fitness that two old people, who have lived a long life in harmony with each other, should pass away at the same time, the allotted span of existence having been reached. I sympathise sincerely with you."

Basil gave him a strange look; so completely was his position recognised and established that he almost doubted his identity. It wanted a few minutes to sunrise when the nurse came to the door and solemnly beckoned to him. He followed her it silence; she pointed first to the bed in which Mr. Chaytor lay. The form thereon was grey and motionless.

"He died in his sleep," whispered the nurse; "not a sound escaped him. It was a happy, painless death."

Basil gazed at the still form.

"Now you know," he thought. "Forgive me for the deception which has been forced upon me."

The nurse touched his arm, and directed his attention to Mrs. Chaytor, saying softly, "I would not let her know of your father's death."

"Newman, Newman, my dear boy," murmured the dying woman, "put your lips to mine; come closer to me, closer, closer. My last thoughts, my last prayers are for you. Has your father spoken to you?"

"Yes."

"And has he given you what he promised?"

"Yes."