Each man of this small group represented in his own person the epitome of a drama more or less stirring and eventful. With three of these we have little to do, and no good purpose will be served by recounting their antecedents. The history of the fourth--he who stood with his hand on the neck of Old Corrie's horse, looking up at Basil--will presently be unfolded.
He was a full-bearded man, the light brown hair so effectually concealing his features that only his cheekbones and forehead were visible. To a physiologist, therefore, the index was imperfect. He was a young man, of about the same age as Basil, and his name was Newman Chaytor. This was his true name; it will be as well to say as much, for there was much that was false about him.
The man who held the candle was known as Jim the Hatter; Jim belonged properly to him by right, the Hatter was patronymic he had earned by working on various goldfields alone, without a mate. Why they call men on the gold-diggings thus inclined, Hatters, is one of the mysteries, but it is a fact. Of the other two it will be sufficient to refer to them as Nonentity Number One and Nonentity Number Two. Jim the Hatter was a large-boned, loose-limbed man, of great strength. Upon his first arrival in Australia his time, to put it gently, was not his own; it belonged to his country. He was now free, but his morals had not been improved by the lesson his country had administered to him.
It will thus be seen that Basil had unfortunately fallen among thieves.
For a few moments the man on horseback and the men on foot preserved silence, and opportunity was afforded for a striking picture. Jim the Hatter was the first to speak.
"Well, mate?" he said.
"Is this the township of Gum Flat?" inquired Basil.
"It is. If you're looking for it, you're dead on the gutter."
"I thought I must have mistaken my way," said Basil. "What has come over the place?"
Newman Chaytor answered him. "It has gone," he said, "to the dogs."
"Like yourselves," thought Basil, gazing at the men, but deeming it prudent not to express himself aloud upon a point so personal. He spoke, however. "It is the place I was making for. I suppose I can put up here for the night?"
"There's nothing to prevent you. Gum Flat township just now is Liberty Hall."
"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Nonentity Number One, considering it necessary to his dignity that he should take part in the conference. "Is the gentleman prepared to pay for accommodation?"
"That's a proper question," said Nonentity Number Two, thus asserting himself.
"Of course he is," said Jim the Hatter, answering for Basil, who, with an empty purse, was saved from awkwardness.
A diversion occurred here. Newman Chaytor snatched the candle from Jim the Hatter, in order that he might obtain a clearer view of Basil.
"Manners, mate," said Jim the Hatter.
"Manners be hanged!" retorted Newman Chaytor, holding the candle high. "They're out of stock."
This was evident. To smooth matters Basil volunteered an explanation. "I have come hereupon business, but I am afraid I have lost my time."
"Perhaps not," said Jim the Hatter. "We're all business men here; ready at a moment's notice to turn a honest penny. That's true, ain't it, mate?"
He addressed Newman Chaytor, but that worthy did not reply. Having obtained a clearer view of Basil's face, he seemed to be suddenly struck dumb, and stared at it as though he were fascinated.
"Still," continued Jim the Hatter, "it's as well to be particular in these times. I'm very choice in the company I keep, and I don't as a rule do business with strangers, unless," he added, with a grin which found its reflection on the lips of Nonentities Numbers One and Two, "they pay their footing first."
"If you wish to know my name," said Basil, "it is Basil Whittingham."
"What!" cried Newman Chaytor, finding his tongue; but the exclamation of undoubted astonishment appeared to be forced from him instead of being voluntarily uttered.
"Basil Whittingham," repeated Basil. "Being here, I must stop for the night. Is there a stable near?"
"There's one at the back," said Newman Chaytor, with sudden alacrity, "or rather there was one. I'll show you."
"Thank you," said Basil, and followed his guide to the rear of the shanty.
The three men looked after them with no good will.
"He's a swell," said Nonentity Number One.
"He's got a watch and chain," said Nonentity Number Two.
"And a horse," said Jim the Hatter.
Then they re-entered the store, and settled down to their game of cards.
"Stop here a moment," said Newman Chaytor to Basil. "I'll get a light."
Returning with a candle stuck in a bottle, the fashionable form of candlestick in Gum Flat, he waved it about, sometimes so close to Basil that it shone upon his features.
"You stare at me," said Basil, "as if you knew me."
"Never saw you before to my knowledge." (A falsehood, but that is a detail.) "You're not a colonial."
"I am an Englishman, like yourself, I judge."
"Yes, I am English."
"You have the advantage of me--you know my name. May I ask yours?"
"Certainly," said Chaytor, but he spoke, nevertheless, with a certain hesitation, as if something of importance hung upon it. "My name is Newman, with Chaytor tacked to it." Then, anxiously, "Have you heard it before?"
"Never. This is a tumble-down place. It is a courtesy to call it a stable."
"It will serve, in place of a better."
"Oh, yes, it is better than nothing."
"Everything is tumble-down in Gum Flat. I am an Englishman town-bred. And you?"
"My people hail from Devonshire."
"I am not dreaming, then," said Chaytor, speaking for the second time involuntarily.
"Dreaming!" exclaimed Basil.
"I was thinking of another matter," said Chaytor, with readiness. "Speaking my thoughts aloud is one of my bad tricks."
"One of mine, too," said Basil smiling.
"That is not the only thing in which we're alike."
"No."
"We are about the same age, about the same build, and we are both gentlemen. Your horse is blown; you have ridden a long distance."
"From Bidaud's plantation."
"I have heard of it. And you come upon business? I may be able to assist you."
"I shall be glad of assistance," said Basil, recognising in his companion an obvious superiority to the men they had left. "When I passed through Gum Flat a few months ago I thought it a township likely to thrive, and now I find it pretty well deserted."
"It has gone to the dogs, as I told you. There's nothing but grass for your horse to nibble at. So you're from Devonshire. Do your people live there still?"
He mixed up the subjects of his remarks in the oddest manner, and cast furtive glances at Basil with a certain mental preoccupation which would have forced itself upon Basil's attention had he not been so occupied with his own special cares.
"There are none left," said Basil. "I am the only one remaining."
"The only one?"
"Well, I have an old uncle, but we are not exactly on amicable terms."
"You are better off than I am. I have no family left." He sighed pathetically. "I fancy I can lay my hands on a bundle of sweet hay."
"I should feel grateful."
"Don't leave the stable till I come back; I shan't be gone long."
He was absent ten minutes or so and though he went straight about his errand, he was thinking of something very different. "It is the most wonderful thing in the world," ran his thoughts--"that I should meet him here again, in this hole, not changed in the slightest! It can't be accident; it was predestined, and I should be a self-confessed idiot if I did not take advantage of it. But how is it to be worked? His uncle is still alive. What did he say? 'We are not exactly on amicable terms.' That is because he is proud. I am not. I should be a better nephew to the old fellow than this upstart. He is very old, in his second childhood most likely. This is the turning-point of my life, and I will not throw away the chance. Just as I was at the bottom of the ladder, too. I'll climb to the top--I will, I will!" He raised his hand to the skies, as though registering an oath.
"There," he said, throwing down a bundle of hay which the horse immediately began to munch, "with a bucket of water your mare will do very well. I'll fetch it."
"You are very kind," said Basil, warming to Newman Chaytor.
"Not at all.Noblesse oblige." This was said with a grand air.
Basil held out his hand, and Chaytor pressed it effusively. Then, at Chaytor's request, Basil spoke of the errand upon which he was engaged, and being plied skilfully with questions, put his companion in possession of a great deal he wished to know, not only in relation to the affairs of Bidaud's plantation, but his own personal history as well.
"It is curious," said Chaytor, "that we two should have met at such a time and in such a place. Who knows what may come of it? I am, strange to say, a bit of a doctor and a bit of a lawyer, and if you will accept my services I shall be glad to accompany you back to Bidaud's plantation."
"But why?" asked Basil, touched by the apparently unselfish offer. "I have no claim upon you."
"Except the claim that one gentleman has upon another--which should count for something. It always has with me."
"Upon my word I don't know how to thank you."
"Don't try. It is myself I am rendering a service to, not you. This deserted hole, and the association of those men"--jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the tent--"sicken me. Does there not come to some men a crisis in their lives which compels them to turn over a new leaf, as the saying is, to cut themselves away entirely from the past and commence life anew?"
"Yes," said Basil, struck by the application of this figure of speech to his own circumstances, "it has come to me."
"And to me. I intended to leave Gum Flat to-morrow, and I did not know in which direction. I felt like Robinson Crusoe on the desert island, without a friend, without a kindred soul to talk to, to associate with. If you will allow me to look upon you as a friend you will put me under a deep obligation. Should the brother of the poor gentleman who died so suddenly this morning--the father of that sweet young lady of whom you speak so tenderly--succeed in having things all his own way, you will be cast adrift, as I am. It is best to look things straight in the face, is it not?--even unpleasant things."
"It is the most sensible course," said Basil.
"Exactly. The most sensible course--and the most manly. Why should not you and I throw in our fortunes together? I am sure we should suit each other."
"I can but thank you," said Basil. "It is worth thinking over."
"All right; there is plenty of time before us. Let us go into the store now. A word of warning first. The men inside are not to be trusted. I was thrown into their company against my will, and I felt that the association was degrading to me. We can't pick and choose in this part of the world."
"Indeed we cannot. I will not forget your warning. To speak honestly, I am not in the mood or condition for society. I have had a hard day, and am dead beat."
"You would like to turn in," said Chaytor. "I can give you a shakedown, and for supper what remains of a tin of biscuits and a tin of sardines. There, don't say a word. The luck's on my side. Come along."
The Nonentities and Jim the Hatter were in the midst of a wrangle when they entered, and scarcely noticed them. This left Chaytor free to attend to Basil. He placed before him the biscuits and sardines, and produced a flask of brandy. Basil was grateful for the refreshment; he was thoroughly exhausted, and it renewed his strength and revived his drooping spirits. Then he filled his pipe, and conversed in low tones with his new friend, while the gamblers continued their game.
"If I stop up much longer," said Basil, when he had had his smoke, "I shall drop off my seat."
Chaytor rose and preceded him to the further end of the store. The building, if such a designation may be allowed to an erection composed of only wood and canvas, had been the most pretentious and imposing in the palmy days of the township, and although now it was all tattered and torn, like the man in the nursery rhyme, it could still boast of half a dozen private compartments in which sleepers could find repose and solitude. The walls of course were of calico, and for complete privacy darkness was necessary.
Chaytor and the three gamblers who were bending over their cards in the dim light of the larger space without, each occupied one of these sleeping compartments. Two remained vacant, and into one of these Chaytor led Basil.
There was a stretcher in the room, a piece of strong canvas nailed upon four pieces of batten driven into the ground. The canvas was bare; there were no bedclothes.
"I have two blankets," said Chaytor, "I can spare you one."
Basil was too tired to protest. Dressed as he was he threw himself upon the stretcher, drew the blanket over him, and bidding his hospitable friend good-night, and thanking him again, was fast asleep almost as the words passed his lips.
Newman Chaytor stood for a moment or two gazing upon the sleeping man. "I can't be dreaming," he thought; "he is here before me, and I am wide awake. I drink to the future." He held no glass, but he went through the pantomime of drinking out of one.
Taking the lighted candle with him he joined his mates, and left Basil sleeping calmly in darkness. They were no longer playing cards, but with heads close together were debating in whispers. Upon Chaytor's entrance they shifted their positions and ceased talking.
"Have you put your gentleman to bed?" asked Jim the Hatter, in a sneering tone in which a sinister ring might have been detected.
"Much obliged to you for the inquiry," replied Chaytor, prepared to fence; "he is sound asleep."
"Interesting child! A case of love at first sight, mates."
Nonentities Numbers One and Two nodded, with dark looks at Chaytor, who smiled genially at them and commenced to smoke.
"Or," said Jim the Hatter, "perhaps an old acquaintance."
"Take your choice," observed Chaytor, who, in finesse and coolness, was a match for the three.
"Doesn't it strike you, Newman, that it's taking a liberty with us to feed and bolster him up, and stand drinks as well, without asking whether we was agreeable?"
"Not at all. The sardines were mine, the biscuits were mine, the grog was mine. If you want to quarrel, say so."
"I'm for peace and quietness," said Jim the Hatter, threateningly. "I was only expressing my opinion."
"And I mine. Look here, mates, I don't want to behave shabbily, so I'll tell you what is in my mind."
"Ah, do," said Jim the Hatter, with a secret sign to the Nonentities which Chaytor did not see; "then we shall know where we are."
"I'll tell you where we are, literally, mates. We're in a heaven-forsaken township, running fast to bone, which leads to skeleton. Now I'm not prepared for that positive eventuality just yet. This world is good enough for me at present, and I mean to do my best to enjoy it."
"Can't you enjoy it in our company?" asked Jim the Hatter.
"I think not," said Chaytor, with cool insolence. "The best of friends must part."
"Oh, that's your little game, is it?"
"That is my little game. I am growing grey. If I don't look out I shall be white before I am thirty. Really I think it must be the effect of the company I have kept."
"We're not good enough for you, I suppose?"
"If you ask for my deliberate opinion I answer, most distinctly not. No, mates, not by a long way good enough."
"Don't be stuck up, mate. Better men than you have had to eat humble pie."
"Any sort of pie," said Chaytor, philosophically, "is better than no pie at all. Take my advice. Bid good-bye to Gum Flat, gigantic fraud that it is, and go in search of big nuggets. That is what I am going to do."
"With your gentleman friend?"
"With my gentleman friend. We may as well part civilly, but if you choose the other thing I am agreeable." The three men rose with the intention of retiring. They did not respond to his invitation to part friends. "Well, good-night, and good luck to you." They nodded surlily and entered their sleeping apartments, after exchanging a few words quietly between themselves.
Newman Chaytor helped himself to brandy from his flask then filled his pipe, and began to smoke.
That he had something serious to think of was evident, and that he was puzzled what use to make of it was quite as clear. An enterprise was before him, and he was disposed to pledge himself to it; but he was in the dark as to what end it would lead him. In the dark, also, how it could be so conducted as to result in profit to himself. He was in desperately low water, and had lost confidence in himself. His ship was drifting anchorless on a waste of waters; suddenly an anchor had presented itself, which, while it would afford him peace and safety for a time, might show him a way to a golden harbour. An ugly smile wreathed his lips, the sinister aspect of which was hidden by his abundant hair: but it was there, and remained for many musing moments. He took from his pocket a common memorandum book, and on a few blank pages he wrote the names, Newman Chaytor and Basil Whittingham, several times and in several different styles of handwriting. Then he wrote upon one, in the form of a check, "Pay to Newman Chaytor, Esq., the sum of forty thousand pounds. Basil Whittingham." He contemplated this valueless draft for a long time before destroying it at the candle's light, as he destroyed the other sheets of paper upon which he had written the signatures.
"All the pleasures of existence," he mused, "all the light, everything in the world worth having, are on the other side of the water. Was I born to grind out my days in a prison like this? No, and I will not. Here is the chance of escape"--he turned his head to the room in which Basil was sleeping--"with possibilities which may give me all I desire. It would be flying in the face of Providence to neglect it. The first law of nature is Self. I should be a born fool not to obey the first law of nature."
In these reflections he passed an hour, when he determined to go to bed.
All was still. He stepped on tip toe to each of the four compartments occupied by Basil, Jim the Hatter, and the Nonentities, and listened at the doors to assure himself that he was the only wakeful person in the store. Deeming himself safe he entered his own room, and taking a small round mirror in a zinc frame from the top of a packing case which served as washstand and dressing-table, gazed at his face with strange intentness. Putting the hand mirror down he cast wary looks around. Yes, he was alone; there were no witnesses. Then he did a curious thing. He took off his beard and whiskers.
In the room on his right lay Basil asleep; in the room on his left was Jim the Hatter, whom he supposed to be. But in this he reckoned without his host, as many another sharp rogue has done in his time. Jim the Hatter, despite his deep breathing, which had deceived Newman Chaytor, was wide awake. The moment Chaytor entered his room Jim the Hatter had slipped noiselessly from his stretcher, and his face was now glued to the wall of calico through which the light of Chaytor's candle was shining. There was a small slit in the calico, which enabled Jim the Hatter to see what was passing in Chaytor's room. Chaytor's back, however, was towards the wall through which he was peeping. The watcher was puzzled; he could not exactly discover what it was Chaytor had done.
Upon Chaytor's face, now beardless and whiskerless, there was a natural growth of hair in the shape of a moustache. This moustache was the precise colour of that which Basil grew and cherished. It was not so long, but a few week's growth would make the resemblance perfect, if such was Chaytor's wish. In other respects the resemblance between him and Basil was remarkable. Height, figure, complexion--even the colour of the eyes--all tallied.
In his anxiety to discover exactly what was going on, Jim the Hatter made a slight movement, which was heard by Chaytor. He turned suddenly, and the astonished watcher beheld the counterpart of Basil.
"By Jove!" he said inly; "twins!"
Then, warned by Chaytor's attitude that he was in danger of himself being discovered, he slipped between his blankets as noiselessly as he had slipped out of them. Waiting only to resume his disguise of beard and whiskers, Chaytor, candle in hand, went quietly and swiftly into the adjoining room and looked down upon the recumbent form of Jim the Hatter. Undoubtedly asleep, and sleeping like a top. Chaytor passed the candle across the man's face, who never so much as winked. Assured that there was no cause for alarm, Chaytor stepped back to his own recess, put out the light, and went to bed.
Leaving this schemer to his ill-earned repose, we strip the veil from his past and lay it bare.
Nature plays tricks, but seldom played a stranger than that of casting Newman Chaytor physically in the same mould as Basil. Born in different counties, with no tie of kinship between their families, their likeness to each other was so marvellous that any man seeing them for the first time side by side, without some such disguise as Chaytor wore on Gum Flat, and the second time apart, would have been puzzled to know which was which. But not less strange than this physical likeness was the contrast between their moral natures. One was the soul of guilelessness and honour, the other the soul of cunning and baseness. One walked the straight paths of life, the other chose the crooked.
Chaytor was born in London, and his parents occupied a respectable position. They gave him a good education, and did all they could to furnish him worthily for the battle of life. The affection they displayed was ill-requited. In his mother's eyes he was perfection, but his father's mind was often disturbed when he thought of the lad's future. Perhaps in his own nature there was a moral twist which caused him to doubt; perhaps his own youth was distinguished by the vices he detected in his son. However that may be, he took no blame to himself, preferring rather to skim the surface than to seek discomfort in psychological depths.
The parents discussed their son's future.
"We will make a doctor of him," said the father.
"He will be a great physician," said the mother.
At this time Chaytor was eighteen years of age. At twenty it was decided that he was in the wrong groove; at least, that was the statement of the doctor who had undertaken his professional education. It was not an entirely ingenuous statement; the master was eager to get rid of his pupil, whose sharp practices distressed him.
"What would you like to be?" asked his father.
"A lawyer," replied Chaytor.
"He will be Lord Chancellor," said his mother.
Thereupon Newman Chaytor was articled to a firm of lawyers in Bedford Row, London, W.C., an old and respectable firm, Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, who kept its exceedingly lucrative business in the hands of its own family. It happened, fatefully, that this firm of lawyers transacted the affairs of Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's uncle, with whom our readers have already made acquaintance.
In the course of two or three years Chaytor's character was fully developed. He was still the idol of his mother, whose heart was plated with so thick a shield of unreasoning love that nothing to her son's disparagement could make an impression upon it. Only there were doors in this shield which she opened at the least sign from the reprobate, sheltering him there and cooing over him as none but such hearts can. Her husband had the sincerest affection for her, and here was another safeguard for Chaytor.
The surroundings of life in a great and gay city are dangerous and tempting even to the innocent. How much more dangerous and tempting are they to those who by teaching or inclination are ripe for vice? It is not our intention to follow Chaytor through these devious paths; we shall simply touch lightly upon those circumstances of his career which are pertinent to our story. If for a brief space we are compelled to treat of some of the darker shadows of human nature, it must be set down to the undoubted fact that life is not made up entirely of sweetness and light.
Chaytor's father, looking through his bank-book, discovered that he had a balance to his credit less by a hundred pounds than he knew was correct. He examined his returned cheques and found one with his signature for the exact amount, a signature written by another hand than his. He informed his wife, pending his decision as to what steps to take to bring the guilt home. His wife informed her son.
"Ah," said he, "I have my suspicions." And he mentioned the name of a clerk in his father's employ.
The ball being set rolling, the elder Chaytor began to watch the suspected man, setting traps for him, across which the innocent man stepped in safety. Mr. Chaytor was puzzled; he had, by his wife's advice, kept the affair entirely secret, who in her turn had been prompted by her son to this course, and warned not to drag his name into it. The father, therefore was not aware that the accusation against the clerk proceeded from his son.
Chaytor had a design in view: he wished to gain time to avoid possible unpleasant consequences.
Some three weeks afterwards, when Mr. Chaytor had resolved to take the forged cheque to the bank with the intention of enlisting its services in the discovery of the criminal, he went to his desk to obtain the document. It was gone, and other papers with it. He was confounded; without the cheque he could do nothing.
"Have I a thief in my house," he asked of himself, "as well as a forger at my elbow."
The man he had suspected was in the habit of coming to his private house once a week for clerking purposes. Without considering what he was laying himself open to, he accused his clerk of robbing him, and the result was that the man left his service and brought an action for slander against him, which he was compelled to compromise by an apology and the payment of a sum of money.
"It is father's own fault," said Chaytor to his mother; "had he waited and watched, he would have brought the guilt home to the fellow. But don't say anything more to him about it; let the matter rest."
It did rest, but Mr. Chaytor did not forget it.
Being in pursuit of pleasure Chaytor found himself in continual need of money, and he raised and procured it in many discreditable ways, but still he managed to keep his secret. Then came another crime. Some valuable jewels belonging to his mother were stolen. By whom?
"By one of the female servants, of course," said Chaytor.
He was not only without conscience, he was without heart.
Mr. Chaytor proposed to call in a detective. Mrs. Chaytor, acting upon the secret advice of her son, would not hear of it. The father had, therefore, two forces working against him, his wife, whom he could answer, because she was in the light, and his son, with whom he could not cope, because he was in the dark.
"It would be a dreadful scandal," said young Chaytor to his mother. "If nothing is discovered--and thieves are very cunning, you know--we shall be in worse trouble than father got into with the clerk who forged his name to the cheque. We should be the laughing-stock of everyone who knows us, and should hardly be able to raise our heads."
His word was law to her; he could twist her round his little finger, he often laughingly said to himself; and as she, in her turn, dominated her husband, the deceits he practised were not too difficult for him to safely compass. Every domestic in the house was discharged, and a new set engaged. When they sent for characters no answer was returned. Thus early in life young Chaytor was fruitful in mischief, but he cared not what occurred to others so long as he rode in safety.
One day an old gentleman paid a visit to Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington. This was Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's uncle. He had come upon the business of his will, the particulars of which he had written down upon paper. He was not in the office longer than ten minutes, and he left at half-past one o'clock, the time at which Chaytor was in the habit of going to lunch. Following the old gentleman Chaytor saw him step into a cab, in which a young gentleman had been waiting. The young gentleman was Basil, and Chaytor was startled at the resemblance of this man to himself. Relinquishing his lunch, Chaytor jumped into a cab, and bade the driver follow Basil and his uncle. They stopped at Morley's Hotel, Charing Cross, and Chaytor had another opportunity of verifying the likeness between himself and Basil. It interested him and excited him. He had not the least idea what he could gain by it, but the fact took possession of his mind and he could not dislodge it. He ascertained the names of Basil and his uncle by looking over the hotel book, and when he returned to the office in Bedford Row the task was allotted to him of preparing the rough draft of the will. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham was very rich, and every shilling he possessed was devised to Basil, without restrictions of any kind.
"The old fellow must be worth forty thousand pounds," mused Chaytor, and he rolled out the sum again and again. "For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thousand pounds! And every shilling is left to Mr. Basil Whittingham, my double. Yes, my Double! My own mother would mistake him for me, and his doddering old uncle would mistake me for him. What wouldn't I give to change places with him! For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thou-sand pounds! It's maddening to think of. He has a moustache; I haven't. But I can grow one exactly like. His hair is the colour of mine. I'll keep my eye on him."
It was an egregiously wicked idea, for by the wildest stretch of his imagination he could not see how this startling likeness could be worked to his advantage. Nevertheless he was fascinated by it, and he set himself the task of seeing as much of Basil as possible. During the week that Basil was living at Morley's Hotel, Chaytor in his spare hours shadowed him, without being detected. Basil never once set eyes on him, and as the young gentleman never entered the office of Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, no one there had opportunity to note the resemblance between the men.
Chaytor for a week was in his element; he ascertained from the hall porter in the hotel the places of amusement which Basil visited of an evening, and he followed him to them; he waited outside the hotel to catch glimpses of him; he studied every feature, every expression, every movement attentively, until he declared to himself that he knew him by heart. He began to let his moustache grow, and he practised little tricks of manners which he had observed. He was like a man possessed.
"He is a gentleman," he said. "So am I. I am as good looking as he is any day of the week. Why shouldn't I be, being his Double?
"He pondered over it, he dreamt of it, he worked himself almost into a fever concerning it. Distorted possibilities presented themselves, and monstrous views. The phantom image of Basil entered into his life, directed his thoughts, coloured his future. He walked along the streets with this spectral Double by his side; he leant over the river's bridges and saw it reflected in the water; he felt its presence when he woke up in the dark night. One night during this feverish week, after being in the theatre which Basil visited, after sitting in the shadow of the pit and watching him for hours in a private box, after following him to Morley's Hotel and lingering so long in Trafalgar Square that he drew the attention of a policeman to his movements, he walked slowly homeward, twisting this and that possibility with an infatuation dangerous to his reason, until he came quite suddenly upon a house on fire. So engrossed was he that he had not noticed the hurrying people or their cries, and it was only when the blazing flames were before him that he was conscious of what was actually taking place. And there on the burning roof as he looked up he beheld the phantom Basil on fire. With glaring eyes he saw it with the flames devouring it, dwindling in proportions until its luminous outlines faded into nothingness, until it was gone out of the living world for ever. A deep sigh of satisfaction escaped him.
"Now he is gone," he thought, "I will take his place. His uncle is an old man; I can easily deceive him; and perhaps evenhewill die before morning."
In the midst of this ecstatic delirium a phantom hand was laid upon his shoulder, a phantom face, with a mocking smile upon it, confronted him. He struck at it with a muttered curse. It came to rob him of forty thousand pounds.
Had this mental condition lasted long he must have gone mad. The reason for this would have been that he had nothing to grapple with, nothing to fight, nothing but a shadow, which he had magnified into a mortal enemy who had done him a wrong which could only be atoned for by death. It was fortunate for him, although he deserved no good fortune, that Basil's residence at Morley's lasted but a week, and that he and his double did not meet again in the Old World; for although Basil passed much of his time in his father's house in London he lived at a long distance from Chaytor's usual haunts, and the young men's lives did not cross. Gradually Chaytor's reason reasserted itself, and he became sane. Grimly, desperately sane, with still the leading idea haunting him, it is true, but no longer attended by monstrous conceptions of what might occur in a day, in an hour, in a moment, and he on the spot ready to take advantage of it.
Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his mother if she ever had twins.
"What on earth do you mean, my dear?" she asked, laughing at him.
"It is plain enough," he answered incautiously. "I dream sometimes of a brother the exact counterpart of myself."
"You work too hard," said his mother, pityingly. "You must take a holiday, my darling."
"Who's to pay for it?" he asked gloomily.
"I am," she said fondly. "I have saved fifty pounds for you."
"Give it to me," he said eagerly, and with the money he went to Paris for a fortnight and squandered it on himself and his pleasures.
The foolish mother was continually doing this kind of thing, saving up money, wheedling her husband out of it upon false pretexts, stinting herself and making sacrifices for the worthless, ungrateful idol of her loving heart. So time passed, and Chaytor was still in the office of Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, picking up no sound knowledge of the law, but extracting from it for future use all the sharp and cunning subtleties of which some vile men make bad use. To the firm came a letter from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, with the tenor of which Chaytor made himself familiar. He was a spy in the office, and never scrupled at opening letters and reading them on the sly to master their contents. In the letter which Basil's uncle wrote occurred these words:
"Send me in a registered packet, by first post, my will, the will I made in favour of my nephew, Mr. Basil Whittingham. He has acted like a fool, and I am going to destroy it and disinherit him. At some future time I will give you instructions to draw up another, making different dispositions of my property. I am not a young man, but I shall live a good many years yet, and there is plenty of time before me. Meanwhile bear witness by this letter that I have disinherited my nephew Basil Whittingham."
Of course they followed his instructions, and the will was forwarded to him.
"He has stolen forty thousand pounds from me," thought Chaytor.
Within a week thereafter he overheard a conversation between two of the principals. He was never above listening at doors and creeping up back staircases. The lawyers were speaking of Bartholomew Whittingham and the will.
"Will he destroy it?" asked one.
"I think not," replied the other. "It is my opinion he will keep it by him, half intending to destroy it, half to preserve it, and that it will be found intact and unaltered when he dies."
"I do not agree with you. He will destroy it one day in a rage, and make another the next."
"In favour of whom?"
"Of his nephew. He has in his heart an absorbing love for the young gentleman, and he is a good fellow at bottom. Mr. Basil Whittingham will come into the whole of the property."
The conversation was continued on these lines, and the partners ultimately agreed that after all Basil would be the heir. "There is a chance yet," thought Chaytor, for although the dangerous period of ecstasy was passed there still lingered in his mind a hope of fortunate possibilities.
He continued his evil courses, gambled, drank, and led a free life, getting deeper and deeper into debt. His mother assisted him out of many a scrape, and never for one single moment wavered in her faith in him, in her love for him. It was a sweet trait in her character, but love without wisdom is frequently productive of more harm than good. Chaytor's position grew so desperate that detection and its attendant disgraceful penalty became imminent. He had made himself a proficient and skilful imitator of handwriting, and more than once had he forged his father's name to cheques and bills. The father was aware of this, but out of tenderness for his wife had done nothing more than upbraid his son for the infamy. Many a stormy scene had passed between them, which both carefully concealed from the knowledge of the fond woman whose heart would have been broken had she known the truth. On every one of these occasions Chaytor had humbled himself and promised atonement, with tears and sighs and mock repentance which saddened but did not convince the father.
"For your mother's sake," invariably he said.
"Yes, yes," murmured the hypocrite, "for my dear mother's sake--my mother, so good, so loving, so tender-hearted!"
"Let this be the last time," said the father sternly.
"It shall be, it shall be!" murmured the son.
It was a formula. The father may sometimes have deceived himself into belief; the son, never. Even while he was humbling himself he would be casting about for the next throw.
This continued for some considerable time, but at length came the crash. Chaytor and his parents were seated at breakfast at nine o'clock. The father had the morning letters in his pocket; he had read them and put them by. He cast but one glance at his son, and Chaytor turned pale and winced. He saw that the storm was about to burst. As usual, nothing was said before Mrs. Chaytor. The meal was over, she kissed her son, and left the room to attend to her domestic affairs.
"I must be off," said Chaytor. "Mustn't be late this morning. A lot to attend to at the office."
"You need not hurry," said the father. "I have something to say to you."
"Won't it keep till the evening?"
"No. It must be said here and now." He stepped to the door and locked it. "We will spare her as long as possible; she will know soon enough."
"Oh, all right," said Chaytor sullenly. "Fire away."
The father took out his letters, and, selecting one, handed it to his son who read it, shivered, and returned it.
"What have you to say to it?" asked the father.
"Nothing. It is only for three hundred pounds."
"A bill, due to-day, which I did not sign."
"It was done for all our sakes, to save the honour of the family name. I was in a hole and there was no other way of getting out of it."
"The bill must be taken up before twelve o'clock."
"Will it be?"
"It will, for your mother's sake."
"Then there is nothing more to be said. I am very sorry, but it could not be helped. I promise that it shall never occur again. I'll take my oath of it if you like."
"I take neither your word nor your oath. You are a scoundrel."
"Here, draw it mild. I am your son."
"Unhappily. If your mother were not living you should be shown into the dock for the forgery."
"But she is alive. I shall not appear in the dock, and you may as well let me go. Look here, father, what's the use of crying over spilt milk?"
"Not much; and as I look upon you as hopeless, I would go on paying for it while your mother lived. If she were taken from me I should leave you to the punishment you deserve, and risk my name being dragged through the mire."
"I hope," said Chaytor, with vile sanctimoniousness, "that my dear mother will live till she is a hundred."
"There is, I must remind you, another side to the shield. I said 'as long as I can afford it.'"
"Well, you can afford it."
"I cannot," said Mr. Chaytor, with a sour smile. "My career snaps to-day, after paying this forged bill with money that properly belongs to my creditors. Newman Chaytor, you have come to the end of your tether."
"You are saying this to frighten me," said Chaytor, affecting an indifference he did not feel. "Why, you are rolling in money."
"You are mistaken. Speculations into which I have entered have failed disastrously. If you had not robbed me to the tune of thousands of pounds--the sum total of your villainies amounts to that--I might have weathered the storm, but as I am situated it is impossible. It is almost a triumph to me to stand here before you a ruined man, knowing you can no longer rob me."
"Still I do not believe you," said Chaytor.
"Wait and see; you will not have to wait long."
The tone in which he uttered this carried conviction with it.
"Do you know what you have done?" cried Chaytor furiously. "You have ruinedme!"
"What!" responded Mr. Chaytor, with savage sarcasm. "Is there any more of this kind of paper floating about?" Chaytor bit his lips, and his fingers twitched nervously, but he did not reply. "If there is be advised, and prepare for it. In the list of my liabilities, which is now being prepared, there will be no place for them. How should there be, when I am in ignorance of your prospective villainies. Do you see now to what you have brought me?"
"Doyousee to what you have broughtme?" exclaimed Chaytor in despair. "Why did you not tell me of it months ago?"
"Because I hoped by other speculations to set myself straight. But everything has gone wrong--everything. Understand, I cannot trouble myself about your affairs; I have enough to do with my own. I have one satisfaction; your mother will not suffer."
"How is that?"
"The settlement I made upon her in the days of my prosperity is hers absolutely, and only she can deal with it. In the settlement of my business there shall be no sentimental folly; I will see to that. Her money shall not go to pay my debts.
"But it shall go," thought Chaytor, with secret joy, "to get me out of the scrape I am in. It belongs to me by right.Iwill see that neither you nor your creditors tamper with it." He breathed more freely; he could still defy the world.
"I have not told you quite all," continued Mr. Chaytor. "Here is a letter from Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, advising me that it will be better for all parties that you do not make your appearance in their office. Indeed, the place you occupied there is already filled up."
"Do they give any reason for it?" asked Chaytor, inwardly not greatly astonished at his dismissal.
"None; nor shall I ask any questions of them or you. You know how the land lies. Good morning."
He unlocked the door, and left the house. This was just what Chaytor desired. His vicious mind was quick in expedients; his mother was his shield and his anchor. Her settlement would serve for many a long day yet. To her he went, and related his troubles in his own way. She gave him, as usual, her fullest sympathy, and promised all he asked.
"Between ourselves, mother," he said.
"Yes, my darling, between ourselves."
"Father must not know. He was always hard on me. He thinks he can manage everybody's affairs, but he cannot manage his own." Then he disclosed to her his father's difficulties. "If he had allowed me to manage for him it would not have happened. Trust everything to me, mother, and this day year I will treble your little fortune for you. Let me have a chance for once. When I have made all our fortunes you shall go to him and say, 'See what Newman has done for us.'"
"It shall be exactly as you say, darling. You are the best, the handsomest, the cleverest son a foolish mother ever had."
Kisses and caresses sealed the bargain. Within twenty-four hours he knew that everything his father had told him was true. The family were ruined, and but for Mrs. Chaytor's private fortune would have been utterly beggared. They moved into a smaller house and practised economy. Little by little Chaytor received and squandered every shilling his mother possessed, and before the year was out the sun rose upon a ship beating on the rocks.
"Are you satisfied?" asked his father, from whom Chaytor's doings could no longer be concealed.
"Satisfied!" cried Chaytor, trembling in every limb. "When your insane speculations have ruined us!"
Then he fell into a chair and began to sob. He had the best of reasons for tribulation. With his mind's eye he saw the prison doors open to receive him. It was not shame that made him suffer; it was fear.
Again, and for the last time, he went to his mother for help.
"What can I do, my boy?" quavered the poor woman. "What can I do? I haven't a shilling in the world."
He implored her to go to his father. "He can save me," cried the terror-stricken wretch. "He can, he can!"
She obeyed him and the father sent for his son.
"Tell me all," he said. "Conceal nothing, or, as there is a heaven above us, I leave you to your fate."
The shameful story told, the father said, "Things were looking up with me, but here is another knock-down blow, and from my own flesh and blood. I accept it, and will submit once more to be ruined by you."
"Bless you, father, bless you," whined Chaytor, taking his father's hand and attempting to fondle it. Mr. Chaytor plucked his hand away.
"There is, however, a condition attached to the promise."
"What condition?" faltered Chaytor.
"That you leave England and never return. Do you hear me? Never. You will go to the other end of the world, where you will end your days.
"To Australia?"
"To Australia. When you quit this country I wish never to hear from you; I shall regard you as dead. You shall no longer trade upon your mother's weak love for you. I will not argue with you. Accept or refuse."
"I accept."
"Very well. Go from this house and never let me look upon your face again."
"Can I not see my mother?" whined Chaytor, "to wish her good-bye?"
"No. You want to hatch further troubles. You shall not do so. Quit my house."
With head bent low in mock humility, Chaytor left the house. He had no sincere wish to see his mother; he had got out of her all he could, and she was of no use to him in the future. The promise his father made was fulfilled; the fresh forgeries he had perpetrated were bought up, but one still remained of which he had made no mention. This was a bill for a large amount which he had accepted in the name of Rivington, Sons and Rivington. It had still two months to run, and Chaytor determined to remain in England till within a week or two of its becoming due; something might turn up which would enable him to meet it. He loved the excitement of English life; Australia was banishment; but perhaps after all, if he were forced to go it might be the making of him. He had read of rough men making fortunes in a week on the goldfields. Why should not he?
The last blow proved too much for Mr. Chaytor; it broke him up utterly. He was seized with a serious illness which reduced him to imbecility. The home had to be sold, and he and his wife removed to lodgings, one small room at the top of a house in a poor neighbourhood. There poverty fell upon them like a wolf. Five weeks afterwards Chaytor, slouching through the streets on a rainy night, saw his mother begging in the roadway. The poor soul stood mute, with a box of matches in her hand. Chaytor turned and fled.
"I am the unluckiest dog that ever was born," he muttered. "Just as I was going to see if I could get anything out of her!"
It was now imperative that he should leave England, and he managed to get a passage in a sailing vessel as assistant steward at a shilling a month. He obtained it by means of forged letters of recommendation, and he went out in a false name. This he would have retained had it not been that shortly after his arrival in Australia he met a man who had known him in London, and who addressed him by his proper name. It was not the only inconvenience to which an alias subjected him. There was only one address in the colonies through which he could obtain his letters, and that was the Post Office. Obviously, if he called himself John Smith he could not expect letters to be delivered to him in the name of Newman Chaytor. Now, he was eager for letters from the old country; before he left it he had written to his mother to the effect that he was driven out of it by a hard-hearted father, and that if she had any good news to communicate to him he would be glad to hear from her. At the same time he imposed upon her the obligation of not letting anyone know where he was. Therefore, when his London acquaintance addressed him by his proper name, saying, "Hallo, Chaytor, old boy!" he said to himself, "Oh hang it! I'll stick to Newman Chaytor, and chance it. If mother writes to me I shall have to proclaim myself Chaytor; an alias might get me into all sorts of trouble."
Why did he write to his poor mother, for whom he had not the least affection, and what did he mean by expecting her to have any good news to communicate to him? The last time he saw her, was she not begging in the streets? Well, there was a clear reason; he seldom did anything without one; and be sure that the kernel of that reason was Self. His father, from the wreck of his fortune, had managed to preserve a number of shares in some companies which had failed, among them two mining companies which had come to grief. Now, it had happened before and might happen again, that companies which were valueless one day had leaped into favour the next, that shares which yesterday could have been purchased for a song, to-morrow would be worth thousands of pounds. Suppose that this happened to the companies, or to one of them, in which his pauper father held shares. He was his father's only child, and his mother would see that he was not disinherited. Chaytor was a man who never threw away a chance, and he would not throw away this, remote as it was. Hence his determination to adhere at all hazards to his proper name. The perilous excitements of the last two or three years had driven Basil Whittingham out of his mind, but having more leisure and less to occupy his thoughts in the colonies, he thought of him now and then, and wondered whether the old uncle had relented and had taken his nephew again into his favour. "Lucky young beggar," he thought. "I wish I stood in his shoes, and he in mine. I would soon work the old codger into a proper mood." His colonial career was neither profitable nor creditable, and he had degenerated into what he was when he and Basil came face to face in Gum Flat, an unadulterated gambler and loafer. The strange encounter awoke within him forces which had long lain dormant. He recognised a possible chance which might be worked to his benefit, and he fastened to it like a limpet. When he said to Basil that he was in luck be really meant it.
A word as to his false beard and whiskers. In London he had had a behind-the-scenes acquaintance, and in a private theatrical performance in which he played a part he had worn these identical appendages as an adjunct to the character he represented. He had brought them out with him, thinking they might be serviceable one day. Before he came to Gum Flat he had got into a scrape on another township, and when he left it, had assumed the false hair as a kind of disguise. Making his appearance on Gum Flat thus disguised, he deemed it prudent to retain it, and when he came into association with Basil he thanked his stars that he had done so; otherwise he might have drawn upon himself from the man he called his double a closer attention than he desired.