The editor looked up as his little daughter and Basil entered, and Edith immediately took upon herself the office of mistress of the ceremonies.
"This is Basil, father." The editor nodded. "He is going to spend the whole day with us."
"He is welcome," said the editor, who knew Basil by sight.
Basil smilingly explained that little Edith had taken entire possession, and was responsible for his intrusion.
"But you are not intruding," said the editor. "We shall be very pleased of your company. Our hive is ruled by a positive Queen Bee, and there she stands" – with an affectionate look at his daughter, who accepted her title with amusing gravity-"so that we cannot exactly help ourselves."
His tone was exceedingly cordial, and Basil, being heartily welcomed by Edith's mother, soon made himself at home. The young man's manners were very winning and afforded pleasure to Edith's parents, who had not, at least on the goldfields, met with a guest of so much culture and refinement. Regarding Basil as her special property, Edith pretty well monopolised his attention in the intervals between meals, but sufficient of Basil's character was revealed to the editor to set him thinking. He saw that he was entertaining a gentleman and a man of attainments, and he felt how valuable such an assistant would be on the editorial staff of his newspaper. The journalists in his employ had sprung out of the rough elements of colonial life, and although they were fairly capable men, they lacked the polish which Basil possessed. The result of his reflections was that before the day was out he made Basil a business proposition.
"It occurs to me," said the shrewd fellow, "that you are not exactly cut out for a digger's life."
"I am afraid you are right," said Basil, with a smile in which a touch of sadness might be detected.
"Why not try something else?" asked the editor.
"It is difficult to know what," replied Basil; "there are so few things for which I am fitted."
"There is one in which you would make your mark."
"May I know what it is? I may differ from you; but it would be a pleasant hearing."
"Sub-editor of the Princetown Argus, for instance," suggested the editor, coming straight to the point. He was not the kind of man to take two bites at a cherry.
Basil looked him in the face; the proposition startled and gratified him. "You rush at a conclusion somewhat hastily," he said.
"Not at all. I know what I am talking about. You are cut out for just that position."
"I have never done anything in the literary way."
"I'll take the risk," said the editor. "A man may go floundering about all his life without falling into his proper groove. You are not bound to any other engagement in Princetown?"
"To none. I am quite free."
"And you can commence at once?"
"If you are serious."
"I was never more so. It might be agreeable to you to take up your quarters with us. In two days I will have a sleeping apartment built for you, adjoining our little bit of garden. You are a sociable man and a gentleman, and we should be glad to have you at our table. From your conversation I should say you have had a classical education. Am I right?"
"Quite right; but I am not a very bright scholar. You must not expect great things."
"I expect what you are able to supply; you haven't half enough confidence in yourself. Why, if I had your advantages-but never mind, I haven't done badly with my small stock of brains. We'll wake them up." He rubbed his hands. "You will be a bit strange at first, but I'll put you in the way of things. I look upon it as settled."
"Would it not be prudent," said Basil, "for you to take a little time for consideration?"
"Not an hour; not a minute. Strike while the iron's hot. My dear sir, this is a go-ahead country. Shake hands on the bargain."
They shook hands upon it, and immediately afterwards the editor regarded Basil with a thoughtful air, and said:
"You puzzle me, you do not ask anything about terms."
"I am content to leave them to you. Wait till you see whether I am worth anything."
"No, the risk is mine, as I have said. Will six pounds a week and board and lodging suit you?"
"It is too much."
"You will be satisfied with it for the first month?"
"More than satisfied."
"It is arranged, then. If we continue together you shall have an advance at the end of the month, and I shall bind you down not to leave me without a month's notice."
"On my part, I will be so bound. You are free to discharge me without notice."
"It shall be the same to both of us. As you are to commence to-morrow you might think of a subject for a 'leader' in Tuesday's paper. By Wednesday your bedroom will be ready, and you can live with us as long as you are on the staff. We shall have reason to congratulate ourselves on the arrangement we have made."
CHAPTER XXVI
Certainly neither Basil nor his employer had reason to be otherwise. It led to important results in Basil's career, and in years to come he often thought of the child, the chance meeting with whom in the churchyard conducted him, by both straight and devious paths, to a goal which he had not dared to hope he would ever reach. Between him and Edith loving links were soon firmly forged which time was never to sever. This sweet and human bond was of inestimable value to Basil; it raised him from the slough of despond into which he had sunk; the hand of a little child lifted him to a man's height. He was profoundly grateful; he had now a happy home, he had congenial work to do. The doubts he had entertained of his fitness for the position were dispelled in a very short time. He threw himself with ardour and animation into his new duties, which he performed in a manner that more than justified the confidence reposed in him. Nominally sub-editor, but really editor of the paper, he infused into its columns a spirit of intelligence which made it more popular than ever. It was talked of as an example of what a newspaper should be, and Basil's opinions upon colonial matters were quoted in the more influential journals in the colonies as those of a man of far-seeing judgment. A classical allusion now and then added to the value of Basil's writings, and all Princetown was proud of him because of the vicarious distinction conferred, through him, upon its inhabitants. "A clever fellow that," said John Jones, of the Only Beehive, appreciating Basil the more because of his own utter ignorance of the classics. There was a talk of Basil's representing the division in the Legislative Assembly, but he promptly set that aside by emphatically declaring that he had no desire for public life or parliamentary honours. Thus six months passed by, when a revelation was made to him which caused him to carry out a resolve deplored by all Princetown.
The official quarters of the township, where public business was transacted, was known as the Government Camp. In this camp, which was laid out upon the slope of a hill, were situated the Magistrate's Court, the buildings in which the mounted troopers lodged, where the gold escort was made up, where miners' disputes were adjusted, and where miners paid their yearly sovereign for miners' rights, which gave lawful sanction to their delving for the precious metal and appropriating the treasure they extracted from the soil. There were swells in the Government Camp, members of good families in the old country, for whom something in the shape of official employment had to be found. It is pleasant to be able to record that there were few sinecures among these employments, most of the holders having to do something in the shape of work for their salaries. It was when Basil had served on the staff of the Princetown Argus for a space of six months, and had saved during that period a matter of two hundred pounds, that a new Goldfields' Warden made his appearance at the Government Camp. The name of this gentleman was Majoribanks, and when we presently part with him he will play no further part in our story; but it will be seen that the small rôle he fills in it is sufficiently pregnant.
Mr. Majoribanks was "a new chum" in the colony. Arriving in the capital with high credentials, the influence of his connections provided him almost immediately with a berth to which a good salary, with pickings, was attached. The position of Goldfields' Warden on Princetown was vacant, and he was appointed to it. His special fitness for the office need not here be discussed. Many members of good families in England, whose wild ways rendered desirable their removal to another sphere, developed faculties in Australia which elevated them into respectable members of society, which they certainly would not have been had they remained in the old world, surrounded by temptations. Mr. Majoribanks was not a bad fellow at bottom, and it was a fortunate day for him and his family when they exchanged farewell greetings.
There were not many gentlemen-in Mr. Majoribanks' understanding of the term-in Princetown, and when the new Goldfields' Warden came in contact with Basil, he recognised the superior metal in the hero of our story. The casual acquaintance they formed ripened into intimacy, and they met often in Mr. Majoribanks' quarters and passed many a pleasant hour together.
"Come and have a smoke this evening," said Mr. Majoribanks to Basil one Saturday afternoon.
Saturday was the only day in the week which Basil could call his own, and he was glad of the invitation and accepted it. Mr. Majoribanks knew Basil only, as others knew him, by the name of Basil and had not taken the trouble to inquire whether it was a surname. So the two gentlemen sat in Mr. Majoribanks' snug quarters on this particular Saturday, and discussed a dainty little meal, cooked in capital style by the Goldfields' Warden's Chinese cook. The meal finished, they adjourned to the verandah, and lit their cigars.
They had much in common; they had travelled over familiar country in Europe and they compared notes, recalling experiences of old times which in their likeness to each other drew them closer together.
"Upon my soul," remarked Mr. Majoribanks, "it is an exceedingly pleasant thing to find one's self in the company of a gentleman. It makes banishment endurable. Do you ever think of returning to England?"
"One day, perhaps," replied Basil.
"I hope we shall meet there," said Mr. Majoribanks. "Is it allowable to ask what brought you out to the goldfields?"
"I lost my fortune," said Basil, "and not knowing what to turn my hand to came to Australia to make another."
"Is it again allowable to ask whether you have succeeded?"
"I have not succeeded."
"If you had been a bricklayer or a navvy in England you might tell a different tale."
"It is not unlikely."
"A gentleman stands but little chance here," observed Mr. Majoribanks. "We are treated in the colonies to a complete reversal of the proper order of things. I suppose in the course of time Australia will cut itself away from the old country and become republic."
"It is certainly on the cards, but it will be a long time before that occurs; there are so many different interests, you see."
"A jumble of odd elements," said Mr. Majoribanks.
"When there is a real Australian population," said Basil, "men and women born and living here, with no reminiscences of what is now called 'home,' then the movement of absolute self-government will take serious form."
"Ah, well, I don't believe in the self-made man. I stick to the old order."
"Individual opinion will not change the current of natural changes. It is not to be expected that this vast continent will be for ever satisfied to remain a dependency of a kingdom so many thousands of miles away. The talk about federation may satisfy for a time, but it is merely a sop in the pan. By-and-by will come the larger question of a nation with an autonomous constitution like the United States. Children cut themselves from their mother's apron strings: so it will be with these colonies."
"You have made a study of such matters."
"To some extent. My position on our local paper has sent me in that direction."
"You like your position?"
"Tolerably well. I cannot say I am wedded to it, but I must not be ungrateful."
Then the conversation drifted into channels more personal. Mr. Majoribanks launched into a recital of certain experiences in England and the Continent, and mourned the break in a career more congenial to him than that of Goldfields' Warden in Princetown, which he declared to be confoundedly dull and uninteresting. He missed his theatres, his club, his race meetings, his fashionable society, and many a sigh escaped him as he dwelt upon these fascinating themes. Then occurred a pause, and some sudden reminiscence, as yet untouched, caused him to regard his companion with more than ordinary curiosity.
"An odd idea strikes me," he said. "Have you a twin brother?"
"No," replied Basil, smiling. "What makes you ask?"
"No, of course that is not likely," said Mr. Majoribanks. "If you had a twin brother his name would not be Basil. It is singular for all that. But it is a most extraordinary likeness. A cousin of yours perhaps?"
"I haven't the slightest idea of your meaning. I have no cousins that I am aware of."
"It has only just struck me. As I looked at you a moment ago I saw the wonderful resemblance between you and a man I met in Paris. Basil is not a very common name."
"Not very. Had the gentleman you met in Paris another tacked to it?"
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Majoribanks. "Whittingham."
"Whittingham!" exclaimed Basil, greatly startled.
"Basil Whittingham-that is the gentleman's full name; and, by the way, I was told, I remember, that he had been in Australia, gold-digging. It is a curious story-but you seem excited."
"With good cause," said Basil. "My name is Basil Whittingham."
"You don't say so?"
"It is a fact."
"Well, that makes it all the stranger." Basil rose and paced the verandah in uncontrollable excitement. The full significance of this extraordinary revelation did not immediately dawn upon him, and at present he did not connect Newman Chaytor with it. Out of the chaos of thought which stirred his mind he evoked nothing intelligible. Mr. Majoribanks' eyes followed him as he paced to and fro, and fixed themselves frankly upon him when he paused and faced him.
"Were you aware that my name is Whittingham?" asked Basil.
"Upon my honour, no," replied Mr. Majoribanks.
"There is some mystery here," said Basil, mastering his excitement, "which it seems imperative should be solved. As you remarked, Basil is not a common name; neither is Whittingham; and that the two should be associated in the person of a man who bears so wonderful a resemblance to me that you would have taken us to be twin brothers, makes it all the more mysterious and inexplicable. You are not joking with me?"
"As I am a gentleman, I have told you nothing but the truth. There are such things as coincidences, you know."
"Yes; but if this is one, it is the strangest I have ever heard of."
"It has all the appearance of it," said Mr. Majoribanks, thoughtfully. "Within my knowledge there are only two men bearing the name of Whittingham-one, myself, the other an uncle in England, with whom, unfortunately, I had some differences of opinion."
"Ah," said Mr. Majoribanks, "the coincidences continue. The gentleman I refer to had an uncle of the name of Whittingham with whom he also had some differences of opinion."
"Had an uncle?"
"Who is dead," said Mr. Majoribanks.
"My uncle was a gentleman of fortune."
"So was his."
"I was to have been his heir. I displeased him and he disinherited me. That was really the reason why I left England for Australia."
Mr. Majoribanks fell back in his chair, and said, "You take my breath away."
"Why?"
"Why? Because that is the sum total of the story which I said just now was so curious. Mr. Whittingham, there must be something more than coincidence in all this."
"Oblige me a moment. Let me think."
He turned his back upon Mr. Majoribanks, and steadied himself. By a determined effort he subdued the chaos of thought by which he was agitated. The form of Newman Chaytor rose before him. Was it possible that this man, in whom he had placed implicit trust, who knew the whole story of his life, who had deserted him and left him for dead without taking the trouble to assure himself that his fall down the shaft was fatal-was it possible that this man had played him false? It seemed scarcely credible, but what other construction was to be placed upon the story which Mr. Majoribanks had revealed to him. He paused again before his companion, and said in his most earnest tone:
"Mr. Majoribanks, a vital issue hangs upon the information you have given me. I am sure you will not trifle with me. You are a gentleman, and your word is not to be doubted. Were you intimately acquainted with this double, who bears my name, who so strangely resembles me, and whose story is so similar to my own?"
"There was no intimacy whatever," said Mr. Majoribanks. "I saw him once, and once only, in Paris, and we passed an evening together. When I parted from him-a party of us went to the Comédie Française that night to see Bernhardt-I saw him no more. The way of it was this. It being resolved in solemn family council that I was to retrieve my battered fortunes in the Sahara, I paid a last visit to dear delightful Paris to bid it a long adieu. A friend accompanied me, and a friend of his to whom he was under an obligation-to speak plainly, a money-lender-happening to be in Paris at the same time, we chummed together. We dined at the Grand, and there, at another table, sat your prototype. Our money-lending friend, who knows everything and everybody, pointed him out to us, and told us his story. His name was Basil Whittingham; he had been in Australia, gold-digging; he had a wealthy uncle of the same surname whom he had offended, and who had driven him out of his native land, with an intimation that he was to consider himself disinherited. Upon his death-bed, however, the old gentleman's hard heart softened, and he made a will by which the discarded nephew was restored to his good graces, and became heir to all he possessed. The fortune which fell to your lucky double was not in land and houses; it was in something better, hard cash, and it amounted, so far as I can recollect, to not less than between fifty and sixty thousand pounds. Whereupon the lucky heir winged his way homeward, by which time his uncle had joined the majority, and took possession of his windfall. Our money-lending friend had some slight acquaintance with the heir, and we were introduced. It was a night I had occasion to remember, quite apart from any connection you may have with the story. Do you adhere to it that it resembles yours?"
"Up to the day upon which I left England it agrees with it entirely. As to what subsequently occurred I knew nothing until this moment."
"Well, all that I can say-without understanding in the least, mind you, how it could have come about-is, that I would look into it, if I were in your place."
"It shall be looked into. Do you remember if the uncle's christian name was mentioned?"
"I cannot quite say. Refresh my memory; it may have been."
"Bartholomew."
"Upon my word, now you mention it, I think Bartholomew was mentioned. Another uncommon name."
"You have occasion to remember that night, you said, apart from me. May I inquire in what way?"
"Well, when we left the theatre, we adjourned to a private room in the Grand, and there we had a little flutter. Baccarat was the game, and I was cleaned out. Upon my honour, I think I was the most unfortunate beggar under the sun. I give you my word that I hadn't enough left to pay my hotel bill, which was the last legacy I left my honoured father."
"Your money-lending friend won the money, I suppose?"
"He won a bit, but the spoil fell principally to an elderly gentleman of the name of-of-of-now what was the fellow's name? It wasn't English, nor was he an Englishman. Ah. I have it. Bidaud-yes, Bidaud."
Basil's face turned white; there was no longer room for doubt that foul treachery had been done. It was Newman Chaytor who had plotted and planned for his destruction. This he might have borne, and the white heat of his anger might have grown cold with time. But Anthony Bidaud's introduction into the bad scheme included also Annette, a possible victim in the treachery. That she should become the prey of these villains, and that he should allow her life to be ruined, her happiness to be blasted, without an effort to save her, was not to be thought of. The scales fell from his eyes, and he saw Newman Chaytor in his true light. By what crooked paths the end had been reached he could not, in the excitement of the moment, determine. That would have to be thought out presently; meanwhile his resolution was taken. To remain inactive would be the work of a coward.
"You know the name of Bidaud?" said Mr. Majoribanks.
"I know it well," said Basil. "Did this M. Bidaud accompany you to the theatre on that night?"
"He did."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"He and this namesake of mine were companions, I take it."
"Something more than companions, to all appearances. Close friends rather."
"Did they appear to be on good terms with each other?"
"On the best of terms."
"I hope," said Basil, "you will excuse me for questioning you so closely, but this is a matter that very deeply affects me."
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Majoribanks, "you are heartily welcome to every scrap of information I can give that will throw light upon this most mysterious piece of business. It is altogether the strangest thing I ever heard. I'll not ask you who the other fellow is, but I have a faint idea that he must be the most unmitigated scoundrel on the face of the earth. Tell me as much or as little as you please, and in the meantime fire away."
"My namesake was dining at the Grand Hotel when you first saw him. Was M. Bidaud in his company?"
"He was; they were dining together at a separate table."
"Were any ladies with them?"
"I'll not pledge myself. So far as I can recollect, there was no one else at the table."
"Did you hear talk of any ladies of their acquaintance?"
"I think not. Stop, though. I fancy there was an allusion to a pretty niece."
"Annette lives," thought Basil, and said aloud, "An allusion made by M. Bidaud to my namesake?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Who suggested the adjournment to a private room after the theatre?"
"The invitation was given by M. Bidaud, and we accepted it. I was always ready for that kind of thing-too ready, my people say. So off we went, and played till daylight, with the aforesaid result."
"Were M. Bidaud and my namesake living permanently in Paris?"
"I fancy not; something was said of their travelling about for pleasure."
"One more question," said Basil, "and I have done. There was an allusion to a pretty niece. Are you aware whether the young lady was travelling with her uncle?"
"I am not, and I do not remember what the allusion was. I think I have completely emptied my budget."
"I thank you sincerely; you have rendered me an inestimable service. I have no wish to have my affairs talked about, and you will add to the obligation if you will consider this conversation confidential."
"Certainly, my dear fellow, as you desire it. It is entirely between ourselves."
They parted shortly afterwards, and Basil, plunged in thought, returned to the township. The first step he took was to consult the file of the Princetown Argus for a record of the accident in which he had so nearly lost his life. He had heard that its earliest numbers contained accounts of his discovery and rescue, but he had not hitherto had the curiosity to hunt them up and read them. It was now imperative that he should make himself acquainted with every particular of the affair. He found without difficulty what he sought, and as he read through the reports of his condition which were published from day to day he dwelt upon portions which a year ago he would have considered monstrous inventions or exaggerations. Thus: "There is a certain element of mystery in the affair, and we shall briefly allude to one or two points which seem to have a bearing upon it." Again: "Inferring that there were two men working the shaft, is it possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at the top of the shaft made tracks from the place and left his mate to a cruel and lingering death?" The inference here sought to be established was not to be mistaken-to wit, that Newman Chaytor had purposely left him to a cruel and lingering death. And still more significant: "An opinion has been expressed that the rope has been tampered with, and that it did not break from natural wear and tear." Given that the peril into which he had been plunged was the result of design, there was more than a seeming confirmation of the opinion that the rope had been tampered with. Basil, being now engaged upon a full consideration of the circumstances, remembered that the rope to all appearance was perfectly sound. That being so, it was Chaytor's deliberate intention to murder him by weakening the strands. When suspicion enters the mind of a man who has trusted and been deceived, it is hard to dislodge it; small incidents and spoken words to which no importance was attached at the time they were uttered, present themselves and gather force until they assume a dark significance. When Basil laid aside the file of newspapers he had arrived at the conclusion that Chaytor had deliberately schemed for the fatal end which had been averted by the merest accident. Old Corrie's warnings and distrust of Chaytor came to his mind. "Corrie was right," thought Basil; "he read this man better than I did."
But clear as Chaytor's villainy had appeared to be, there was much that Basil was unable to comprehend. In what way had Chaytor discovered that Basil's uncle had repented of his determination to disinherit his nephew? How and by what means had it come to the villain's knowledge? Upon these and other matters Basil had yet to be enlightened.
He continued his mental search. Chaytor, returning to England, had succeeded in obtaining possession of his inheritance; and-what was of still greater weight to Basil-he had succeeded in introducing himself to Anthony Bidaud as the man he represented himself to be. "There was an allusion to a pretty niece." Then Chaytor was with Annette, playing Basil's part. Was it likely that Annette would be deceived. Years had passed since they had met, and the woman might have reason to doubt her childhood's memories. A cunning plausible villain this Newman Chaytor. Successful in imposing upon Annette, in wooing and perhaps winning her-Basil groaned at the thought-what a future was before her! There was a clear duty before him. To go to England with as little delay as possible, and unmask the plot.
That night he counted the money he had saved; it amounted to two hundred and thirty pounds. He could land in the old country with a hundred and fifty pounds. He consulted the exchange newspapers sent to the office. In seventeen days a steamer would start from Sydney for England. By that vessel he would take his departure.