CHAPTER XXXI
"Am I awake or dreaming?" This was the thought that passed through Basil's mind as he opened his eyes. Two weeks had passed since he had been rescued from death; and for the most of that time he had been unconscious. But certain floating impressions were his, which now, as his eyes travelled round the walls of the room in which he lay, he endeavoured to recall. It was not without difficulty that he succeeded, but after long and determined-if in his weak state such a word may be used-effort, these impressions began to marshal themselves. But just at the moment that memory reasserted its power an interruption occurred, and Basil, bent upon his mental task, closed his eyes, and waited once more for solitude.
An old woman stole softly into the room, and crept with noiseless tread close to his bed. She stooped over him, kissed him tenderly, arranged the bedclothes about him, smoothed his pillow, and kissed him again. What touched his feelings deeply was the exceeding tenderness of these kisses, which could only have been bestowed upon one who was very dear. What meaning lay in this strange tenderness to him who not so long since was forsaken by all, and coming from one whose face was absolutely unfamiliar to him? For with excusable cunning he had partially raised his lids without being observed, and his half-veiled eyes rested upon the woman who was attending him. She was an old woman with grey and white hair, and there were signs of deep suffering on her lined face. She looked like one who had experienced great trouble, but Basil noted also in her countenance an expression of gratitude which relieved the weight of years and care which lay heavy upon her. He allowed his lids to droop, and setting aside awhile the task upon which he was engaged when she entered the room, ransacked his memory for a clue. He could find none, even though his mental efforts sent him wandering weakly among his childhood's days. While thus engaged, with his eyes still closed, he was conscious that another person had entered the room, and the words which passed between them reached his senses.
"Good morning," in the cheerful voice of a man.
"Good morning, doctor."
"Doctor! He was being cared for, then, and friends were by his side. Of this he was assured; he required no further proof than the tender actions of the woman and the soft voice in which she returned the doctor's greeting. But why should these stranger's care for him? for strangers to him they were, though their intentions could not be doubted.
"How is our patient this morning?"
"No worse, I hope, doctor. He has been very, very quiet."
"That is a good sign."
Basil felt the doctor's fingers on his pulse, and then his head was gently raised, and he knew that his temperature was being taken. He betrayed no consciousness of their presence; perhaps the conversation would supply him with the clue for which he was seeking.
"The fever has almost gone; in a few days he will be quite well. Has he not spoken at all?"
"No, doctor."
"Not even in his sleep?"
"No, doctor, not a word has passed his lips."
"All the signs are good. Has he opened his eyes?"
"No, doctor. If he only would! If he would only recognise me! I could die happy, then."
"You must not talk of dying. All that belongs to the past."
"No, doctor," said the woman, with a sigh, "it belongs to the future."
"I stand corrected in my philosophy. But, tush, tush! We must not have you breaking down. I shall insist upon your getting a nurse for our young gentleman here."
"No, doctor, no," in almost a fierce tone, "no one shall nurse my dear boy but myself. Have I waited all these years to let another woman take my place?"
"Be calm. But I warn you that you are overtaxing yourself, and at your time of life it is not safe. You have done your duty; no woman can do more."
"I will not allow anybody else to take my place. It belongs to me; it is my right."
"There, there, don't agitate yourself. I hope our young friend will be grateful for what you have done for him."
"He will be; he always has been; you do not know his nature-the most loving, the tenderest. Can you not see it in his face?"
"It is a good face, and I have taken something more than a doctor's interest in the case. It is, indeed, a mercy that you came across him on the bridge a fortnight ago. Had he fallen into the hands of strangers it is hardly likely he would have pulled through. It was touch and go with him."
"Providence led my steps. I am humbly, humbly grateful."
"You saved him from death-I may tell you plainly now that he is in a fair way of recovery. And how is our other patient?"
"Still the same, doctor. Will you go and see him?"
"You must come with me; he is suspicious of me, as you know, and would order me out of the room if you were not by."
"Can I leave my dear boy with safety?"
"With perfect safety; he will not awake from sleep for a long time yet, and when he does it will not harm him to find himself alone."
"He must not find himself alone-I will not have it, I will not, I will not!"
"Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will sleep for hours; it is nature's restorative."
"Doctor," said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that Basil was deeply moved, "he will recover?"
"He will. Come; I have not much time at my disposal."
He walked to the door, but before she left the room, Basil felt her tender hands about him again, ministering to his ease and comfort. Presently he knew by the closing of the door that he was alone again. Then he applied himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed through his mind in fair order.
He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, the meeting of the young woman on the bridge, his visit to her house, and the cruel accusation she brought against him. When he struggled against it she had desired him to come into the light, and had said, "You are Newman Chaytor." With this pronouncement and condemnation he left her, and the look of abhorrence the woman's mother had cast upon him lived in his memory as a burning brand. Then followed the days through which he starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking forward on the river's lights, and waiting for death. He had no remembrance of what subsequently occurred on that night and on many days and nights afterwards. Sounds of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the words that were spoken: except that on one occasion something had reached his senses to the effect that the room in which he lay was unhealthy, and that it would be better if he were removed to more airy quarters. He was dimly conscious that this was done, and that gentle hands had lifted him from his bed, and that he was carried to another house through fresher air which flowed softly over his fevered brow. Had this really been done, or was he deluding himself with fancies? He opened his eyes, and gazed around. The room was large, and there was but little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. There was a pleasant paper on the walls, the device being flowers, the colours of which, though subdued, had some healthful brightness in them. On a table near his bed were medicine bottles, a basin with soup jelly in it, and a plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was being nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was something more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt devotion, in these evidences and in what he had lately heard. The woman to whom he owed this great debt had saved him from death-the doctor had said as much, and Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have been her motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had rendered him a service it would be hard, if not impossible for him to repay. Saved from death! To what end? That he might live to clear himself from the foul accusation which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish the guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, indeed, that could never be repaid. Exhausted with thought, he sank into slumber, with a growing hope in his heart that there might yet be some brightness for him in the future.
When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes they fell upon the form of the woman who had tended him. She was kneeling by his bed, gazing upon his face. A shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her clearly.
"Newman!" she said in a low voice of joy, and she half rose and stretched forth her arms.
That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the voice of joy, the agonized appeal of love expressed in her eyes, arrested his speech. And indeed at that moment there suddenly flashed upon his mind some glimmering of the truth.
"Who speaks?" he asked, awed and stricken by the appeal.
"Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, my son, don't break my heart by saying you don't know me! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy, kiss me, give me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you turn from me!"
He could not repulse her; he felt that the sentence upon this loving heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing what he did, he held out his hands. She seized and kissed them again and again, then fell upon his neck and pressed him convulsively to her.
"Who are you?" he said softly.
"Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you not hear me? Have I spoken too soon? O Newman, Newman, give me one kiss, one kind look. My poor heart is breaking!"
"Tell me who I am," said Basil.
"You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in His infinite mercy has sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer the little time that remains to us."
Her mouth was close to his; her quivering lips pleaded for the kiss for which she yearned. He could not resist her; their lips met; her tears gushed forth.
"Forgive me," he said: "I have been ill so long, and my mind may be wandering still. Is it the truth that I am Newman Chaytor?"
"Yes, my dear, yes, you are the only being left to us on earth, the only link of love we have. If it distresses you to think, if the effort is too painful, rest till the morning; I will watch over you. Heaven has heard my prayers; my darling is restored to me. I can die happy now. The clouds have passed away; there is nothing but sunshine; your future shall be happy; we will make it so. Fortune has smiled upon us. Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful-and just as you have come back to us. But we will not speak of it to-night; we will wait till to-morrow, when you will be stronger."
"No, tell me something more-I am strong enough to listen."
"Oh, my poor boy, you have suffered much, you have had great troubles!"
"Yes, great and bitter troubles. Bring the lamp nearer. Am I changed?"
"Only a little paler than you used to be and a little thinner. There is no other change in you. Your father-"
"My father!"
"He lives, Newman, he lives, but he is very ill, and I can see that the doctor fears for him. But he loves you still. Do not think hardly of him, Newman; he will not be long with us. Say that you forgive him!"
"What have I to forgive?"
"There speaks the noble heart of my darling boy. You can bring peace and comfort to him, as you have brought it to me. You can brighten his last hours. You will do it, will you not, my dear boy?"
"What lies in my power," said Basil slowly, "to repay you for your goodness to me, that I will do."
"I was sure of it, I was sure of it. You will find him changed, Newman; he wanders in his mind sometimes, but you will be gentle with him."
"Yes I will be gentle with him."
"We will forget the past-there shall be nothing in our hearts but love and forgiveness."
"Listen a moment. If anybody came to you and said I am not your son, would you believe him?"
"You ask it to try me, but you little know your mother's heart. If an angel from heaven were to come and say so, I should not believe him; I should know it was an evil spirit that spoke. I was going to speak to you of our good fortune. Shall I go on?"
"Yes, go on."
"It happened only a week before I met you-O, heaven be praised for it! – on the bridge. Do you remember, when everything went wrong with us and we were plunged in poverty, that your father still had some shares in mining companies left, shares that were supposed not to be worth the paper they were printed on? Do you remember it, my dear boy?"
"Well?"
"It is only three weeks ago that a gentleman found out where we were living-we were very, very poor, Newman-and told us that these shares were valuable, were worth a great deal of money. Fortunately your father had not destroyed them, and fortunately, too, when the gentleman called it was on one of your father's sensible days. He found the shares, and some of them have been sold. We are now rich-yes, my dear boy, rich. We should never murmur against heaven's decrees; it was all ordained-that this should happen at the time it did, and that I should meet you a few days afterwards, in time to save you. Newman, my dear, you had not a penny in your pockets."
"I was starving."
"My poor boy, my poor, poor boy! Oh, how cruelly we have treated you!"
"You must not say that. You are the soul of goodness; you have saved me from death, from despair, from shame, from degradation. I have something to live for now. Hope revives. I have an enemy who has conspired to ruin my life. What shall be done to him?"
"He must be punished."
"He shall be."
"The monster! To conspire against my dear lad. If I were not old and weak, I would seek him out myself. He should learn what a mother could do for a beloved son."
"He shall be punished, I say, and his punishment shall come through those who are nearest to him, and should be dearest."
"It sounds hard, Newman, but it is just, it is just."
"I am tired," said Basil, "I can talk no more; I want to sleep."
"Sleep, my dear boy; I will watch by you."
"No, you must seek rest yourself; I insist upon it; it will do me good to know that you are resting after your long labour."
"Are you sure you will not want me?"
"Quite sure; I am gaining strength rapidly; to-morrow I shall be almost well. Go."
"When did I disobey my dear lad?" said Mrs. Chaytor. "When did I disregard his slightest wish? He repays me with love, and I am happy, happy! This is the brightest night of my life, Newman. What have I done that such joy should be mine? It is more than I deserve. Yes, I will go, though I don't want rest-indeed, indeed I do not. I could stop up for weeks nursing my dear lad, and never feel fatigue." The tears rose in Basil's eyes as he gazed upon her worn and wasted face. "Good night, my dear, dear boy. God bless and guard you?"
He could not deny her the kiss for which she mutely pleaded, and she prepared to leave him; but she came back a dozen times to assure herself that he was comfortable, that there was not a crease on his pillow, that the clothes were smoothly laid over him, and to hover about him with soft accents of love. At length he pretended to be asleep, and she crept from the room so softly that he did not hear her footfall.
Being alone now, he could think of what had passed, of the revelation that had been made to him, of the position in which he stood, and how it behoved him to act. The woman believed him to be her son, the idol of her heart, the one supreme treasure which heaven and earth contained for her. In that belief she had rescued him from death, and by so doing had perhaps afforded him the opportunity to redeem his name and honour. To undeceive her would break her heart; of this he had no doubt. How perfect was her love! How tender and beautiful were its evidences! He remembered his own mother, and knew how pure was the love which existed between them; but never till this moment had it been given him to know to what wondrous extent a mother's love could go. That Newman had been a bad son, that he had been profligate and false-of this he was certain; such a nature as Newman's was capable of nought else; but all this was forgotten and forgiven. Nay, instead of entreaties for pardon being expected from him, it was himself that was asked to forgive. Something more than gratitude stirred his heart as he thought of Mrs. Chaytor's goodness, a feeling of pity and affection rose within him, and he bethought himself in what way he could repay her for the great service she had rendered to him.
Had it been Newman, indeed, whom she had rescued from death and dishonour, how would he have acted? Natures do not change, and Newman would have followed the bent of his. He would have brought fresh sorrows upon her head; he would have stripped her of her new fortune and squandered it in dissolute practices? Would it not be a fine revenge to make the end of her life sweet and beautiful by the loving care and gratitude it was in Basil's power to bestow. His heart glowed at the thought. The sterner part of his revenge could still be carried out. He would have means to prosecute his search for Newman and Annette, and it would be the easiest matter to find an excuse for absence, if it were necessary that he should go personally to seek them. Thus two good ends would be attained, one certain in the joy it would bring to a good woman's heart, the other as yet uncertain, inasmuch as the roads which would lead to it were enveloped in darkness.
Yes, he would have means to punish the guilty. But were those means his to use? Could he with justice employ them in the task upon which he was engaged, and which Mrs. Chaytor had saved him to prosecute? This was the question which now obtruded itself.
Why not? Had not Newman Chaytor, by the vilest conduct, by long systematic deceit and treachery, fraudulently obtained possession of his fortune, and was he not now using it for his own selfish pleasures? Could human cunning go further than Newman had done in his vile plot-could human baseness reach a baser depth? No. There would be a strange and inscrutable justice in using the villain's weapons to bring the villain to bay.
There was another consideration: Annette. If in the morning he declared himself to be Basil Whittingham, if he left the loving mother in sorrow and tribulation, and rejected the opportunity which, through no scheming on his part, had presented itself, if he threw himself once more penniless upon the world, what chance had he of finding Annette in time, maybe, to save her from a life of deepest unhappiness? This last consideration induced him to resolve upon his course of action. For the present he would allow matters to go on as they would. He would not undeceive Mrs. Chaytor; she should, for as long or as short a time as circumstances permitted, rest in a delusion which had filled her heart with joy. She should believe that he, Basil, was her son indeed, and he would work and wait for events.
But he would be strictly just, as far as he could. What money he used should be used to one end, and to one end only; unless, indeed (and a strange smile wreathed his lips as this view presented itself) collateral disclosures were revealed to him of Newman Chaytor's home life of villainy and treachery which pleaded for some kind of compensation. Then would he use some of Chaytor's money to repair the wrong. A devious road to justice, but a justifiable one. Having thus determined, sleep descended upon him.
CHAPTER XXXII
Early the next morning he awoke. The sun was shining into the room, and he was alone. There was some kind of stir in the house for which he could not account, and the cause of which he was curious to ascertain. Feeling that his strength had returned to him he rose from the bed, and although a natural weakness was upon him, he succeeded in partially dressing himself. While thus employed the door was opened and the doctor entered the room.
"Ah," said the doctor, "as I expected. You are yourself again." He was a young man, and had a cheery voice and manner, which, used with discretion, and not allowed to become too bluff, are invaluable aids to a medical practitioner.
"I am almost well, I think," said Basil.
"But we must be careful," said the doctor, "we must husband our strength. You have a good constitution, and that has served you." Although his voice was cheerful, he spoke with a certain reserve.
"Are you not here very early?" asked Basil.
"I am," replied the doctor, "much earlier than usual. The fact is I was called in."
"They are too anxious about me."
"Well, yes, but I was not called in to see you. Your parents required me?"
"For themselves?"
"For themselves. Are you strong enough to hear some grave news?"
"Let me know it, quickly."
"To be plain, your good mother has overtaxed herself; and your father's illness has taken a serious turn. Your mother did not wish me to tell you; she asked me to think of some excuse why she could not come to you; but in the circumstances the truth is best."
"Yes, the truth is best. Disguise nothing from me. See-I am really strong and well."
"You will do, if you are careful. As I said, your mother has overtaxed her strength, and she is now suffering from it. I warned her a score of times, but she would not leave your side, it is wonderful the devotion of these good women."
"Is it anything serious?"
"I fear so; she is old, and seems to have gone through some serious troubles."
"I will go and see her."
"Not till you have breakfast. I have ordered it for you, and if you will allow me, I will join you."
"You are very welcome."
The maid entered the room with a tray, which she placed on a table; the doctor threw open the window, saying, "Nothing like fresh air. Come, let us fall to."
Basil was much taken with him; he was a man of culture and refinement, and knew what he was about. As they proceeded with their breakfast he entertained Basil with light and agreeable conversation, and it was only when the meal was finished that he reverted to the subject of his professional visit.
"Has your mother," he inquired, "during late years endured privation?"
"I have been absent from England for a great many years," replied Basil evasively.
"And if she had," continued the doctor, "she would conceal it from you! it is in the nature of such women. But I am led to this belief by her condition; it is not only that she is suffering from the reaction of overtaxed endurance, but that she has no reserve strength to draw upon."
It was clear to Basil that he believed her case to be serious, and in great anxiety he accompanied the doctor to the sickroom. There were two beds in the room, one occupied by Mrs. Chaytor, the other by her husband. Mr. Chaytor was dozing, and Basil, gazing upon him, saw a white and wasted face, long drawn and thin as that of a man whose sands of life were fast running out. Mrs. Chaytor cast a look of reproach upon the doctor, as she murmured:
"You should not have told him, you should not have told him!"
"He was up and dressed, my dear lady," said the doctor softly, "when I went in to see him. You must trust me to do what's best for all of you."
"I will, I will," murmured Mrs. Chaytor. "You have restored my dear son to health. O, Newman, Newman!"
Basil bent over her, and kissed her; she tried to rise, but had not strength.
"How good you are, how good, how good!" she sobbed.
Basil was shocked at her appearance, which had undergone a sad change since the previous evening. The faithful couple, after a long and anxious life, seemed to be both waiting for the summons from the angel of death.
"It is my turn now to nurse you," said Basil, pityingly.
"No, you must not; the kind doctor has sent for a nurse; you must take care of yourself. There is a long and happy life before you, and you must not waste your days upon old people like us. Are your father's eyes closed."
"Yes."
"He wishes to speak to you when he wakes. He is quite sensible, and has something to say to you. Doctor, I must speak to my son alone."
He was about to forbid any serious conversation, but, looking attentively at her, he did not speak the words that came to his lips. He nodded, and beckoned to Basil, who joined him at the door of the room.
"I am going now," he said, "and shall return at noon. Do not let your mother exhaust herself. If she speaks excitedly, calm her down and beg her, for your sake-it is the appeal that will have the best effect upon her-to speak more slowly."
"But had she not better wait till she is stronger?"
The doctor gazed at him with serious eyes, "It will perhaps be as well not to wait. She seems to have something of importance to communicate to your By-and-bye may be too late?"
Inexpressively grieved, Basil returned to the bedside, and took Mrs. Chaytor's thin hand in his; her fingers clung to his convulsively.
"I must speak to you about your father," she said, and to save her the effort of raising her voice, Basil laid his head on the pillow close to her mouth. A beautiful smile came to her lips as he did so. "Always loving and considerate!" she murmured. "Always the same tender and unselfish lad! Newman, your father has not seen you yet; all the time you were lying ill he has been unable to rise from his bed. Don't contradict him, my dear lad."
"I will not," said Basil.
"He has strange fancies; he was always strange-but he has been good to me. Remember that, Newman, and bear with him for my sake."
"I will do so."
"Thank you, my dear boy. If he says anything about the past, listen in silence-even if it is hard to hear, listen in silence. He was not so considerate of you as he might have been, but we can't alter our natures, can we, my darling? He could never see that young people love pleasure, and ought to have it; he wanted you to be grave and serious, as he was, and he would not make excuses for little faults. Bear that in mind, my dear."
"Yes, I will."
"He said to me, 'I shall speak to Newman plainly,' and I know what that means. He may speak harsh words, but you will be prepared for them. He loves you in his heart, indeed he does, and intends to behave rightly to you. Yesterday he wrote a paper, which I think he will give you, and something else with it-something that will make your life easy and happy. You need never want again, my dear boy, never, never. Oh, how you must have suffered! And you were starving, and were too proud to come to us, who would have shared our last crust with you. Let me tell you about our fortune, Newman. When some cheques were brought to your father for the shares, he would not take them: he would take nothing but notes and gold; and the money was brought to him, and he has it now under his bed. 'If I put it into a bank,' he said, 'it will break, and I shall be ruined again. I will keep it always by me in cash.' I told him it wasn't safe, that we were old and might be robbed, but he would not listen to me. He was always self-willed, you must remember that; he would always have his way, and never thought that anyone was right but himself. I don't know how much money he has, but it must be thousands of pounds. He gave me a hundred pounds in gold to pay the house expenses; I have only spent forty, and there is sixty left. Here it is-take it, Newman; take it, my dear boy. If you love me don't refuse. That's right, put it in your pocket; all we have belongs to you-every farthing. 'When you want more,' he said to me, 'ask me for it and you shall have it.' He was never niggardly, I will say that of him; we had a beautiful home once, did we not? How happy you made it when you were little-and when you were big, too, my dear! One day, when you are married-I hope you will marry a good woman, who will love you with all her heart, and appreciate you-you will find out how happy a little child can make a home. Then you will think of me, will you not? – then you will know better what I mean."
Her breath was spent, and she could not continue. She closed her eyes, but her fingers tightened upon Basil's, and presently she began to babble incoherently. The entrance of the nurse who had been sent her was a welcome relief to Basil; the woman had received her instructions, and she went about her duties noiselessly. Mrs. Chaytor's grasp relaxed, and Basil removed his hand.
"You had best go," whispered the nurse; "she wants sleep."
Basil obeyed, and in his own room applied himself again to a review of his position. Strange indeed were the circumstances in which he found himself, but he saw no other course to pursue than that upon which he had already resolved. At noon the doctor called again, and his report was even less hopeful than on his previous visit.
"I can do nothing, I fear," he said; "the end is approaching. You must be prepared."
"Is there no hope for one?" asked Basil.
"For neither, so far as my judgment is to be trusted. It would be a satisfaction to you, perhaps, if a physician were called in."
"I think it should be done," said Basil, "but I am a stranger here and know no one."
"I will come at five o'clock, and bring a physician with me. Meanwhile, if your parents have any arrangements to make with respect to property, it should not be neglected. I am of the opinion that your father will have an interval of consciousness this evening, and then would be the proper time. In everything else you may trust the nurse I have sent in; she understands the cases thoroughly."
The physician's statement verified the warning.
"Their vital forces are spent," he said; "the end cannot be averted or arrested."
It was at eight o'clock that the nurse presented herself, and told him that his father had asked for him.
"Your mother is sleeping," she said; "speak as softly as you can."
He followed her to the room and took a chair by Mr. Chaytor's bed. He had strange thoughts as he entered. Suppose that Mr. Chaytor, seeing him for the first time should refuse to see the likeness to Newman which others had seen? In that case, how should he act? He was puzzled to answer, and, driven by circumstances into a position he had not sought, could but leave events to take their course, which they had already done independent of himself. But nothing of the sort happened. Mr. Chaytor's eyes dwelt upon his face, and then he called Basil by the name of Newman, and Basil had no alternative but to answer to it. The nurse sat discreetly by Mrs. Chaytor's side.