"None," said Basil; and added hastily, "or very little."
"You have been unfortunate since your return home?"
"Very unfortunate."
She opened her purse, and took out a sovereign and held it out to him.
"Thank you no," said Basil, his wonder growing.
"You are changed indeed," said the woman, "to refuse money. It is honestly come by. Two years ago I was married, and my husband, who died a year afterwards, left me a small income. It was more than I deserved, for I deceived him by telling him I was a widow. It made no difference, but still it was a deceit. Will you not take it?"
"No."
"And yet you need it?"
"Do not urge me further. Good night."
"Wait one moment. I was going to tell you to-night; but you had best see for yourself. It is your right. Here is my address; my mother and sister live with me. Come and see me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Promise me."
"No, I cannot promise," said Basil, moving away. "You must promise," said the woman, moving after him. "I will not leave you till you do. I tell you it is your right-it is more than your right, it is your duty."
Seeing there was no other way to release himself from her, Basil said, "I promise."
"On your sacred word of honour," said the woman.
"On my sacred word of honour."
"I will trust you; there was a time when I would not. Good night. To-morrow, at ten."
She glided away, and Basil was once more alone. The misery of his own circumstances was no encouragement to him to dwell upon the adventure, and he dismissed it from his mind, accounting for the woman's strange utterances by the supposition that she was of weak intellect. He passed the night in the open air, and in the morning bought one pennyworth of bread-it was cheaper than buying a penny roll-for his breakfast. This and water from a drinking-fountain satisfied hunger and thirst.
"A man can live upon very little," he said to himself, "but how is it going to end?"
It was a pertinent question, and answered itself. The end seemed near and certain.
It was a bright morning, and he walked in the sun. He did not forget the promise he had made to the woman; it was a promise to which he had pledged himself, and even if mischief resulted it must be fulfilled. The name on the card was Mrs. Addison the address, Queen Street, Long Acre. Thither he went, and paused before a milliner's shop, the windows of which were partially masked by shutters. Over the shop front was the name Addison, and the goods displayed bore evidence of a certain prosperity; they were not of the poorest kind. An elderly, grey-haired woman came forward as he entered. Her face was sad and severe, and there was no civility in her voice as she informed him in answer to his question, that he had come to the right address.
"Go through that door," she said with a frown, "up-stairs to the first landing. My daughter expects you. I must ask you to make your visit short."
It was not only that her voice was cold, it expressed repugnance, and without requesting an explanation Basil followed her and mounted the stairs. The sound of his footsteps brought the woman he had met on Westminster Bridge to the door of the front room.
"You have kept your promise," she said. "Come in."
A younger woman than she rose as he entered, cast one brief glance at him, and immediately left the room. The window blinds were down and the gas was lighted. His strange acquaintance of the previous night was dressed in deep mourning. Her face was white and swollen with weeping.
"I prayed for a miracle last night," she said, "but my prayers were not answered. I have also repented that I asked you to come, but still it is right, it is right. If you have a heart it should be a punishment to you for all you have made me suffer."
"I do not in the least understand you," said Basil.
Had it not been for her grief her look would have been scornful. She paid no heed to his words, but continued:
"When I said last night that I wanted nothing of you I said what I meant. When you go from here I wish never to see your face again. It will be useless for you to trouble me."
"I shall not trouble," said Basil in a gentle tone which seemed to make her waver; but she would not yield to this softer mood.
"That you are poor to-day," she said, "and I am well-to-do, so far as money goes, proves that there is a Providence. Years ago-very soon after your desertion of me-I cast you from my heart, and resolved never to admit you into it again. It might have been otherwise had you behaved honestly to me, for I loved you, and you made me believe that you loved me. It was better for me that the tie which bound us should be broken. I have led a respectable life, and shall continue to do so. I am the happier for it."
"For heaven's sake," cried Basil, "explain what it is you accuse me of."
"Ask your own heart. Although there is an apparent change in you, you are still the same, I see, in cunning and duplicity. But I will listen to no subterfuges; there is no possibility of your justifying yourself, and your power over me is gone. Towards you my heart is cold as stone."
"You are labouring under some singular delusion," said Basil, "and I can but listen to you in wonder."
"Still the same, still the same," said the woman. "You used to boast of your superior powers, and that you were so perfect an actor that you could make the cleverest believe that black was white. See what it has brought you to" – she pointed to his rags. "I have no pity for you; as you have sown, so have you reaped. So might I have reaped had I not seen the pit you treacherously dug for me; so might I have reaped had I not repented before it was entirely too late. I owe you this much gratitude-that it was your base desertion of me that showed me my sin. Had you remained I might have sunk lower and lower till grace and redemption were lost to me for ever. What expiation was possible for me I have made, with sincere repentance, with sincere sorrow for my error. It would be well for you if you could say the same. You saw my mother downstairs. She cast me off, as you know, but she opened her arms to me when I convinced her of my sincerity, when I vowed to her to live a pure life. I am again her daughter. You see these drawn blinds, you see my dress, you see that this is a house of mourning. Can you guess what for?"
"Indeed I cannot," said Basil, "except that you have lost one who is dear to you. What comfort can I, a stranger, offer you that you cannot find for yourself? It is small consolation to say that your loss is a common human experience. Be faith your solace. There is a hereafter."
Her scorn and horror of him, now plainly expressed in her face, so overpowered her that she allowed him to finish without interruption.
"You, a stranger to me!" she cried. "Will you still wear the mask-or is it, is it possible that the rank selfishness and callousness of your nature can have made you forget? All was over between us-but a link remained, a link of sweet and beautiful love which the good Lord has taken from me. I bow my head; I will not, I must not rebel!" She folded her hands, and, moving to the darkened window, stood for a few moments there engaged in silent prayer. Presently she spoke again. "My fond hopes pictured a bright and happy future for her. I, her mother, would be for ever by her side, guiding her from the pitfalls which lay before young and confiding innocence. Her life should be without stain, without reproach. She did not know, she would never have known the stain which rests upon mine. It is revealed to her now. Forgive me, my darling, and look down with pity upon me! Yes, out of my sin I created a garden of love-for her, who was to me what sight would be to the blind, through whose sweet and pure influence I was led to the Divine throne. My fond hopes have been dashed to the ground-they are dead, never to be revived. Come with me."
With noiseless footsteps she walked out of the room, and Basil followed her to another on the same landing. Softly, tenderly, as though fearful of disturbing what was therein, she turned the handle, and she and Basil stood in the presence of death.
Of death in its fairest form. Upon the bed lay the body of a young girl whose age might be ten. The sweet beauty, the peace, the perfect rest in the child's face, moved Basil to tears; she looked like a sleeping angel.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" sobbed the bereaved mother, sinking to her knees. "Pray for me; intercede for me. Unconsciously I strayed; I saw not my sin. Oh, child of shame and love, bring peace to my breaking heart, and do not turn from me when we meet above!"
Basil spoke no word; some consciousness of the truth was slowly coming to him. There was a silence in the room for several minutes; then the woman rose to her feet.
"Kiss her," she said. "When you last saw her she was a baby. If she were living, and saw your face, she would look upon you as a stranger; but now she knows the truth."
Then Basil understood. "Yes," he said inly, "now she knows the truth."
He stooped and kissed the child's lips, and the mother's tears broke out afresh; checking them presently, she said:
"It was by the strangest chance I met you last night. I have done what I conceived to be my duty. Now go," and she pointed to the door.
"I will obey you," said Basil, "but I must say a word to you first, in the next room."
She looked at him for a moment hesitatingly, then nodded her head, and they left the chamber of death as noiselessly as they had entered it.
"I did not intend it," said the woman, and taking a tress of fair hair from her bosom, and dividing it, she offered him a portion. "You may like to keep it as a remembrance."
"I thank you humbly," said Basil; "it may help me on my way."
A look of incredulous wonder flashed into her face, but remained there only an instant, and she shook her head as though she were answering a question she had asked mutely of herself.
"Before us lies an open grave," she said. "You and I speak now together for the last time on earth. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. You have something to say to me?"
"Yes; and I entreat you, however strange you may think my question, to suspend your indignation for awhile, and answer me in plain words."
"I will endeavour to do so, if it is such a question as you should address to me."
"I will not fret you by arguments or expostulations. You have suffered deeply, and from my heart I pity you. Plainly, whom do you take me for?"
"For yourself-for no other man, be sure."
"But let me hear my name from your lips."
"As you insist upon it," she said, with sad contempt, "though such a farce should not be played at such a time; but when were you otherwise than you are? You are Newman Chaytor."
"I," said Basil, speaking very slowly, "am Newman Chaytor?"
"You are he; there lives not such another, and remembering all that has passed between us, remembering your vows and oaths, for that I say, thank God! If you have any reason for going by another name, for wishing to be known by another name-and you may have, heaven help you! – be sure that I will not betray you. You are dead to me, as I am dead to you."
"Look at me well," said Basil. "If you were upon your oath would you swear that I am the man you say I am?"
"To swear otherwise would be to swear falsely. What crime have you committed that you should stand in dread of being known?"
"None. It is not to be expected that you will believe when I tell you that you are the victim of delusion, as I am the victim of a foul and monstrous plot."
"Who would believe you? Denial is easy enough, and of course you will deny, having reason to do so. But come into the light."
She raised the blind, and he stepped to the window where the light shone upon his face.
"You are Newman Chaytor," she repeated, letting the blind fall.
He bowed his head, and said, "You have just cause for your pitiless resentment and whether I am or am not the man you believe me to be, I bow my head before you in sorrow and shame. The day may come-I do not know how, or in what way it may be brought about, for I am at the extremity of misery-when, showing you this" – he touched his breast, where he placed the lock of her child's hair-"and recalling this interview, you will see the error into which you have innocently fallen. Till then, or for ever, farewell."
"One moment," said the woman, with trembling accents, "what has passed cannot be recalled, nor will I speak of the folly of your denial of the solemn truth. It is a meaningless proceeding."
"To me," said Basil, interrupting her, "it means everything. Honour, truth, fidelity, faith in virtue and goodness, all are at stake. It may never come to an issue, for the end seems near, but heaven may yet have some mercy in store for me. As you prayed for a miracle last nigh: which was not vouchsafed you, so will I pray for a miracle to help me to a just conclusion of my bitter trials." A pitiful smile accompanied his words. "It is not for me, one suffering man among millions happier, I trust, than myself, to doubt Divine Goodness. The eternal principle of Justice remains and will, now or hereafter, assert itself, as it has ever done. May peace and comfort, and happiness be yours."
"I offered you money last night," said the woman, impressed by what he said, but making no comment upon it. "Will you not accept it now?"
"I, thank you-no," he said bowing to her with humility. "Farewell."
CHAPTER XXX
Basil's mind was quite clear when he left the house, and as he had bowed his head to the bereaved mother when she declared him to be Newman Chaytor, the villain who had betrayed and cast her off, so did he bow his head to the elder woman in the shop below, who flung upon him a look of anger and abhorrence as he passed from her sight. In the light of the infamous wrong inflicted upon this family, the wrong inflicted upon himself seemed to be lessened. Suffering and humiliation were his portion, but not shame; herein Newman Chaytor was powerless. There had grown in his mind an ideal presentment of womanhood which shed a refined and delicate grace upon all his dealings with the sex. His knowledge of the world had taught him that some had fallen and were vile, but he had no harsh thoughts even for these hapless ones, whom he regarded with tender pity. There were women with whom he had come in contact whose images were touched with sacred light. His mother was one, Annette was another; and it was partly this good influence which enabled him to bear, with some degree of moral fortitude, the weight of the troubles through which he was passing. A heavy load had been added to these troubles by the accusation which now had been brought against him; another man's sins had been thrust upon his shoulders, and the circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he could scarcely hope to break it down. He had said that he would pray for a miracle to aid him in his bitter trials, and indeed it seemed as if nothing short of a miracle would serve him. But although none occurred to bring the truth to light, new experiences were awaiting him as strange as any within his ken, and one, with some sweet touch of humanity in it, was to come indirectly through the enemy who had played him false.
Of the fourpence he had left one penny went that day for food, and he contrasted his position with that of a shipwrecked man cast away in a boat, helpless on a wild and desolate sea, with starvation staring him in the face. "Among these millions," he thought, "I cannot be the only one; there must be others adrift as I am. Heaven pity them!" It was curious that, revolving this theme in his mind, he looked about for men and women whose state resembled his own, and fancying he saw some, longed for money more for their sake than for his own. Only in small natures is grief entirely selfish. One question continually presented itself. What could he do to better himself-what do to turn the tide? He saw people begging in the roadways, and others fighting desperately for dear life, their weapons a few boxes of matches. If he had known where to purchase half-a-dozen boxes for the threepence which still remained of his fortune he would have risked the venture, but he did not know where to go for the investment, and those he asked for information scowled at him or turned away, conscious perhaps that their ranks were overcrowded, or that the addition of one to the horde of mendicants would lessen their chances. During these times he gained pregnant knowledge of a social nature. Living entirely in the streets, pictures presented themselves in poor and rich thoroughfares alike. His poverty made the contrasts startling. Ladies in carriages nursing over-fed lapdogs; small morsels of humanity shuffling along with their toes peeping out of their boots. In Covent Garden hothouse fruit at fabulous prices, and white-faced mortals picking up refuse and stealthily devouring it. Grand parties in great mansions, priceless jewels flashing as the ladies stepped out of their carriages; in a street hard by a woe-worn girl asleep on a doorstep, with a pallid baby in her arms. These pictures did not embitter him; he pitied the poor and envied not the rich, and had it been his good fortune to be employed as a descriptive writer, his pen would not have been dipped in gall. He did not purposely linger as he walked the streets, for the reason that when he lagged he attracted the notice of policemen, who followed him slowly, and quietly noted his movements. On such occasions, feeling himself an object of suspicion, he would quicken his steps to escape closer observation. Through all these sad wanderings he was ever on the watch for Newman Chaytor; he would not allow himself to sink into absolute apathy; while life remained he would do what lay in his power to lift himself out of the slough of despond. Only when his strength was exhausted would he lie down and die. Thus did he endure three more doleful days, at the end of which his last penny was spent. "The end is coming," he thought, and waited for it. He had been five nights now without a bed, and on three of these nights had been soaked to the skin. This exposure, with lack of nourishing food, had already told upon a system constitutionally sound and healthy. That the end was coming was no idle reflection; he felt it in his bones. Whither should he turn for succour? Naturally strong, and willing and anxious to work even for the barest pittance, he found himself more forsaken and powerless in this city of unrest than Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island. Charity is proverbially cold; it is frozen indeed when a willing man is driven to such a pass.
Another day passed, and another soaking night, and then fever threatened. Delirious fancies took possession of him, haunted, tortured and deluded him. He laughed aloud in the street, and aroused to momentary reason by the looks of the passers-by, shambled away in silence that engirt him as with iron bands-to break out again presently when he was in another street. Each night some impulse for which he sought no reason led his steps in the direction of the bridge where he had met Newman Chaytor's victim; had he seen her again, and she had offered him money, it is doubtful whether he would have had the strength to refuse.
Exhausted and spent, having been thirty hours without food, he clung to the buttress of the bridge, and with dim eyes looked forward on the river's lights. There seemed to be some meaning in their unrest; from the mysterious depths messages from another world came to his dazed mind. "Presently, presently," he thought, "but I should like first to see Annette, and undeceive her. I would give my best heart's blood to set myself straight with her. Too late to save her-too late, too late!" He had no idea of seeking eternal rest by deliberate action, only that he felt it was very near, and could not be long delayed.
How he craved for food! How the demon hunger was tearing at his vitals! His head fell forward, his mouth sucked his coat sleeve. A policeman touched his arm; he languidly raised his head, and the policeman gazed steadily at him, and then proceeded on his beat without speaking a word. Maybe he recognised that a case of genuine suffering was before him. Basil remained in the same position, his eyes turned in the direction the officer was taking. But he did not see him; he was blind to all surrounding things. Therefore it was that he had no consciousness of the presence of an old woman, poorly dressed, who had stopped when the policeman stopped, and appeared rooted to the spot as her eyes fell upon Basil's face. Suddenly the emotion which for a brief space had overpowered her, found voice. With a piercing scream she tottered towards Basil, cleared the grey hair from her eyes, and peered up into his face. Then with a piercing scream, she cried:
"Newman! My son, my darling, darling son! O God be thanked for restoring you to me!"
She threw her trembling arms around him, but Basil did not feel them, and had no understanding of her words. With a dolorous groan he slid from her arms to the ground, and lay there without sense or motion. Nature's demands had reached a supreme point, and the groan which issued from his lips was the last effort of exhausted strength.
Although the bridge appeared to be deserted, with only the policeman, the old woman, and Basil in view, a small knot of persons, as if by magic, instantly surrounded the fallen man and the woman who knelt by his side. The policeman, attracted by the scream, turned, and slowly sauntered towards the group.
"What's the matter, mother?" asked an onlooker.
"It's my son," moaned the woman, "my dear son, Newman. He has come from the goldfields, and is dying, dying."
"Don't look much like a goldfields man," observed one of the group. "Where's his nuggets?"
"He has had a hard time," continued the woman, whom the reader will recognise as Mrs. Chaytor. "He wrote to me about his hardships. See what they have brought him to. Will none of you help me? Here is money-I am not so poor as I look; my poor husband has had a bit of luck. For pity's sake help me! O my son, my son!"
"I am a doctor," said a gentleman, pushing his way through. Kneeling by Mrs. Chaytor's side, he lifted Basil's head on his knee, and made a rapid examination. "The poor fellow is starving, I should say. Run, one of you, and fetch a quartern of brandy-and some water if you can get it."
Mrs. Chaytor held out a trembling hand, and a woman snatched the money from lit and darted off. The policeman, who had by this time joined the group, shook his head disapprovingly.
"You've seen the last of that," he said.
He was mistaken, however; the woman returned with two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other water. With these the doctor moistened Basil's lips, and forced a few drops down his throat.
"You see," he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Chaytor, "that he is not yet dead. Whether he lives or dies depends not upon himself. I think I heard you say you are his mother."
"I am his unhappy mother," sobbed Mrs. Chaytor. "Oh, how I have prayed for his return, and he is sent to me now like this! It is cruel, it is unjust. Save him for me, doctor, and I will bless you to the last hour of my life!"
"We will see what can be done. Do you live near here?"
"We live in Southwark Road."
"Here is a cab passing. Let us get him into it; there is no time to lose."
A dozen arms were ready to assist him, but Basil had grown so thin that the kind doctor lifted him with ease, and put him in the cab. Then, giving the driver the address which he obtained from Mrs. Chaytor, they drove off quickly, Mrs. Chaytor holding Basil in her arms, and crooning over him as the priceless treasure of her life.