Sternly resolved to carry out his determination not to occupy rooms for which he could not pay, Basil left Mrs. Philpott's house on the appointed day. It was his wish to quit without being observed, but Mrs. Philpott was on the look-out and lay in wait for him. Before he reached the street door she barred his way in the landing.
"You're not going away, sir," she said reproachfully, "without wishing the children good-bye."
In honest and affectionate friendship there is frequently displayed a pleasant quality of cunning which it does no harm to meet with, and in her exercise of it Mrs. Philpott pressed her children into the service. Basil had no alternative but to accompany her into the parlour, where the four little fellows were sitting at the table waiting for dinner.
"You'll excuse me a minute, sir," said the good woman; "if I don't fill their plates before they're five minutes older they'll set up a howl."
Out she bustled, and quickly returned with a mighty dish of Irish stew.
"Philpott says," said Mrs. Philpott as she placed the steaming dish on the table, "that no one in the world can make an Irish stew like mine; and what father says is law, isn't it, children? I always have dinner with them, sir; perhaps you'll join us. I really should like to know if you're of my husband's opinion. Now this looks home-like"--as Basil, who had independence of spirit, but no false pride, took his seat at the table where a chair and a plate had already been set for him--"almost as if father was with us, or as if the children had a great big brother who had been abroad ever so many years, and had popped in quite sudden to surprise us."
All the time she was talking she was filling up the plates, and the little party fell-to with a will, Basil eating as heartily as the rest. Mrs. Philpott was delighted at the success of her ruse, but she was careful not to show her pleasure, and when Basil said, in answer to her inquiry, that he had had enough, she did not press him to take more. When dinner was over the children had to be taken out of the room to have their faces washed; they were brought back for Basil to kiss, and then were sent into the street to play policemen.
"You'll let us hear of you from time to time, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, as she and Basil stood at the street door. "Philpott is regular downhearted because of your going. I'm not to let your rooms again, he says, so there they are sir, ready for you whenever you do us the pleasure to come. We're getting along in the world, sir, and the few shillings a-week don't matter to us now."
"I am truly glad to hear it, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil.
"There was a time," continued Mrs. Philpott, "when it did matter, and when every shilling was worth its weight in gold in a manner of speaking. We've had our ups and downs, sir, as most people have, and if it hadn't been for a friendly hand heaven only knows where we should be at this present minute. We were in such low water, sir, we didn't know which way to turn. Philpott says to me, 'Mother,' he says---- I hope I'm not wearying you, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, breaking off in the middle of her sentence.
"Pray go on," said Basil, feeling that it would be churlish to check her.
"It's a comfort, sir," continued Mrs. Philpott, "to open one's heart. It doesn't make me melancholy to look back to those days, though my spirit was almost broke at the time; I'm proud and grateful that we've tided them over, with the help of God and the good friend He sent us. 'Mother,' says Philpott to me, 'I'm on my beam ends. We're in a wood, and there's no way out of it.' 'Don't you go on like that, father,' I says; 'you keep on trying, and you'll see a way out presently.' For I'm one of that sort of women, sir, if you won't mind my saying as much, who never give in and don't know when they're beat. I don't mean to say I don't suffer; I do, but I put a brave face on it and never: say die. 'You keep on trying, father,' I says. 'Now haven't I kept on trying?' says he. 'For eight weeks I've answered every advertisement in the paper, and applied for a job in hundreds and hundreds of places without getting the smell of one. I'm ashamed to look you in the face, mother, for if it wasn't for you our boy would starve.' We only had one then, sir, and as for being ashamed to look me in the face Philpott ought to have been ashamed to say as much. All that I did was to get a day's charing wherever I could, and a bit of washing when I heard there was a chance of it, and that was how we kept the wolf from the door. But I fell ill, sir, and couldn't stir out of doors, and was so weak that I couldn't stand at the wash-tub without fainting away. Things were bad indeed then, and Philpott took on so that I did lose heart a bit. Well, sir, when we'd parted with everything we could raise a penny upon, when we didn't know where we should get our next meal from though it was only dry bread, heaven sent us a friend. An old friend of Philpott's, sir, that he hadn't seen for years, and that he'd been fond of and kind to when he was a young man, before he kept company with me. Philpott had lent him a couple of pound, and he'd gone off to America, and, now, sir, now, in the very nick of time, he came home to pay it back. Did you ever see the sun shine as bright as bright can be in a dark room at ten o'clock at night--for that was the time when Philpott's friend opened the door, and cried, 'Does Mr. Philpott live here?' It shone in our room, sir, though there was never a candle to light it up, and Philpott was sitting by me with his head in his hands. Philpott starts up in a fright--when people are in the state we were brought to the least unexpected, thing makes their hearts beat with fear--he starts up and says, 'Who are you?' 'That's Philpott's voice,' says our friend. 'I'd know it among a thousand; but don't you know mine, old fellow? And what are you sitting in the dark for?' Then he tells us who he is, and Philpott takes hold of his hand and says he's glad to see his old friend--which he couldn't, sir--and, ashamed of his poverty, pulls him out of the room. He comes back almost directly, and stoops over me and kisses me, and whispers that heaven has sent us a friend when most we needed one, and I feel my dear man's tears on my face. Then, sir, if you'll believe me it seemed to me as if the sun was shining in our dark room, and all the trouble in my mind flew straight away. From that time all went well with us; it was right about face in real earnest. Philpott's friend had another friend who got my husband in the force, and now we've got a bit of money put by for a rainy day, and don't need the rent for a couple of empty rooms."
Mrs. Philpott's account of her troubles was much longer than she intended to make it, and her concluding words were spoken wistfully and appealingly. They were not lost upon Basil, but they did not turn him from his purpose. With a kindly pressure of her hand, and promising to call and see her unless circumstances prevented--which meant unless his fortunes remained in their present desperate condition--he took his leave of her and passed out of her sight.
"Poor young gentleman," sighed the good woman. "I would have given the world if he'd have stopped with us. What on earth will become of him? It's hard to come down like that. Better to be born poor and remain so, than to be born rich and lose everything. His face was the image of despair, though he was politeness itself all the time I was talking. I sha'n't be able to get him out of my head."
She and her husband talked of him that night, and if kind wishes and sympathising words were of practical value, Basil would have been comforted and strengthened.
Strengthened in some poor way he was. It had been his hard fate to be made the victim of as black treachery as one man ever practised towards another; but he had met with kindness also at the hands of strangers. He strove to extract consolation from that reflection. Heaven knows he needed it, for he was now to make acquaintance with poverty in its grimmest aspect. He was absolutely powerless. He had debated with himself various courses which might be said to be open to a man in his extremity, but he saw no possible road to success in any one of them. The most feasible was that he should go to a capable lawyer and endeavour to enlist his skill on his behalf. But what lawyer would listen to a man who presented himself with a tale so strange and without the smallest means to pay for services rendered? It would be a natural conclusion that he was mad, or that he, being Newman Chaytor, was adopting this desperate expedient to prove himself to be Basil Whittingham. That he was a gentleman was true; he had the manners of one, but so had many who were not gentlemen. Then his appearance was against him; he had no other clothes than those he stood upright in, and these were shabby and in bad repair. Even if he had possessed assurance, it would not have served him--nay, it would have told against him, as proclaiming, "Here is a plausible scoundrel, who seeks to deceive us by swagger." He was truly in a helpless plight.
The necessity of living was forced upon him, and to live a man must have money to purchase food. Recalling the efforts made by Mr. Philpott in his days of distress, as described by that man's good wife, he applied for situations he saw advertised, but there were a hundred applicants for every office, and he ever arrived too late, or was pushed aside, or was considered unsuitable. In one of his applications he was very nearly successful, but it came to a question of character, and he had no reference except the editor of thePrincetown Argus, who was fourteen thousand miles away. What wonder that he was laughed at and dismissed? Then he thought that his experiences on the goldfields and his training as a journalist might help him, and he wrote some sketches and articles and sent them to magazines and newspapers. He heard nothing of them after they were dropped into the editorial boxes. The fault may have been his own, for he had no heart to throw spirit into his effusions, but his state was no less pitiable because of that. He felt as if indeed he had for ever lost his place in the world. By day he walked the streets, and at night occupied a bed in the commonest of London lodging-houses. At first he paid fourpence for his bed, but latterly he could afford no more than two-pence, and presently he would not be able to afford even that. It was a stipulation of his nightly accommodation that he should turn out early in the morning, and this he was willing enough to do, for he had but little sleep, and the beings he was compelled to herd with filled him with dismay. It was not their poverty that shocked him; it was their language, their sentiments, their expressions of pleasure in all that was depraved. He had had no idea of the existence of such classes, and now that he came face to face with them he shrank from them in horror. Had they been merely thieves it is possible that he might have tolerated them, and even entertained pity for them, arguing that they were born to theft, that their parents had been thieves before them and had taught them no better; or that they had been driven into the ranks by sheer necessity; but it was the corruption of their souls that terrified him; it was the consciousness that with vice and virtue placed for them to choose, with means for each, they would have chosen vice and revelled in it. Amid all this corruption and degradation he maintained a pitiable self-respect and kept his soul pure. Often did he go without a meal, but he would listen to no temptations, electing by instinct, rather to suffer physically than to lower his moral nature to the level of those by whom he was surrounded. When he walked the streets by day he did not walk aimlessly and without purpose. It was probable enough that Newman Chaytor was in London, and if so the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent possession would enable him to live in the best and most fashionable quarters of the city. Basil haunted those better localities, and watched for the villain who had betrayed him in the vicinity of the grand hotels, the clubs, and the resorts of fashion in the parks. Sometimes at night he lingered about the high-class theatres to see the audience come out. In the event of his meeting his enemy he had no settled plan except that he would endeavour to find out where he lived, and through that knowledge to obtain access to Annette.
One night he met with a strange adventure. He had come from Covent Garden, where, mingling in the crowd, he had watched the audience issue from the Opera House, in which a famous songstress had been singing. It was an animated, bustling scene, but it was impossible for a man in such sore distress to take pleasure in it; neither did he draw bitterness from the gaiety; he merely looked on with a pathos in his eyes which was now their usual expression. Frequently, in his days of prosperity, had he attended the opera, as one of the fashion, and heard this same songstress, whose praise was on every man's lips; now he was an outcast, hungry, almost in rags, without even a name which the world would accept as his by right of birth and inheritance. It was a cold night, but dry--that was a comfort to a poorly clad man. Indeed, there is in all conditions of life something to be grateful for, if we would only seek for it.
A curious fancy entertained Basil's mind. He heard the carriages called out--"Lady This's carriage," "Lord That's carriage," "The Honourable T'other's carriage." How if "Mr. Basil Whittingham's carriage" was called out? So completely was he for the moment lost to the sad realities of his position, so thoroughly did the fancy take possession of him, that he actually listened for the announcement, and had it been made it is probable that he would have pushed his way through the crowd with the intention of entering the carriage. But nothing of the kind occurred. Gradually the theatre was emptied, and the audience wended homeward, riding or afoot, north, south, east, and west, till only the fringe was left--night-birds who filtered slowly to their several haunts, not all of which could boast of roof and bed. A night-bird himself, Basil walked slowly on towards Westminster. He had fivepence in his pocket, and no prospect of adding anything to it to-morrow, and he was considering whether he should spend twopence for a bed, or pass the night on a bench on the Embankment. It was a weighty matter to decide, as important to him as the debate which was proceeding in the House, upon which a nation's destiny hung. In Parliament Street a young couple brushed past him; they had been supping after the theatre, and Basil heard the man address the woman, as "Little Wifey," and saw her nestle closer to her husband's arm as he uttered this term of endearment. For a moment Basil forgot his own misery, and a bright smile came to his lips; but it faded instantly, and he trudged wearily on discussing the momentous question of bed or bench. Undecided, he found himself on Westminster Bridge, where he stood gazing upon the long panorama of lights from lamps and stars. Were this wonderful and suggestive picture situated in a foreign country, English people would include it in their touring jaunts and come home and rave about it, but as it is situated in London its beauties are unheeded.
Basil, leaning over the stone rampart, looking down into the river, was presently conscious that some person was standing by his side. He turned his head, and saw a woman, who gazed with singular intentness upon him. She was neither young nor fair, but she had traces of beauty in her face which betokened that in her springtime she could not have been without admirers. Her age was about thirty, and she was well dressed. So much Basil took in at a glance, and then he averted his eyes and resumed his walk across the bridge. The woman followed him closely, and when he paused and gently waved her off, she said:
"Why do you avoid me? I want nothing of you."
"Good-night, then," said Basil in a kind voice, and would have proceeded on his way if the woman had not prevented him.
"No, not good-night yet," she said. "Did you not understand me when I said I want nothing of you? It is true; but happening to catch sight of your face as I was crossing the bridge I could not pass without speaking to you. It would have brought a punishment upon me--knowing what I know."
Being compelled by her persistence to a closer observance of her, Basil was moved to a certain pity for her. There were tears in her eyes and a pathos in her voice which touched him. Desolate outcast as he was, whom the world, if he proclaimed himself, would declare to be an impostor, what kind of manhood was that which would refuse a word of compassion to a woman who appeared to be in affliction? His pitying glance strangely affected her; she clung to the stone wall and burst into a passion of tears.
"I am sorry for your trouble," said Basil, waiting till she had recovered herself. "Can I do anything to help you?"
"Nothing," she replied. "No one can help me. I have lost all I love in the world. This is a strange meeting; I have been thinking of you to-day, but never dreamt I should see you to-night. To-night of all nights!"
"Thinking of me!" exclaimed Basil in amazement.
"You will not consider it strange," said the woman, "when you know all. I could not stop at home; I have been sitting by her side since three o'clock, and then a voice whispered to me, 'Go out for an hour, look up to Heaven where the Supreme Guide is, and pray for a miracle.' So I came out, and have been praying to Him to give her back to me."
"Poor woman!" murmured Basil, for now he knew from her words that she had lost one who was dear to her. "I pity you from my heart."
"You are changed," said the woman; "not in face, for I should have known you anywhere, but in your voice and manner. It is gentler, kinder than it used to be."
Basil did not answer her: he thought that grief had affected her mind, and that her words bore no direct relation to himself. He had no suspicion of the truth which was subsequently to be revealed to him.
"It is many years since we met," she said. "Have you been long in England?"
"A few months," said Basil.
"You have not made your fortune?
"No, indeed."
"You look poor enough. Have you no money?"
"None," said Basil; and added hastily, "or very little."
"You have been unfortunate since your return home?"
"Very unfortunate."
She opened her purse, and took out a sovereign and held it out to him.
"Thank you no," said Basil, his wonder growing.
"You are changed indeed," said the woman, "to refuse money. It is honestly come by. Two years ago I was married, and my husband, who died a year afterwards, left me a small income. It was more than I deserved, for I deceived him by telling him I was a widow. It made no difference, but still it was a deceit. Will you not take it?"
"No."
"And yet you need it?"
"Do not urge me further. Good night."
"Wait one moment. I was going to tell you to-night; but you had best see for yourself. It is your right. Here is my address; my mother and sister live with me. Come and see me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Promise me."
"No, I cannot promise," said Basil, moving away. "You must promise," said the woman, moving after him. "I will not leave you till you do. I tell you it is your right--it is more than your right, it is your duty."
Seeing there was no other way to release himself from her, Basil said, "I promise."
"On your sacred word of honour," said the woman.
"On my sacred word of honour."
"I will trust you; there was a time when I would not. Good night. To-morrow, at ten."
She glided away, and Basil was once more alone. The misery of his own circumstances was no encouragement to him to dwell upon the adventure, and he dismissed it from his mind, accounting for the woman's strange utterances by the supposition that she was of weak intellect. He passed the night in the open air, and in the morning bought one pennyworth of bread--it was cheaper than buying a penny roll--for his breakfast. This and water from a drinking-fountain satisfied hunger and thirst.
"A man can live upon very little," he said to himself, "but how is it going to end?"
It was a pertinent question, and answered itself. The end seemed near and certain.
It was a bright morning, and he walked in the sun. He did not forget the promise he had made to the woman; it was a promise to which he had pledged himself, and even if mischief resulted it must be fulfilled. The name on the card was Mrs. Addison the address, Queen Street, Long Acre. Thither he went, and paused before a milliner's shop, the windows of which were partially masked by shutters. Over the shop front was the name Addison, and the goods displayed bore evidence of a certain prosperity; they were not of the poorest kind. An elderly, grey-haired woman came forward as he entered. Her face was sad and severe, and there was no civility in her voice as she informed him in answer to his question, that he had come to the right address.
"Go through that door," she said with a frown, "up-stairs to the first landing. My daughter expects you. I must ask you to make your visit short."
It was not only that her voice was cold, it expressed repugnance, and without requesting an explanation Basil followed her and mounted the stairs. The sound of his footsteps brought the woman he had met on Westminster Bridge to the door of the front room.
"You have kept your promise," she said. "Come in."
A younger woman than she rose as he entered, cast one brief glance at him, and immediately left the room. The window blinds were down and the gas was lighted. His strange acquaintance of the previous night was dressed in deep mourning. Her face was white and swollen with weeping.
"I prayed for a miracle last night," she said, "but my prayers were not answered. I have also repented that I asked you to come, but still it is right, it is right. If you have a heart it should be a punishment to you for all you have made me suffer."
"I do not in the least understand you," said Basil.
Had it not been for her grief her look would have been scornful. She paid no heed to his words, but continued:
"When I said last night that I wanted nothing of you I said what I meant. When you go from here I wish never to see your face again. It will be useless for you to trouble me."
"I shall not trouble," said Basil in a gentle tone which seemed to make her waver; but she would not yield to this softer mood.
"That you are poor to-day," she said, "and I am well-to-do, so far as money goes, proves that there is a Providence. Years ago--very soon after your desertion of me--I cast you from my heart, and resolved never to admit you into it again. It might have been otherwise had you behaved honestly to me, for I loved you, and you made me believe that you loved me. It was better for me that the tie which bound us should be broken. I have led a respectable life, and shall continue to do so. I am the happier for it."
"For heaven's sake," cried Basil, "explain what it is you accuse me of."
"Ask your own heart. Although there is an apparent change in you, you are still the same, I see, in cunning and duplicity. But I will listen to no subterfuges; there is no possibility of your justifying yourself, and your power over me is gone. Towards you my heart is cold as stone."
"You are labouring under some singular delusion," said Basil, "and I can but listen to you in wonder."
"Still the same, still the same," said the woman. "You used to boast of your superior powers, and that you were so perfect an actor that you could make the cleverest believe that black was white. See what it has brought you to"--she pointed to his rags. "I have no pity for you; as you have sown, so have you reaped. So might I have reaped had I not seen the pit you treacherously dug for me; so might I have reaped had I not repented before it was entirely too late. I owe you this much gratitude--that it was your base desertion of me that showed me my sin. Had you remained I might have sunk lower and lower till grace and redemption were lost to me for ever. What expiation was possible for me I have made, with sincere repentance, with sincere sorrow for my error. It would be well for you if you could say the same. You saw my mother downstairs. She cast me off, as you know, but she opened her arms to me when I convinced her of my sincerity, when I vowed to her to live a pure life. I am again her daughter. You see these drawn blinds, you see my dress, you see that this is a house of mourning. Can you guess what for?"
"Indeed I cannot," said Basil, "except that you have lost one who is dear to you. What comfort can I, a stranger, offer you that you cannot find for yourself? It is small consolation to say that your loss is a common human experience. Be faith your solace. There is a hereafter."
Her scorn and horror of him, now plainly expressed in her face, so overpowered her that she allowed him to finish without interruption.
"You, a stranger to me!" she cried. "Will you still wear the mask--or is it,isit possible that the rank selfishness and callousness of your nature can have made you forget? All was over between us--but a link remained, a link of sweet and beautiful love which the good Lord has taken from me. I bow my head; I will not, I must not rebel!" She folded her hands, and, moving to the darkened window, stood for a few moments there engaged in silent prayer. Presently she spoke again. "My fond hopes pictured a bright and happy future for her. I, her mother, would be for ever by her side, guiding her from the pitfalls which lay before young and confiding innocence. Her life should be without stain, without reproach. She did not know, she would never have known the stain which rests upon mine. It is revealed to her now. Forgive me, my darling, and look down with pity upon me! Yes, out of my sin I created a garden of love--for her, who was to me what sight would be to the blind, through whose sweet and pure influence I was led to the Divine throne. My fond hopes have been dashed to the ground--they are dead, never to be revived. Come with me."
With noiseless footsteps she walked out of the room, and Basil followed her to another on the same landing. Softly, tenderly, as though fearful of disturbing what was therein, she turned the handle, and she and Basil stood in the presence of death.
Of death in its fairest form. Upon the bed lay the body of a young girl whose age might be ten. The sweet beauty, the peace, the perfect rest in the child's face, moved Basil to tears; she looked like a sleeping angel.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" sobbed the bereaved mother, sinking to her knees. "Pray for me; intercede for me. Unconsciously I strayed; I saw not my sin. Oh, child of shame and love, bring peace to my breaking heart, and do not turn from me when we meet above!"
Basil spoke no word; some consciousness of the truth was slowly coming to him. There was a silence in the room for several minutes; then the woman rose to her feet.
"Kiss her," she said. "When you last saw her she was a baby. If she were living, and saw your face, she would look upon you as a stranger; but now she knows the truth."
Then Basil understood. "Yes," he said inly, "now she knows the truth."
He stooped and kissed the child's lips, and the mother's tears broke out afresh; checking them presently, she said:
"It was by the strangest chance I met you last night. I have done what I conceived to be my duty. Now go," and she pointed to the door.
"I will obey you," said Basil, "but I must say a word to you first, in the next room."
She looked at him for a moment hesitatingly, then nodded her head, and they left the chamber of death as noiselessly as they had entered it.
"I did not intend it," said the woman, and taking a tress of fair hair from her bosom, and dividing it, she offered him a portion. "You may like to keep it as a remembrance."
"I thank you humbly," said Basil; "it may help me on my way."
A look of incredulous wonder flashed into her face, but remained there only an instant, and she shook her head as though she were answering a question she had asked mutely of herself.
"Before us lies an open grave," she said. "You and I speak now together for the last time on earth. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. You have something to say to me?"
"Yes; and I entreat you, however strange you may think my question, to suspend your indignation for awhile, and answer me in plain words."
"I will endeavour to do so, if it is such a question as you should address to me."
"I will not fret you by arguments or expostulations. You have suffered deeply, and from my heart I pity you. Plainly, whom do you take me for?"
"For yourself--for no other man, be sure."
"But let me hear my name from your lips."
"As you insist upon it," she said, with sad contempt, "though such a farce should not be played at such a time; but when were you otherwise than you are? You are Newman Chaytor."
"I," said Basil, speaking very slowly, "am Newman Chaytor?"
"You are he; there lives not such another, and remembering all that has passed between us, remembering your vows and oaths, for that I say, thank God! If you have any reason for going by another name, for wishing to be known by another name--and you may have, heaven help you!--be sure that I will not betray you. You are dead to me, as I am dead to you."
"Look at me well," said Basil. "If you were upon your oath would you swear that I am the man you say I am?"
"To swear otherwise would be to swear falsely. What crime have you committed that you should stand in dread of being known?"
"None. It is not to be expected that you will believe when I tell you that you are the victim of delusion, as I am the victim of a foul and monstrous plot."
"Who would believe you? Denial is easy enough, and of course you will deny, having reason to do so. But come into the light."
She raised the blind, and he stepped to the window where the light shone upon his face.
"You are Newman Chaytor," she repeated, letting the blind fall.
He bowed his head, and said, "You have just cause for your pitiless resentment and whether I am or am not the man you believe me to be, I bow my head before you in sorrow and shame. The day may come--I do not know how, or in what way it may be brought about, for I am at the extremity of misery--when, showing you this"--he touched his breast, where he placed the lock of her child's hair--"and recalling this interview, you will see the error into which you have innocently fallen. Till then, or for ever, farewell."
"One moment," said the woman, with trembling accents, "what has passed cannot be recalled, nor will I speak of the folly of your denial of the solemn truth. It is a meaningless proceeding."
"To me," said Basil, interrupting her, "it means everything. Honour, truth, fidelity, faith in virtue and goodness, all are at stake. It may never come to an issue, for the end seems near, but heaven may yet have some mercy in store for me. As you prayed for a miracle last nigh: which was not vouchsafed you, so will I pray for a miracle to help me to a just conclusion of my bitter trials." A pitiful smile accompanied his words. "It is not for me, one suffering man among millions happier, I trust, than myself, to doubt Divine Goodness. The eternal principle of Justice remains and will, now or hereafter, assert itself, as it has ever done. May peace and comfort, and happiness be yours."
"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."
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.