"These acceptances are forgeries, committed by my son, Newman Chaytor. I have paid them, and saved him from the just punishment which should have been his. In this and in other ways he has ruined my career, and brought his mother and me to direst poverty. But although the money is paid and the exposure averted, the crime remains; he is not cleared of it. It is a stain upon him for ever.--Edward Chaytor."
Beneath these documents was another, inscribed:
"The last words of Edward Chaytor, once a prosperous gentleman, but brought to shame by a guilty son."
Unfolding the paper, Basil read:
"To my son Newman Chaytor, a man of sin, I, his unhappy father, address these words. Your life has been a life of infamy, and you, who should have been a blessing to us, have plunged us in misery. I have little hope of your future, but remorse may prompt you to pay heed to what I now say. Repent of your evil courses while there is time. You may live to be old, when repentance will be too late. If there is any wrong to be righted, which may be righted by money, seek it out, and let my money right it. If there is any atonement to be made, and you see a way to it--as you surely will if you try--let my money atone for it. If there is any villainy committed by you which merits punishment, but which in some small measure may be condoned by money, let my money accomplish it. Do this, and you may hope for forgiveness. I could write much more, but I have neither the desire nor the power; but if I wrote for a week you would not have a better understanding of my meaning. Signed on my death-bed. Your father,
"Edward Chaytor."
The remaining contents of the cashbox were gold and notes, amounting in all to a considerable sum. Basil counted the money, made a careful and exact record of it on a fair sheet of paper, replaced the papers and locked the box, and put it in a place of safety.
He was not long in arriving at a decision as to what he should do with respect to this money. For his own needs he would use the barest pittance upon which he could live, and some part of the money he would also use in the prosecution of his search for Newman Chaytor and Annette. In this expenditure he felt himself justified, and he would keep a strict and faithful account of the sums he expended. For the rest, if anything in the career of Newman Chaytor came to his knowledge, and he could in any way carry out the behests of the man lying dead in the room beyond, he would do it, and thus vicariously make atonement for the villain who had brought sorrow and misery upon all with whom he came in contact. For the present there were duties which demanded his attention, and Basil applied himself to the last sad offices towards those who had passed away. In the course of the week his task was accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor lay in one grave, and Basil made arrangements for a stone, and for a continual supply of fresh flowers over the grave. Then, with a stern resolve, he set himself to the serious work before him, and to the design which had brought him home from the goldfields.
The first thing he did was to remove from the house which had been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor, and take a room in a poor locality, for which he paid four shillings a week. Including this sum he thought he could live as well as he desired upon a pound a week. He experienced a grim satisfaction from the reflection that he was expending upon his own personal necessities some small portion of the fortune of which Newman Chaytor had so successfully robbed him. If the day ever arrived when it would be necessary to go into accounts with Newman Chaytor this slight expenditure would be placed to the villain's credit. He had an idea of returning to his lodgings in Mrs. Philpott's house, the assistance of whose husband he determined again to seek, but upon second thoughts he saw that he would be more free to act if he were not under the kindly surveillance of this estimable couple. Having established himself in his new quarters he went direct to Mrs. Philpott's residence in Lambeth. The woman was overjoyed to see him.
"Why, sir, why," she cried, as she came to the door fresh from the washing-tub wiping the suds from her arms, "thisisa pleasure. Philpott will be more than glad. Here, children, children! Come and see an old friend; there never was such a favourite with them as you were, sir. They have been continually taking you into custody and locking you up, and trying and acquitting you, without a stain on your character." Mrs. Philpott laughed. "You mustn't mind ways; if they didn't think all the world of you they'd give you six months hard labour. It's the revenge they take upon people they don't like. Don't crowd round the gentleman so, you rude things! Where's your manners, I should like to know? Won't you walk in, sir? I hope you're coming back to live with us; there's your room waiting for you; it's never been occupied, and Philpott says it never shall be, unless you take it."
"I am living elsewhere, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil, "but I've come to see your husband on business.
"I'm sorry he's not in, sir," said Mrs. Philpott; "he won't be home till ten o'clock to-night."
"Can I see him, then; my business will not admit of delay?"
"Certainly, sir. Philpott would get up in the middle of the night to serve you, and so would I. You'll stop and have a bite with us, sir, I hope?"
"No, thank you, I haven't time; I will be here punctually at ten."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, regretfully, "if you must go; but you'll take a bit of supper with us."
"I will, with pleasure. Your husband is sure to be at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir; Philpott's the soul of punctuality. He's gone for a day in the country to see an old friend, and his train is due at Victoria at twenty past nine. You're looking better than you did, sir."
"I am better, and in better spirits."
"Do you remember what I said, sir, about clouds with silver linings? Lord Sir! When things are at their worst they're sure to mend. What men and women have got to do is never to give in. Oh, I've had my lessons, sir."
"So have I, Mrs. Philpott: I shall be with you at ten."
Patting the children on their heads, and giving them a penny each--he felt like a shilling, but it was not exactly his own money he was spending, and this small benefaction was a luxury which did not properly come under the head of personal expenses--Basil, with pleasant nods, left them to their favourite occupation of taking people up and trying them for imaginary offences against the public peace. At nightfall, having an idle hour or two before his appointment with Mr. Philpott, an impulse which he made no effort to control directed his steps towards Long Acre, and then to Queen Street, where the woman whom Newman Chaytor had betrayed and deserted carried on her business. The workgirls from the large establishments in the vicinity of the street were coming from their shops, most of them in blithe spirits, being young and in agreeable employment. It was the holiday time of the day with them, and they were hurrying home, some doing a little sweet-hearting on the road which it was pleasant to contemplate. There were pictures not so pleasant; great hulking men smoking pipes and lounging about, with "Brute" stamped on their features, and women as coarse, whose birth and training perhaps were a legitimate answer to their worse than common language and manners. Basil's observations of London life during the last few months had supplied him with ample food for reflection, and he could honestly have preached a homily on charity which better men than he--say, for instance, philanthropists or statesmen with hobbies--might serviceably have taken to heart.
His attention was diverted from these unfortunates by a startling incident. There was a sudden cry of "Fire!" and the thoroughfare became instantly thronged.
"Where is it?--where is it?" "There, you fool! Can't you see it?--in Queen Street." "It's a private house." "No, it isn't, it's a shop--a milliner's. An old house; it'll burn like tinder." "A good job it isn't in the middle of the night; they'd have been burnt in their beds."
The sparks rushed up in fierce exultation. "The next house is caught! The whole street 'll be down. Here's the fire-engine!"
In gallant haste the horses tore along, the brave firemen, heroes one and all, standing firm and ready. Basil followed the crowd, and with difficulty pushed his way through as far as he was allowed. It was Mrs. Addison's shop that was on fire, and he saw immediately that there was no chance of saving it. The weeping women were outside, wringing their hands; among them the woman who had accused him, and her mother, who had cast upon him that ever vivid look of abhorrence and hatred. So quick and sudden and fierce was the fire that not a stick of furniture nor a yard of ribbon was saved. The women strove to rush into the shop, but the firemen held them back, and with firm kindness impelled them to a place of safety. Basil, edging near to them, and keeping his face hidden, heard what passed between. "We are ruined," said one, despairingly.
"Aren't you insured?" inquired a by-stander.
"Not for a penny," was the answer.
"Ah, you'll have to commence the world all over again."
"Heaven help us!" was the answer. "We are worse than naked; we owe money."
"Never mind, old woman," shouted a tipsy man, "there's the work'us open."
"Shut up, you brute!" cried an indignant female. "Have you no bowels?"
At the words, "We are ruined," a thrill shot through Basil. Here was a woman whom Newman Chaytor had wronged; here was a woman to whom atonement was due. He knew what it was right should be done, and he determined to do it. He lingered near them until the shop lay a mouldering heap of ruins; he heard a kind neighbour offer them lodging for the night; he marked the house they entered; and then he went home to his own lodging of one room. There, safely concealed, was a sum of money amounting to three hundred pounds; he took the whole of it, wrote on a sheet of paper, "In partial atonement of wrong committed in the past," and put the paper and the notes in an envelope, which he addressed to Mrs. Addison. Then he went to Mrs. Philpott's house. "You are late, sir," said that cheerful woman; "an hour behind time."
"I have been detained."
"You're not too late for supper, sir, at all events," said Mrs. Philpott; "I put it back for you."
"You must excuse me," said Basil; "something of pressing importance has occurred, and I want Mr. Philpott to come out with me immediately."
"Quite ready, sir," said Mr. Philpott, rising and getting his hat.
Mrs. Philpott, recognising that the business was urgent, did not press Basil further, although disappointment was in her face.
"At another time," said Basil, "I shall be glad to accept of your hospitality. Come, Mr. Philpott."
As they walked on Basil explained that he wished Mr. Philpott to take up the dropped threads of the search for Newman Chaytor, and then he explained what he wished to do at the present moment.
"It is purely a confidential matter," said Basil, "and is not to be spoken of in any way after the commission is executed. Here is the house. Some women are lodging here for the night whose place of business near Long Acre has been burnt down. You will ask for Mrs. Addison; if a mother and her daughter present themselves it is the daughter you must address. Ask her if she is the woman who has been burnt out, and if she answers in the affirmative give her this envelope, and come away at once. If she seeks to detain you and asks questions, do not answer them. I will wait for you on the opposite side."
He watched Mr. Philpott execute the commission, being right in his conjecture that the women would be too excited to seek their beds until late in the night. The woman with whom he had the interview appeared at the door, and received the envelope; after which Mr. Philpott joined him, as directed. At the corner of the street Basil and his companion paused and looked back at the house. In a few moments the woman who had answered Mr. Philpott's summons came quickly to the street door and looked eagerly up and down; Basil and Mr. Philpott were standing in the shadow, and could not be seen. The light of the street lamp assisted Basil to see her face: it was radiant with joy.
"A good night's work," said Basil, taking Mr. Philpott's arm and walking away. "I will call upon you to-morrow. Good night."
Mr. Philpott left him and proceeded homewards, as did Basil. He did not know that a man was following him with eager curiosity. He put his latchkey in the street door of his lodging, and as he did so the man touched his arm. Basil turned.
"What, Old Corrie!" he cried, in a voice of delight.
"No other," said Old Corrie, calmly. "ItisMaster Basil. I thought I wasn't mistaken. Well, well! This is a meeting to be thankful for. I'm in luck."
"Come in, come in," said Basil, clutching Old Corrie by the arm, as though he feared to lose him, and dragging him into the house; "this is indeed a meeting to be thanking for. It is I who am in luck."
He regarded it as an omen of good fortune. If Old Corrie were thus unexpectedly found, why not Newman Chaytor? And, besides, here was a trusty friend upon whom he could rely--here was a man whose evidence would go far to establish his identity, to restore his good name, to give the lie to his traducers. He looked upon this meeting as the opening of a brighter chapter in his strange career, and with this cheering thought in his mind he ascended the stairs to his one room at the top of the house, still keeping tight hold of Corrie, who, accompanied him, willingly enough, in a kind of amazed silence.
"I must find a candle," said Basil, pushing Old Corrie, into the room before him. "You won't run away, Corrie?"
"No fear, Master Basil," replied Corrie. "I am not in a run-away humour. Shouldn't wonder, supposing I get encouragement, if I develop the qualities of a leech."
"I promise you encouragement enough," said Basil, with a little laugh. His spirits were almost joyous; youth seemed to be returning to him.
"I wait for proof," observed Corrie sententiously. "Friends are none so plentiful in this hard world."
"True, true," assented Basil, groping about for a candle. "You could swear to me in the dark, eh?"
"If needful."
"That's more than some would do in the full light of the blessed sun. I could sing for joy."
"Hold your hand, Master Basil; let us exchange a few more words in darkness. I am speculating whether you are changed."
"What do you think, Corrie?"
"I think not, but what man can be sure? I have been sore beset since we last talked together."
"We have been rowing in the same boat, then."
"You have met with misfortunes, too! Have they soured you?"
"They have brought sorrow and doubt in their train, but, there is sweetness still in the world. This meeting is a proof."
"You live high up, and the house is the house of poor people. Birds of a feather flock together. Perhaps, after all, I had best go away."
"If you attempt it I shall assault you. Corrie, old friend, you have dropped upon me like a messenger from Heaven. Here is the candle at last. Now we can have a good look at each other."
They gazed in silence for a few moments, and Basil was grieved to see old Corrie in rags. Beneath the bluff honesty of his face there were undeniable marks of privation, but despite these signs there was a gleam of humour still in his eyes.
"Well, Master Basil?" said he presently.
"I am truly sorry, dear old friend," said Basil, holding out his hand. "You have had some hard knocks."
"You may say that. It has been a case of battledore and shuttlecock--the battledore a stone one and the shuttlecock a poor bit of ironbark, with such a mockery of feathers in it that the moment it was knocked up it fell down like a lump of lead. If I puzzle you, Master Basil, you puzzle me. There is something in you I can't exactly read. Your clothes are not what I should like to see you wear, though they are the clothes of a prince compared with mine. This room is the room of a man pretty low down in the world," and here Old Corrie added with a laugh, "the higher up you live the lower down you are--and yet you have the air of a man who is not hard up."
"Regarding me," said Basil, "as a bundle of contradictions, you are nearer the mark than you could suppose yourself to be. But surely I am forgetting my manners and my duties as a host." He opened a cupboard, and drew therefrom bread, butter, cheese, and a bottle of ale, which he uncorked. Plates, glasses, and knives were on the table in a trice. "Fall to, Corrie."
"You can spare it, Master Basil?"
"I can spare it, Corrie. You share with me from this time forth. Do you live near here?"
"Very near," replied Old Corrie, pointing to the window. "The sky is my roof."
"It has been mine. We'll house you better. I drink love and friendship to a dear old friend." They clinked glasses, and Corrie ate like a famished man. The meal being done he said: "I've been on my beam-ends in Australia, but starving in this country is a very different pair of shoes. It's a near thing here between want and death--so near that they touch often and join hands in grim partnership. I've seen it done, and a dead woman before me. Now, in Australia, unless it comes to being lost in a bush--where it's no man's fault but the explorer's--I never heard of a case. There's stone-breaking at all events to tide over the evil day. I've had more than one turn at it, and been thankful to get it to do, as every honest and willing man would be. Different in England, Master Basil, where they've brought civilization down to a fine point. Did you take notice how I ate my supper? More like a wild beast than a man--and now, with a full stomach, I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. Not that I am loth to accept your hospitality; it's the need of it that riles me. That's where the shoe really pinches."
"I can sympathise with you, Corrie. By the way, I am in your debt."
"How so, Master Basil?"
"Over the water yonder, I borrowed a mare of you, and managed to lose it. You remember. I wanted to get from Bidaud's plantation to Gum Flat Township--a gruesome journey it turned out to be--and you lent me your mare. When I returned and reported the matter to you my pockets were empty, and not a word of reproach did you fling at me. I couldn't pay the debt then--I can now."
"Hold hard a bit, Master Basil; let me turn the thing over in my mind." Basil humoured him, and there was a brief silence. Then Corrie said, "It is a simple justice that the mare should be paid for if you can afford it."
"I can afford it. Why, if I had my own this night I should be worth sixty thousand pounds."
"Some one has cheated you, Master Basil?"
"More than cheated me; has done me the foulest wrong. You shall hear all by-and-by. But I still have money I can call my own. The robber, unknown to himself, is making restitution by driblets. Here you are, Corrie." He had counted out thirty pounds, which he now pushed over to Corrie across the table. Corrie counted it, but did not take it up.
"If this is for the mare, Master Basil, it's too much."
"Too little, you mean."
"Too much by twenty pounds. The old maremighthave fetched a ten pound note in a sale-yard, and more likely than not would have been knocked down for a fiver. So I'll take ten, if you don't mind, Master Basil, and we'll cry quits on that account. I wouldn't take that if my pockets weren't empty."
No persuasion on Basil's part could induce Old Corrie to accept more than the ten pounds, and the young man was fain to yield.
"You were quite in earnest," said Old Corrie, "when you offered to give me a shakedown for the night?"
"I've a mind to be angry with you," responded Basil, "for asking the question. Let us settle matters between us once and for all, Corrie. You had a good opinion of me once."
"I had, Master Basil, and would have done much to serve you."
"You did do much--more than I had any right to expect, more than any other man did."
"Not more than any other man would have done," said Old Corrie, eyeing Basil attentively, "if he had lived."
"You refer to Anthony Bidaud?"
"I do. I haven't forgotten him, nor little lady, nor that skunk of an uncle of hers.
"We have much to talk over, you and I," said Basil, restraining the impulse to speak immediately of Annette, "but what is between us must first be settled and clearly understood. You are right about Anthony Bidaud. He would have been the first, but he died before his intentions could be fulfilled. Next to him you stand, and surely you would not have been the friend you were to me if you had not esteemed and trusted me."
"That goes without saying."
"As I was then, Corrie," continued Basil, earnestly, "so I am now. I have passed through the fire, and suffering may still await me, but I am and hope to remain, unchanged. Let us take up the thread Of friendship where it was broken off, on the goldfields, when Newman Chaytor and I were working together and when you endeavoured to persuade me to come home with you. Ah, what might I have been spared had I accepted your generous offer! Corrie, if ever there was a time in my life when I most needed a true friend, it is now. There is vital work before me to do, and you, and you alone, can help me. By Heavens, if you desert me I doubt whether I should be able to prove that I am I! Come, old friend, say that you will believe in me as of old, and that you will stick by me as you would have done in the old Australian days."
"Say no more," said Old Corrie. "I'll worry you no longer; it's scarcely fair play, for, Master Basil, I never doubted you in reality; but poverty is proud and suspicious, and often behaves like an ill-trained watch-dog. And besides, there are times in some men's lives when kindness is so rare and unexpected that it throws them off their balance. I don't pretend to understand half you have said about yourself, but I'll wait till you explain, and then if I can help you in any way, here I am, ready. I am wondering whether something that happened to me would be of interest to you--but, no, it is a foolish thought. Doubtless you have seen her, and now I come to think of it, perhaps there lies part of your trouble."
"Seen whom?" asked Basil.
"Little lady."
"No," cried Basil, in great excitement, "I have not seen her, and I would give the best years of my life to find her. You know where she is; you can take me to her!"
"Steady, lad, steady. I haven't seen her, and can't take you to her, but there's a sign-post that may show the way. There's no certainty in it; it's just a chance. What do you say if I lead up to it? It's late in the night, but I've no inclination to close my eyes, knowing I shouldn't sleep a wink, I'm that stirred up."
"Neither could I sleep, Corrie. Let us sit and talk and smoke; here's a spare pipe and tobacco--and you shall tell me in your own way."
Corrie nodded, and filled his pipe, and lit it Basil did the same, and waited in anxious expectancy, while Corrie puffed and contemplated the ceiling meditatively.
"In my own way, Master Basil?"
"In your own way, Corrie."
"A roundabout way, but there's plenty of time before daybreak, and then a couple of hours sleep will make us both fit. Old bushmen like ourselves won't miss one night's rest."
There was distinct tenderness in Old Corrie's face as he watched the curling wreaths of smoke.
"I don't lay claim to being a poet," he said; "I leave that to my betters; but they almost seem to me to belong to poetry, these rings of smoke that come and go. They bring back old times, and I could fancy we were in the bush, sitting by the camp fire before turning in for the night, spinning yarns, and as happy as blackbirds in spring. There's no life like it, Master Basil, say what they will of the pleasures of the city. Pleasures! Good Lord! To think of the lives some lead here and then to speak of pleasures! I'm not going to preach, however; the ship's been battered about, but it has reached port,"--he touched Basil's hand gratefully--"and here sits the old bushman recalling old times. I shan't dwell upon them because I know it would be trying your patience. I'd like you to give me a little information about yourself before I go on."
"Ask whatever you wish, Corrie."
"I left you on the goldfields, mates with Newman Chaytor, of whom, as you know, I did not have a good opinion."
"However badly you thought of him, you were justified."
"You found him out at last."
"I found him out at last."
"Did it take you long?"
"Years."
"Sorry to hear it. Did you get a proper knowledge of him suddenly or gradually?"
"Suddenly."
"And all the time he was practising on you?"
"He was."
"Master Basil," said Old Corrie, gravely, "you were never fit to battle with human nature; you never understood the worst half of it."
"Perhaps not, Corrie, but I understand it now. Newman Chaytor is a black-hearted villain."
"I am not surprised to hear you say so; I had my suspicions of him from the first. Unreasonable, I grant you, no grounds to go upon; but there they were, and I am sorry, for your sake, that they proved true. Where's my gentleman now?"
"In Europe, somewhere. I am hunting for him; it will be a dark day for the traitor when I come face to face with him."
Old Corrie looked at Basil keenly from under his eyebrows. "Do you want my assistance here?" he asked.
"I do. You must be with me, by my side, when he and I are together. With your aid, I succeed; without it, I fail. Do you require an incentive? I will give you two."
"I require none; it is sufficient that you want me and that you believe I can be of assistance to you."
"Still, I will give you the two incentives. One is, that it is not alone Newman Chaytor I am fighting: linked with him, if I have not been misinformed, is an associate worthy of him--Gilbert Bidaud."
"Little lady's uncle. A precious pair, he and Chaytor. If I needed spurring, this would do it."
"The other is, that I am not only fighting to defeat these scoundrels, but to save your little lady Annette."
"Enough, enough," said Old Corrie; "I'll bide my time to learn. Meanwhile, I pledge myself to you. Why, Master Basil, to give those two men their deserts, and to serve you and little lady, I'd go through fire and water. I will unfold my budget first, and will make it as short as I can. When I left you on the goldfields, I did what many another foolish fellow has done, went to Sydney and spent a week or two there on the spree. What kind of pleasure is to be got out of that operation heaven only knows, but it is supposed to be the correct thing for a brainless, lucky gold-digger to do, and it leaves him probably with empty pockets, and certainly with a headache and heartache that ought to teach him to be wiser in future. There was no excuse for me: I wasn't a young man, and wasn't fond of drink, and when at the end of a fortnight I came to my sober senses, I said, 'Corrie, you're an old fool,' and I never said a truer thing. That fortnight cost me a hundred pounds, I reckon. I treated every man whose face I recognised, and a good many that were strange to me, and I think it was the face of a gentleman I met in Pitt Street, who looked at me in a kind of wonder, that pulled me up short. Somehow or other he reminded me of you, Master Basil, though he wasn't a bit like you; but he was a gentleman, and you are a gentleman, and the thought ran into my head like a flash of fire, 'What would Master Basil think of me it he saw me now?' It staggered me, and I felt as if I was behaving like a traitor to you to so forget myself. You had given me your friendship, and I was showing that I was unworthy of it. I made my way back to the hotel I was staying at, and plunged my head into a bucket of water, and kept it there until I had washed away the fumes of half the cursed liquor I had poured down my throat. Then I went to my bedroom, locked the door, threw myself on the bed, and slept myself sober. 'Never again, Corrie, old boy,' I said, 'never again.' And I never did again, although I did some foolish things afterwards that were quite as unwise though less disgraceful. I took ship home and landed at St. Katherine's Docks with four thousand pounds in my pocket. Yes, Master Basil, I had made that much and more on the goldfields, and it ought to have lasted me my life. You shall hear how long itdidlast me. As a matter of course I was regularly knocked over when I walked through the London streets. The crowds of people, the gay shops, the cabs and 'busses, and carriages, the hurly-burly, the great buildings, almost took my breath away. I looked back at my old life in the woods, swinging my axe, felling trees, and splitting slabs, with my laughing jackass on a branch near me, and the hum of nature all around me, and I hardly knew whether I was awake or dreaming. Was I happy in the London streets? I can't say; I was certainly bewildered, and that, mayhap, prevented me from thinking of things in a sensible way. I was looking in a shop window, speculating whether I oughtn't to buy some of the bright ties for sale there, when a voice at my elbow says 'Good day, mate.' 'Good day, mate,' said I, though the man was a stranger to me, at least I thought so at the moment, but he soon unsettled my thought. 'Where have I met you, mate?' said he. 'In what part of the world?' 'On the goldfields, perhaps,' said I, like an innocent pigeon. 'Most likely,' he said, on the goldfields. 'Your face strikes me as familiar, but I don't remember your name.' 'My name is Corrie,' said I; 'Old Corrie I used to be called.' 'No,' he said, shaking his head; 'I don't remember it. I've seen you on the goldfields, that's all, and it's only because I never forget a face that I took the liberty of speaking to you. I ask your pardon.' 'No offence, mate,' I said, and I shook the hand he held out before he left me. Now, Master Basil, if that man had said, when I told him my name, that we were old acquaintances, I should have been suspicious of him, but his honest admission (it seemed honest) that he only recognised my face because he'd seen it once or twice on the goldfields--which would have been the most natural thing in the world--made me look upon him with favour, and as he walked away, I gazed after him with a feeling of regret that he should leave me so quickly. He may have gone a dozen yards when he looked back over his shoulder, and seeing me staring after him, turned with a smile, and joined me again. 'It looks churlish scudding off so unceremoniously,' said he, 'when I might by chance be of service to you. When did you arrive?' 'I landed this morning,' I said, and I mentioned the name of the ship. 'Have you friends in London?' he asked. 'No,' said I, 'I am a stranger here.' 'Then you haven't taken lodgings yet,' said he. 'No,' I answered, 'and to tell you the truth I am puzzled where to go.' He offered to advise me, and I gladly availed myself of the offer. 'Come and have a chop with me first,' said he, and we went to an eating-house all gilt and glass--I found out afterwards that the street we were in was Cheapside--and had a chop and some beer. He threw half-a-sovereign to the waiter, but I objected to it saying I would pay. He insisted, saying he had invited me; but I insisted too, saying I had plenty of money, and would take it as a favour if he would let me have my way. The friendly wrangle ended in each of us paying his own score, and then as though we had known each other all our lives, we went out together to a quiet hotel, in a narrow street in the Strand, down by the river, where I engaged a bedroom. I'll cut a long story short, Master Basil, so far as my new friend goes, by telling you how it ended with me and him. He was so clever, and I was so simple, that he wormed himself completely into my confidence, and I thought myself lucky in having made such a friend. He told me all about himself, and I told him all about myself; it was a regular case of Siamese twins: we were never apart. One day he spoke of speculation, and of doubling one's money in a week, and doubling it again when the opportunity offered, which wasn't too often. 'Of your four thousand pounds, you make eight,' said he, 'of your eight thousand you make sixteen, and if you like to stop, why there you are, you know.' Yes, there I was, and no mistake. The opportunity that presented itself to my confidential friend was something in my way--a quartz reef on the Avoca, to be formed into a company. He showed me figures which I couldn't dispute, and didn't wish to dispute. The truth is, Master Basil, he had dazzled me. Sixteen thousand pounds was certainly better than four, and to be content with one when you had only to put your name on a piece of paper to secure the other was the act of a simpleton. The upshot of it was that I went into the company and signed away the whole of my money with the exception of a hundred pounds, and very soon found out that I had signed it away for ever and a day. Good-bye, my three thousand nine hundred pounds, and good-bye to my dear friend who had tickled me into his web and made mincemeat of me. I never saw anything of either money or friend again."
Old Corrie paused to load his pipe, which gave Basil time to remark:
"You said just now that I knew nothing of the worst side of human nature. How about yourself, Corrie?"
"It was my one mistake, Master Basil," replied Corrie composedly. "There's no excuse for me; I was an old fool. Let me have four thousand pounds again, and see if I'm bit a second time. Now, being stranded with about enough to keep a fellow but little more than a year, what was I to do? If I had been the wise man I'm trying to make myself out to be, I should have taken passage to Australia, and taken up my old life there. But more than one thing held me back, and kept me here. First, there was a foolish pride; to retreat was to confess myself beaten. Second, there was the chance of meeting with the friend who had diddled me; it was about as strong as one thread of a spider's web, but I dangled it before me. Third, I had never known what it was to be without a crust of bread, and therefore had no fears on that score. Another thing, perhaps, which only just now occurs to me, kept me in this country. When I was a youngster there was a fatalist among my acquaintances. He was the only thoroughly happy man I have ever known. Nothing worried or disturbed him; he was a poor man, and he never grumbled at being poor; he met with misfortunes, and he accepted them smilingly, and never struggled against them; if he had broken his leg, and it had to be amputated, he wouldn't have winced during the operation. He had what he called a philosophical theory, and he explained it to me. 'Nothing that anyone can do,' he said, 'will prevent anything occurring. Everything that is going to happen is set down beforehand, and an army ten million strong couldn't stop a straw from blowing a certain way if fate ordained that it was to blow that way. You can't prevent yourself from being imposed upon, from being poor, from being rich, from being sick, from being healthy, from living till you're a hundred, from dying when you're twenty, from having a wife and blooming family, from living alone in a garret. Therefore,' said he, 'it's of no use bothering about things. Do as I do--take 'em easy.' 'But how,' I said once to him, 'if I've got a different temper from yours, and worry myself to death about trifles?' 'Then you are much to be pitied,' said he, 'and I shall not trouble myself about you.' I pressed, him, though, a little. 'If a man is good?' I asked. 'He is fated to be good,' he answered. 'If he is a murderer?' I asked. 'He is fated to be a murderer,' he answered. 'If he is born to be hanged, hanged he will be, as sure as there's a sun above us.' Well, now, Master Basil, perhaps it was fated that I should remain in England in order to meet with a certain adventure which I will tell you of presently, and afterwards to meet you here in London to-night to assist you to a fated end."
"It is a hateful theory," said Basil. "Were it true, vice would be as meritorious as virtue, and monsters of iniquity would rank side by side with angels of goodness. Go on with your story, Corrie, and put fatalism aside."
"So be it. Anyway, there I was, as my friend said, with a hundred pounds in my pocket instead of sixteen thousand. I wasn't quite devoid of prudence; I knew that a hundred pounds wouldn't last very long, and that it would be as well if I could hit upon some plan to earn a livelihood. It was the hop-picking season. 'I'll do a little hopping,' said I, and off I set towards the heart of Kent for an autumn tour, seasoned with so many or so few shillings a day. On the second night of my tramp I missed my way. I was in a woody country, with the usual puzzling tracks and fences. The night was fine, but very dark. Camping out in England is a very different thing from camping out in Australia, and I didn't intend to camp out here if I could help it. But I was tired, and I squatted myself on the grass which grew on a hill side, and thought I'll rest an hour and then stumble onwards on the chance of reaching a village where I could get a night's lodging. I was very comfortable; my legs hung down, there was a rest for my back, and without any intention of doing so, I fell asleep. I was awakened by something alive and warm quite close to me; I could not see what it was, because when I opened my eyes I found that the night, from being dark, had got black. There was not a star visible--everything was black, above, below, around. But what was the object close to me? I put out my hand and felt flesh covered with hair. 'A dog,' thought I; but passing my hand along the body, I dismissed the dog idea in consequence of the size of the animal. It was not high enough nor smooth enough for a horse. A donkey, perhaps; but if a donkey, why was it muzzled? The creature uttered no sound while my hand was upon it, but when I took my hand away to get a match--the only means at my command to obtain a view of my strange companion--it put its head upon my arm, and then a foot, just as though it wanted to pull me along in some particular direction--and then I heard a growl. It made me start, though it was not a threatening growl, and I wondered what sort of animal this could be that had attached itself to me at such a time and in such a place. The next sound I heard was the clank of a chain. I should have taken to my heels if I had not been deterred by the thought that it might be safer to keep still, so I softly took out my matchbox and struck a light--and there, with only a few inches between our faces, was a great brown bear. I was startled, but I soon got over my fears. I struck half a dozen matches, one after the other, to get a good look at my new mate, and with the lighting of each fresh match I became more assured. I took its paw in my hand, and found that its claws had been pared down; it opened its mouth, and there was scarcely a tooth in it; I happened to hold up my arm, with the lighted match in my hand, and the bear immediately stood on its hind legs and pawed the air. I jumped immediately at the right conclusion. The creature was a harmless performing bear, and it had either escaped from its master, or the man was not far off, and it wished to lead me to him. I made an experiment. I rose, picked up the end of the chain and cried, 'March!' March the bear did, and I after it, for about a mile, and then it lay down by something on the road, and moaned. I declare, Master Basil, there was a human sound in that moan, and I knelt by its side and took a man's head on my knee. He was a foreigner, but could speak fairly good English, and he told me that he had met with an accident, having slipped on his ankle, and could not walk. 'Bruno went for assistance,' said Bruno's master. 'Good Bruno! Good Bruno!' The kind voice of the man attracted me: the affection between bear and master attracted me; and I asked what I could do, saying the country was strange to me, and I did not know my way. 'But I know,' said the man; 'there is a village two miles off. Help me to get on Bruno's back, and we will go there, if you will be so good as to keep with me.' I said I would keep with him, partly because I wanted a bed to sleep in myself, and partly because I should be glad to be of service to him. With some difficulty I got him on Bruno's back--the man was in pain, but he bore it well--and the three of us trudged through the dark roads to the village, the man with his head on my shoulder to keep his balance. It wasn't easy to get a lodging; every house was shut, and then there was the bear, that nobody cared to take in, not believing it was a harmless creature. However, we managed it at last; Bruno was fastened up in an empty stable, and I helped its master to a room where there were a couple of straw beds. His ankle was badly sprained, and the next morning it was very little better. He managed to limp out, and the pair of us, leading the bear, trudged to a common where a village fair was being held, and there Bruno's master began to put the bear through its performances. Pain compelled him to stop, and he asked me to take his place, instructing me what words and gestures to use to make the patient creature do this or that. I got along so well that I was quite proud of myself, and the comicality of my suddenly becoming a showman never struck me till the evening, when the day's work was done. You've come to something, Corrie,' said I, and I shook with laughter. After tea the man counted up the takings, which amounted to close on ten shillings, and divided them into three parts. 'One for Bruno,' said he, 'one for me, one for you.' He pointed to my share, and I took it and pocketed it as though I had been in the business all my life. Again, Master Basil, I'm going to cut a long story short. I could talk all night about my adventures with Bruno and its master, but I must come to the pith of my story. Take it, then, that the three of us travelled about for nearly twelve months, just managing to pick up a living, that my foreign mate fell sick and had to go into a hospital, that he died there, and that at his death I found myself with Bruno on my hands, established as a regular showman. I accepted the position; I could do nothing else; I couldn't run away from the bear because I felt I should in some way be held answerable to the law for desertion; we belonged to each other, and it wasn't at my option to dissolve the partnership. My little stock of money was diminished by this time in consequence of my mate's illness and the expenses of his funeral, and I knew that Bruno's antics would always earn me a few shillings a week. So there we were, Bruno and I, going about the country with never a word or growl of disagreement between us till we came to a fashionable sea-side place called Bournemouth. I had gone through the performances, and Bruno and I were walking from street to street looking for another pitch when I was struck almost dumb with amazement at a sound that reached my ears. It was the voice of a bird speaking some words in a loud key, and the words were--what do you think, Master Basil?"
"I can't imagine, Corrie," replied Basil.
"The words were, 'Little lady, little lady! Basil and Annette! Basil, Basil, Basil--dear Basil!'"
"Corrie," cried Basil, in a voice of wonder and joy, "you are not deceiving me!"
"No, Master Basil, I am telling you the plain truth. You may imagine by your own feelings the effect those words had upon me. What bird but the magpie I had trained and taught for little lady could have uttered them? And after all these years too! I could scarcely believe my ears, but there was the bird, piping away at the window--I turned and saw it in a cage--calling to me, in a manner of speaking, to come and say how do you do? I went straight up to the house and knocked at the door. The woman who opened it started back at sight of the bear. 'It won't hurt you, ma'am,' I said, 'there's not a bit of vice in it. I've come to ask you something about a bird you've got. It's an old friend of mine, and I trained it for a young lady in Australia, and taught it some of the things it says.' 'Sure enough,' said the woman, keeping as far away from Bruno as she could, the bird's an Australian bird, and the young lady it belongs to was born in Australia. Emily's not at home now----' 'Not Emily, ma'am, begging your pardon,' I said, interrupting her; 'Miss Annette's the young lady I mean. Her father's name was Bidaud, and Basil, one of the names I taught the magpie to speak, was a dear friend of hers and mine.' 'Oh, yes,' said the woman, 'I know all about that. My daughter Emily is Miss Bidaud's maid, and she is taking care of the bird for her mistress for a little while. Emily's home for a holiday, but she's gone to see some friends in London, and won't be back till the day after to-morrow. Can I do anything of you?' 'You can tell me, if you please,' said I, 'where Miss Annette is. I'm sure she'll be glad to see me,' My idea was, Master Basil, to see little lady and ask her if she had any news of you, though I wanted, too, to see her for her own sake. Well, all at once the woman grew suspicious of me, and instead of speaking civil she spoke snappish. 'No,' she said, 'I shan't tell you anything about Miss Bidaud. You're a showman, travelling about with a big, nasty bear, and likely as not you're up to no good.' I didn't fire up; the woman had fair reason on her side. 'I'm a respectable man, ma'am,' I said, 'and it's only by accident I came into company with Bruno. My name's Corrie, and Miss Annette would thank you for telling me where she is.' But she wouldn't, Master Basil; all that I could get out of her was that I might come and see Emily the day after to-morrow, and her daughter could then do as she liked about telling me what I wanted to know. I went away with the determination to come back and have a talk with little lady's maid, but things don't always turn out as we want them to do. Very seldom indeed. That night there was a great hubbub in the place I was stopping at. Bruno had broke loose and gone goodness knows where, and all sorts of stupid stories got about that the bear was mad and was biting everybody it met. I had to go in search of the creature, and the police kept me in sight. A pretty dance Bruno led me. I was hunting for it three days and nights, and when I found it at last it was in a sorry plight. I shall never forget that evening, Master Basil. I don't know the rights of the story, but I was certain that Bruno had been set upon by dogs and men--it had marks of fresh wounds upon its body--and been hunted from place to place. When I caught sight of the bear it was lying by the side of a little pool, and at a little distance were some twenty men and boys pelting it with stones. I scattered them right and left, and knelt by Bruno's side. The poor beast tried to raise its head, but couldn't, and I got some water from the pool, which was all mudded with the stone-throwing, and bathed its mouth. It thanked me with its eyes--it did, Master Basil--and did its best to lick my hand. Its chest went up and down like billows of the sea, and once it gave a great sob as if its heart was broke. After that it got quieter, but it could neither eat nor drink. A policeman came up and told me to move on. 'Come, Bruno,' I said, 'march, my man. The law's got its eyes on you.' The creature actually managed to stand, and, more than that, got up on its hind legs as it did when it was performing. It pawed the air a little, and looked at me for orders, and then fell down all of a heap. 'Come,' said the policeman, 'you must move on, the pair of you.' 'Not possible, the pair of us,' said I, sorrowfully. 'Try if your truncheon can bring it to life.' Bruno dead was much more difficult to manage than Bruno alive. I had to pay money to get rid of its body, and then somebody summoned me for a scratch or a bite Bruno had given him, he said, and I had to pay money for that. All this took me some time, and I had very little money left at the end of it. I hadn't the heart to go back to Bournemouth to get little lady's address. What should I do with it when I got it? Go to her and beg? No, I was too proud for that. Most likely she was with her uncle, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud, the gentleman who wouldn't respect a dead brother's word, and I knew what I might expect from him. So I gave up the idea and came to London--came here to starve, Master Basil, for I could get no work to do, and have gone through more than I care to tell of. If I hadn't met you to-night I should have wandered about the streets, as I've done for many and many a night already; but I'll not dwell upon it. I've told my story as straight as I could."