"Send that woman away," said Mr. Chaytor.
His words came with difficulty; his voice was choked. The nurse heard the demand, and as she passed from the room she whispered to Basil that she would be ready outside if he wanted her. For several minutes there was silence, a silence which Basil did not venture to break. Mr. Chaytor appeared to be engaged in the effort of marshalling his thoughts.
"You have come back in time," he said, "to see me die."
"I trust there is still hope," said Basil.
"There is no hope," said the sick man. "The doctors spoke together under their breath, and thought I could not hear. They were wrong; I heard every word they said. The fools forgot that a dying man's senses are often preternaturally sharpened. Mine were, 'He will die at sunrise,' they said. Very well. I shall die at sunrise. Oh, I don't dispute them; they know their business. Sunrise is some hours yet; I have time to speak, and I mean to keep my wits together till I have said what I have got to say. What you have to do is to listen. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," said Basil.
"I don't intend," continued the dying man, "to ask you questions, for I know what kind of replies you would give. What you are, you are, and of that I have had bitter experience. Your mother, lying there at the point of death-Oh, I heard that, too, when they were putting their heads together-believes in you, trusts you, thinks you the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one, and thinks me a black cloud whose only aim is to tarnish your brightness. Let her believe so. There was never any reason or any wisdom in her love; but she is a good woman. To him she loves she gives all, and asks for nothing in return. Whom she trusts is immaculate; she cannot see a spot upon him. That is how it stands, how it has always stood, between you and her. It is different with me. Ever since you became a man-heaven pardon me for calling you one! – you have been corrupt and vicious; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have been false to friendship, false to love; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have had but one idea-yourself, your vanities, your degraded pleasures, your low and envious desires; and I knew it. Why, then, should I ask you questions, knowing you would lie to me in your answers. For you are as glib of speech, Newman Chaytor, as you are cunning of mind. You have been absent from us a long time: doubtless you have a good recollection of the day on which I turned you from my house. We became stricken down; we became worse than poor; we became paupers. Your mother wrote to you when you were on the goldfields, and you sent back whining letters of your misfortunes. Your mother believed you and pitied you; I disbelieved you and despised you. At length you came home, and hunting for us to see whether there was another drop of blood you could suck from our empty veins, discovered that you could hope for nothing from us, and therefore kept aloof; for it is a fact that until a week previous to your mother meeting you on Westminster Bridge, we lived on beggary and charity. How do I arrive at this knowledge of your movements? From intuition, from the bitter experiences with which you supplied me. I must pause a little. I will proceed in a minute or two, when I get back my treacherous voice. Do not poison the silence with your voice. I prefer not to hear it."
It was dreadful to hear him. The choked utterances, the pauses between the words, the fixed determination to say what was in his mind, the stern tones, produced a painful impression upon Basil; but he had perforce to obey, and so he waited till the dying man resumed:
"If you had heard of my good fortune you would have leapt upon us like a wolf; but it did not reach your ears. Therefore you kept away from us, fearing, while you had one penny left, that we should beg a halfpenny of it. Your mother brought you home-not to these rooms at first, for we had not removed from our old quarters, but afterwards we came here for your pleasure. Well, for hers, too, perhaps," – his eyes softened a little as he turned them towards the bed in which Mrs. Chaytor lay-"and she was happy, for the first time for many, many years, because you were with us. I could not come to see you; it is eight months since I was able to crawl, but your mother gave me accounts of you, and I was not displeased that she was able to nurse you into strength. She has hastened her end through it, but that matters little to her. During this last week I have been thinking what I should do with my money, and I have allowed myself to be persuaded, most likely beguiled. Look beneath my bed; you will see a cashbox; bring it forth."
Basil did as he was directed, and produced the cashbox.
"It contains a portion of my wealth; there are some shares in it which may yet be valuable. I have made no will, but I give you the cashbox and the contents while I live; they are yours-a free gift. Beneath my bed, between the mattresses, is a larger sum which you may take possession of when I am gone; I make no disposition of it, and you may act as you please in regard to it. Take the key of the cashbox-it is hanging there, at the head of the bed; and I lay this injunction upon you, that you do not open the box until I am dead. In this I must break through the rule I laid down when I began to speak. You will obey me?"
"I will obey you," said Basil.
"It is a solemn promise?"
"It is a solemn promise."
"There is a look in your face I have never seen there before. Is it possible that a change has come over you?"
"I have none but kind and grateful thoughts for you."
"Is it true. Can it be true?"
"It is true." Then, like a whirlwind, there rushed upon Basil's mind a torrent of self-reproach. Was it right that he should allow the dying man to rest in his delusion? Was it not incumbent upon him that he should confess, here and now, that he was not Newman Chaytor? Whatever the consequences, was it not his duty to brave them? But before he could speak a word to this effect Mr. Chaytor raised himself in his bed with a terrible cry; and at that cry the nurse unceremoniously entered the room, and caught Mr. Chaytor in her arms. A little froth gathered about his lips, his head tossed this way and that; then movement ceased; his limbs relaxed, and the nurse laid him back in bed. Awe-stricken, Basil whispered:
"Is he dead?"
"No," said the nurse; "if any change occurs I will call you. Go-I can attend better to him alone."
"Can I not assist you?"
"No, you will be in my way. Hush! Go at once; your mother is stirring. Be sure I will call you, I promise faithfully."
Basil left the room, carrying the cashbox with him, which he placed under his own bed, putting the key in his pocket. He did not seek rest, his mind was too perturbed. Towards midnight the doctor called in, and gently informed Basil that within a few hours he would lose both his parents.
"In one sense," he said, "apart from the grief which such a loss bears with it, it is a happy fitness that two old people, who have lived a long life in harmony with each other, should pass away at the same time, the allotted span of existence having been reached. I sympathise sincerely with you."
Basil gave him a strange look; so completely was his position recognised and established that he almost doubted his identity. It wanted a few minutes to sunrise when the nurse came to the door and solemnly beckoned to him. He followed her it silence; she pointed first to the bed in which Mr. Chaytor lay. The form thereon was grey and motionless.
"He died in his sleep," whispered the nurse; "not a sound escaped him. It was a happy, painless death."
Basil gazed at the still form.
"Now you know," he thought. "Forgive me for the deception which has been forced upon me."
The nurse touched his arm, and directed his attention to Mrs. Chaytor, saying softly, "I would not let her know of your father's death."
"Newman, Newman, my dear boy," murmured the dying woman, "put your lips to mine; come closer to me, closer, closer. My last thoughts, my last prayers are for you. Has your father spoken to you?"
"Yes."
"And has he given you what he promised?"
"Yes."
"Then all is well. We shall trouble you no more, my darling. A life of happiness is before you. Think of us sometimes; and if your father does not get well, lay us in the same grave."
"It shall be done."
"I shall wait for you in heaven. How happy I am-how happy, how happy! I am not sorry to go now I have found you. I have prayed to die like this. God has been very good to me. He has answered my prayer. Kiss me, dear. God bless and guard you!"
She said no more; before the next hour struck her spirit was in another world.
"Remain with them," Basil said to the nurse, "and let everything be done that is proper and necessary."
He gave her some money, and oppressed with thought, returned to his chamber. No adventure that he had met with in the course of his chequered life had stirred him so deeply as this. So strange and singular was it that he might have been pardoned for doubting still that it was true. But the cashbox, which he had drawn from beneath the bed, was before him; the key was in his hand.
After a brief space he opened the box, taking the precaution first to lock his door. Upon the top of the box were eight acceptances for various amounts, signed in different names, some in those of Mr. Chaytor, others in names that were strange to him. They were pinned together, and folded in a paper upon which was written:
"These acceptances are forgeries, committed by my son, Newman Chaytor. I have paid them, and saved him from the just punishment which should have been his. In this and in other ways he has ruined my career, and brought his mother and me to direst poverty. But although the money is paid and the exposure averted, the crime remains; he is not cleared of it. It is a stain upon him for ever. – Edward Chaytor."
Beneath these documents was another, inscribed:
"The last words of Edward Chaytor, once a prosperous gentleman, but brought to shame by a guilty son."
Unfolding the paper, Basil read:
"To my son Newman Chaytor, a man of sin, I, his unhappy father, address these words. Your life has been a life of infamy, and you, who should have been a blessing to us, have plunged us in misery. I have little hope of your future, but remorse may prompt you to pay heed to what I now say. Repent of your evil courses while there is time. You may live to be old, when repentance will be too late. If there is any wrong to be righted, which may be righted by money, seek it out, and let my money right it. If there is any atonement to be made, and you see a way to it-as you surely will if you try-let my money atone for it. If there is any villainy committed by you which merits punishment, but which in some small measure may be condoned by money, let my money accomplish it. Do this, and you may hope for forgiveness. I could write much more, but I have neither the desire nor the power; but if I wrote for a week you would not have a better understanding of my meaning. Signed on my death-bed. Your father,
"Edward Chaytor."
The remaining contents of the cashbox were gold and notes, amounting in all to a considerable sum. Basil counted the money, made a careful and exact record of it on a fair sheet of paper, replaced the papers and locked the box, and put it in a place of safety.
He was not long in arriving at a decision as to what he should do with respect to this money. For his own needs he would use the barest pittance upon which he could live, and some part of the money he would also use in the prosecution of his search for Newman Chaytor and Annette. In this expenditure he felt himself justified, and he would keep a strict and faithful account of the sums he expended. For the rest, if anything in the career of Newman Chaytor came to his knowledge, and he could in any way carry out the behests of the man lying dead in the room beyond, he would do it, and thus vicariously make atonement for the villain who had brought sorrow and misery upon all with whom he came in contact. For the present there were duties which demanded his attention, and Basil applied himself to the last sad offices towards those who had passed away. In the course of the week his task was accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor lay in one grave, and Basil made arrangements for a stone, and for a continual supply of fresh flowers over the grave. Then, with a stern resolve, he set himself to the serious work before him, and to the design which had brought him home from the goldfields.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The first thing he did was to remove from the house which had been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor, and take a room in a poor locality, for which he paid four shillings a week. Including this sum he thought he could live as well as he desired upon a pound a week. He experienced a grim satisfaction from the reflection that he was expending upon his own personal necessities some small portion of the fortune of which Newman Chaytor had so successfully robbed him. If the day ever arrived when it would be necessary to go into accounts with Newman Chaytor this slight expenditure would be placed to the villain's credit. He had an idea of returning to his lodgings in Mrs. Philpott's house, the assistance of whose husband he determined again to seek, but upon second thoughts he saw that he would be more free to act if he were not under the kindly surveillance of this estimable couple. Having established himself in his new quarters he went direct to Mrs. Philpott's residence in Lambeth. The woman was overjoyed to see him.
"Why, sir, why," she cried, as she came to the door fresh from the washing-tub wiping the suds from her arms, "this is a pleasure. Philpott will be more than glad. Here, children, children! Come and see an old friend; there never was such a favourite with them as you were, sir. They have been continually taking you into custody and locking you up, and trying and acquitting you, without a stain on your character." Mrs. Philpott laughed. "You mustn't mind ways; if they didn't think all the world of you they'd give you six months hard labour. It's the revenge they take upon people they don't like. Don't crowd round the gentleman so, you rude things! Where's your manners, I should like to know? Won't you walk in, sir? I hope you're coming back to live with us; there's your room waiting for you; it's never been occupied, and Philpott says it never shall be, unless you take it."
"I am living elsewhere, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil, "but I've come to see your husband on business.
"I'm sorry he's not in, sir," said Mrs. Philpott; "he won't be home till ten o'clock to-night."
"Can I see him, then; my business will not admit of delay?"
"Certainly, sir. Philpott would get up in the middle of the night to serve you, and so would I. You'll stop and have a bite with us, sir, I hope?"
"No, thank you, I haven't time; I will be here punctually at ten."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, regretfully, "if you must go; but you'll take a bit of supper with us."
"I will, with pleasure. Your husband is sure to be at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir; Philpott's the soul of punctuality. He's gone for a day in the country to see an old friend, and his train is due at Victoria at twenty past nine. You're looking better than you did, sir."
"I am better, and in better spirits."
"Do you remember what I said, sir, about clouds with silver linings? Lord Sir! When things are at their worst they're sure to mend. What men and women have got to do is never to give in. Oh, I've had my lessons, sir."
"So have I, Mrs. Philpott: I shall be with you at ten."
Patting the children on their heads, and giving them a penny each-he felt like a shilling, but it was not exactly his own money he was spending, and this small benefaction was a luxury which did not properly come under the head of personal expenses-Basil, with pleasant nods, left them to their favourite occupation of taking people up and trying them for imaginary offences against the public peace. At nightfall, having an idle hour or two before his appointment with Mr. Philpott, an impulse which he made no effort to control directed his steps towards Long Acre, and then to Queen Street, where the woman whom Newman Chaytor had betrayed and deserted carried on her business. The workgirls from the large establishments in the vicinity of the street were coming from their shops, most of them in blithe spirits, being young and in agreeable employment. It was the holiday time of the day with them, and they were hurrying home, some doing a little sweet-hearting on the road which it was pleasant to contemplate. There were pictures not so pleasant; great hulking men smoking pipes and lounging about, with "Brute" stamped on their features, and women as coarse, whose birth and training perhaps were a legitimate answer to their worse than common language and manners. Basil's observations of London life during the last few months had supplied him with ample food for reflection, and he could honestly have preached a homily on charity which better men than he-say, for instance, philanthropists or statesmen with hobbies-might serviceably have taken to heart.
His attention was diverted from these unfortunates by a startling incident. There was a sudden cry of "Fire!" and the thoroughfare became instantly thronged.
"Where is it? – where is it?" "There, you fool! Can't you see it? – in Queen Street." "It's a private house." "No, it isn't, it's a shop-a milliner's. An old house; it'll burn like tinder." "A good job it isn't in the middle of the night; they'd have been burnt in their beds."
The sparks rushed up in fierce exultation. "The next house is caught! The whole street 'll be down. Here's the fire-engine!"
In gallant haste the horses tore along, the brave firemen, heroes one and all, standing firm and ready. Basil followed the crowd, and with difficulty pushed his way through as far as he was allowed. It was Mrs. Addison's shop that was on fire, and he saw immediately that there was no chance of saving it. The weeping women were outside, wringing their hands; among them the woman who had accused him, and her mother, who had cast upon him that ever vivid look of abhorrence and hatred. So quick and sudden and fierce was the fire that not a stick of furniture nor a yard of ribbon was saved. The women strove to rush into the shop, but the firemen held them back, and with firm kindness impelled them to a place of safety. Basil, edging near to them, and keeping his face hidden, heard what passed between. "We are ruined," said one, despairingly.
"Aren't you insured?" inquired a by-stander.
"Not for a penny," was the answer.
"Ah, you'll have to commence the world all over again."
"Heaven help us!" was the answer. "We are worse than naked; we owe money."
"Never mind, old woman," shouted a tipsy man, "there's the work'us open."
"Shut up, you brute!" cried an indignant female. "Have you no bowels?"
At the words, "We are ruined," a thrill shot through Basil. Here was a woman whom Newman Chaytor had wronged; here was a woman to whom atonement was due. He knew what it was right should be done, and he determined to do it. He lingered near them until the shop lay a mouldering heap of ruins; he heard a kind neighbour offer them lodging for the night; he marked the house they entered; and then he went home to his own lodging of one room. There, safely concealed, was a sum of money amounting to three hundred pounds; he took the whole of it, wrote on a sheet of paper, "In partial atonement of wrong committed in the past," and put the paper and the notes in an envelope, which he addressed to Mrs. Addison. Then he went to Mrs. Philpott's house. "You are late, sir," said that cheerful woman; "an hour behind time."
"I have been detained."
"You're not too late for supper, sir, at all events," said Mrs. Philpott; "I put it back for you."
"You must excuse me," said Basil; "something of pressing importance has occurred, and I want Mr. Philpott to come out with me immediately."
"Quite ready, sir," said Mr. Philpott, rising and getting his hat.
Mrs. Philpott, recognising that the business was urgent, did not press Basil further, although disappointment was in her face.
"At another time," said Basil, "I shall be glad to accept of your hospitality. Come, Mr. Philpott."
As they walked on Basil explained that he wished Mr. Philpott to take up the dropped threads of the search for Newman Chaytor, and then he explained what he wished to do at the present moment.
"It is purely a confidential matter," said Basil, "and is not to be spoken of in any way after the commission is executed. Here is the house. Some women are lodging here for the night whose place of business near Long Acre has been burnt down. You will ask for Mrs. Addison; if a mother and her daughter present themselves it is the daughter you must address. Ask her if she is the woman who has been burnt out, and if she answers in the affirmative give her this envelope, and come away at once. If she seeks to detain you and asks questions, do not answer them. I will wait for you on the opposite side."
He watched Mr. Philpott execute the commission, being right in his conjecture that the women would be too excited to seek their beds until late in the night. The woman with whom he had the interview appeared at the door, and received the envelope; after which Mr. Philpott joined him, as directed. At the corner of the street Basil and his companion paused and looked back at the house. In a few moments the woman who had answered Mr. Philpott's summons came quickly to the street door and looked eagerly up and down; Basil and Mr. Philpott were standing in the shadow, and could not be seen. The light of the street lamp assisted Basil to see her face: it was radiant with joy.
"A good night's work," said Basil, taking Mr. Philpott's arm and walking away. "I will call upon you to-morrow. Good night."
Mr. Philpott left him and proceeded homewards, as did Basil. He did not know that a man was following him with eager curiosity. He put his latchkey in the street door of his lodging, and as he did so the man touched his arm. Basil turned.
"What, Old Corrie!" he cried, in a voice of delight.
"No other," said Old Corrie, calmly. "It is Master Basil. I thought I wasn't mistaken. Well, well! This is a meeting to be thankful for. I'm in luck."