"Certainly he would," replied Mr. Philpott. "But that was simple enough in Mr. Basil Whittingham's case. He had been in correspondence with his uncle for some time previous to his departure from Australia."
"What do you tell me?" cried Basil.
"It is an established fact," said Mr. Philpott, expressing no surprise; but Basil's tone no less than his words, opened his eyes still further. "A few days before Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's death he wrote to his nephew in Australia, announcing his change of intention. This letter was forwarded to Mr. Basil by his uncle's lawyers, who, as you now know, are not the same he employed in former years."
"Basil Whittingham," said Basil, unable to repress his excitement, "received these letters in Australia?"
"Undoubtedly. He brought them home with him, and others also which he had previously received from his uncle's lawyers."
"There was a regular correspondence with them, then?"
"Yes, extending over a considerable time."
This was a fresh and startling revelation to Basil. Newman Chaytor had not only personated him in England, but had personated him at a distance, receiving letters intended for him and forging letters in reply.
"He robbed me of my papers," groaned Basil inly, "and obtained possession of the means to prove him the man he represented himself to be. The base, unutterable villain! He smiled in my face, a living lie! And I trusted in him, believed in him, laid my heart bare to him, and all the time he was planning my destruction. Just Heaven! Give me the power to bring him to the punishment he deserves!"
But did the foul plot go farther than this? Every time Chaytor returned from the colonial post-office it was with the same answer-there were no letters for Basil Whittingham. And the had received and answered them; they were on his person while he was uttering the infamous falsehood, smiling in Basil's face the while. To what depths would human cunning and duplicity go! The tale, related to Basil by one who had been wronged, would have sounded incredible. He would have asked, "Is not this man labouring under some monstrous delusion?" But the bitter experience was his, and no tale would now be too wild for disbelief. Again he asked himself, did the plot go farther than what had already come to his knowledge? Newman Chaytor, going to the post-office for letters for him, would receive all addressed to his name.
What if Annette had written? It was more than possible, it was probable; it was more than probable, it was true. At this conclusion he quickly arrived. Annette had redeemed her promise; she had written to him as she said she would, and had received Chaytor's letters in reply. This explained how it was that Chaytor had been able to find Annette and her uncle. Did Gilbert Bidaud suspect, and was he trading upon the suspicion; and were the two villains conspiring for the destruction of the poor girl's happiness? Basil looked round pitifully, despairingly, as though invoking the assistance of an unknown power.
"You seem disturbed," said Mr. Philpott, who had been attentively observing him.
"The news you have imparted," said Basil, "is terrible. Is there no way of discovering this Basil Whittingham?"
"We might advertise for him," suggested Mr. Philpott.
Basil shook his head. "If he saw the advertisement he would not answer it."
"Hallo," thought Mr. Philpott, "our absent friend has done something that would place him in the criminal dock." Professionally he was in the habit of hiding his hand, so far as the expression of original thought went. "But some one who knows him," he said, "might see the advertisement, and answer for him."
Basil caught at the suggestion. "Advertise, then, and in such a manner as not to alarm him."
"Trust me for that," said Mr. Philpott, with great confidence. "I know how to bait my line."
But the advertisements meet with no response. Worked up to fever heat, Basil instructed Mr. Philpott to spare no expense, and the inquiry was prosecuted with wasted vigour, for at the end of two months they had not advanced a step. Basil was in agony; he grew morbid, and raised up accusing voices against himself. The reflection that Annette, the sweet and innocent child who had given him her heart, should be in the power of two such villains as Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor was an inexpressible torture to him. He had accepted from her father a sacred trust-how had he fulfilled it? He inflicted exquisite suffering upon himself by arguing that it was he who had betrayed her, that it was through him she had been brought to this pass. Had she not known him she would never had known Newman Chaytor; had he not worked upon her young affections and extracted her promise to write to him it would have been impossible that Chaytor should ever have crossed her path. He pressed into this self-condemnation all the cruel logic his mind could devise. As he walked the streets at night Annette's image arose before him and gazed upon him reproachfully. "You have compassed my ruin." It seemed to say, "you are the cause of my corruption, of my dishonour." He accepted the accusation, and groaned, "It is I, it is I, who have made your life a waste!" Of all the dolorous phases through which he had passed this perhaps was the worst. But he had yet another bitter experience to encounter. On a Saturday evening Mr. Philpott said:
"I must speak honestly. I have done all I could, and nothing has come of it. I might continue as long as you continued to engage my services, but it would be only throwing your money away."
It was an unusual confession for a man in his line to make. Private inquiry agents have generally the quality of the leech, and will suck the last drop of blood out of a client, but Basil had won the commiseration of his landlord.
"I must take the case into my own hands," said Basil gloomily. "I intended, indeed, to tell you as much myself-for pressing reasons. I thank you for all you have done for me."
"Little enough," said Mr. Philpott "I wish you better luck than I have had. Mind you, I don't give it up entirely, but if I do anything more it will not be for pay."
"You are, and have been, very kind. Have you made out your account?"
Mr. Philpott presented it, and Basil settled it. Then he said: "Will you ask your wife to step up and see me?"
"Yes, sir. Now don't you be cast down, sir; it is a long lane that has no turning, and there's no telling at any moment what may turn up. I should like to take the liberty of asking one question."
"Ask it."
"If, after all, the search should be successful, is it likely you would be in a better position than you are now? I am taking a liberty, I know, but I don't mean it as such. You told me at first you were not overburdened with funds; if it has been all going out and none coming in, you must be worse off now."
"I am very much worse off, Mr. Philpott. I will answer your question. Should I succeed in finding the man I am hunting-a poor hunt it has proved to be, with no quarry in view-I have reason to believe that I should obtain funds which would enable me to discharge any liabilities I may incur."
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Philpott, pushing across the table the money which Basil had paid him; "then suppose I wait."
"No," said Basil gently, "take it while you are sure of it, and you have a family."
"But I can afford to wait, sir. If I lost ten times as much it would not break me."
"I must insist upon you taking it, Mr. Philpott."
It was the pride of the poor gentleman, who would leave himself penniless rather than leave an obligation unsettled. Mr. Philpott recognised it as such, and recognised also that it marked the difference between them-which increased the respect he felt for Basil. He pocketed the money reluctantly.
"Send your wife up to me, Mr. Philpott."
"I will, sir."
Basil had indeed pressing reasons for dispensing with Mr. Philpott's further services. The larger expenses of the last few weeks had brought his funds to a very low ebb. He took out his purse and counted his worldly wealth; it amounted to less than two pounds. He was standing at poverty's door. In Australia, on the goldfields, it would not have mattered so much. Earnest labour there can always ensure at least food for the passing day; it is only the idle and dissolute and men without a backbone who have to endure hunger; but here in this overcrowded city hunger is no rare experience to those who are willing to toil. Needless to say that the watch and chain which had been presented to Basil in Princetown was no longer in Basil's possession. The prospect before him, physically and morally, was appalling.
There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," said Basil, and Mrs. Philpott entered the room.
"My husband tells me you wish to see me, sir," said the landlady.
"Take a seat, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil. "I hope you have brought your weekly account; you should have given it to me yesterday."
"Friday's an unlucky day, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, fencing.
"But to-day is Saturday," said Basil, with a smile.
"There's no hurry, sir, I assure you."
Basil looked at her and shook his head. His look, and the weary, mournful expression on his face, brought tears to the good creature's eyes.
"I must insist upon having the account, Mrs. Philpott."
"Well, sir, if you insist," said Mrs. Philpott, reduced to helplessness; "it is only the rent, seven shillings."
"There are breakfasts," said Basil, "with which you have been good enough to supply me. I have not kept faith with you. When I took these rooms I promised to pay always a fortnight's rent in advance; lately I have not done so."
"How could you pay, sir, when you didn't know what the breakfasts came to?"
"That does not excuse me. Oblige me by telling me how much I owe you."
"If you won't be denied, sir, it's twelve and tenpence."
"There it is, and I am infinitely obliged to you. Mrs. Philpott, I am sorry to say I must give you a week's notice."
"You're never going to leave us, sir! Is there anything wrong with the rooms? We'll have it put right in a twinkling."
"The rooms are very comfortable, and I wish I could remain in them; but it cannot be."
"You must remain, sir, really you must. I won't take your notice. You must sleep somewhere Philpott will never forgive me if I let you go."
Her consciousness of the strait he was in, and her pity for it, were so unmistakable-her desire to befriend him and her sympathy were so clearly expressed-that Basil covered his eyes with his hand, and remained silent awhile. When he removed his hand he said:
"I am truly sensible of your goodness, Mrs. Philpott, but it must be as I say."
"Think better of it, sir," urged Mrs. Philpott. "You are a gentleman and I am only a common woman, but I am old enough to be your mother, and I don't think you ought to treat me so-so" – exactly the right word did not occur to her, so she added-"suddenly. Here you are, sir, all alone, if you'll excuse me for saying so, and here we are with more rooms in the house than we know what to do with. Why, sir, if you'll stay it will be obliging us."
All her kindly efforts were unavailing. She asked him to make the notice a month instead of a week, and then she came down to a fortnight, and made some reference to clouds with silver linings; but Basil was not to be prevailed upon, and she left the room in a despondent state.
"We'll keep an eye on him if we can," her husband said to her when she gave him an account of the interview. "I may find out something yet that will be of use to him. It is a strange case, old woman, and I don't mind confessing that I can't see the bottom of it."
CHAPTER XXIX
Sternly resolved to carry out his determination not to occupy rooms for which he could not pay, Basil left Mrs. Philpott's house on the appointed day. It was his wish to quit without being observed, but Mrs. Philpott was on the look-out and lay in wait for him. Before he reached the street door she barred his way in the landing.
"You're not going away, sir," she said reproachfully, "without wishing the children good-bye."
In honest and affectionate friendship there is frequently displayed a pleasant quality of cunning which it does no harm to meet with, and in her exercise of it Mrs. Philpott pressed her children into the service. Basil had no alternative but to accompany her into the parlour, where the four little fellows were sitting at the table waiting for dinner.
"You'll excuse me a minute, sir," said the good woman; "if I don't fill their plates before they're five minutes older they'll set up a howl."
Out she bustled, and quickly returned with a mighty dish of Irish stew.
"Philpott says," said Mrs. Philpott as she placed the steaming dish on the table, "that no one in the world can make an Irish stew like mine; and what father says is law, isn't it, children? I always have dinner with them, sir; perhaps you'll join us. I really should like to know if you're of my husband's opinion. Now this looks home-like" – as Basil, who had independence of spirit, but no false pride, took his seat at the table where a chair and a plate had already been set for him-"almost as if father was with us, or as if the children had a great big brother who had been abroad ever so many years, and had popped in quite sudden to surprise us."
All the time she was talking she was filling up the plates, and the little party fell-to with a will, Basil eating as heartily as the rest. Mrs. Philpott was delighted at the success of her ruse, but she was careful not to show her pleasure, and when Basil said, in answer to her inquiry, that he had had enough, she did not press him to take more. When dinner was over the children had to be taken out of the room to have their faces washed; they were brought back for Basil to kiss, and then were sent into the street to play policemen.
"You'll let us hear of you from time to time, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, as she and Basil stood at the street door. "Philpott is regular downhearted because of your going. I'm not to let your rooms again, he says, so there they are sir, ready for you whenever you do us the pleasure to come. We're getting along in the world, sir, and the few shillings a-week don't matter to us now."
"I am truly glad to hear it, Mrs. Philpott," said Basil.
"There was a time," continued Mrs. Philpott, "when it did matter, and when every shilling was worth its weight in gold in a manner of speaking. We've had our ups and downs, sir, as most people have, and if it hadn't been for a friendly hand heaven only knows where we should be at this present minute. We were in such low water, sir, we didn't know which way to turn. Philpott says to me, 'Mother,' he says- I hope I'm not wearying you, sir," said Mrs. Philpott, breaking off in the middle of her sentence.
"Pray go on," said Basil, feeling that it would be churlish to check her.
"It's a comfort, sir," continued Mrs. Philpott, "to open one's heart. It doesn't make me melancholy to look back to those days, though my spirit was almost broke at the time; I'm proud and grateful that we've tided them over, with the help of God and the good friend He sent us. 'Mother,' says Philpott to me, 'I'm on my beam ends. We're in a wood, and there's no way out of it.' 'Don't you go on like that, father,' I says; 'you keep on trying, and you'll see a way out presently.' For I'm one of that sort of women, sir, if you won't mind my saying as much, who never give in and don't know when they're beat. I don't mean to say I don't suffer; I do, but I put a brave face on it and never: say die. 'You keep on trying, father,' I says. 'Now haven't I kept on trying?' says he. 'For eight weeks I've answered every advertisement in the paper, and applied for a job in hundreds and hundreds of places without getting the smell of one. I'm ashamed to look you in the face, mother, for if it wasn't for you our boy would starve.' We only had one then, sir, and as for being ashamed to look me in the face Philpott ought to have been ashamed to say as much. All that I did was to get a day's charing wherever I could, and a bit of washing when I heard there was a chance of it, and that was how we kept the wolf from the door. But I fell ill, sir, and couldn't stir out of doors, and was so weak that I couldn't stand at the wash-tub without fainting away. Things were bad indeed then, and Philpott took on so that I did lose heart a bit. Well, sir, when we'd parted with everything we could raise a penny upon, when we didn't know where we should get our next meal from though it was only dry bread, heaven sent us a friend. An old friend of Philpott's, sir, that he hadn't seen for years, and that he'd been fond of and kind to when he was a young man, before he kept company with me. Philpott had lent him a couple of pound, and he'd gone off to America, and, now, sir, now, in the very nick of time, he came home to pay it back. Did you ever see the sun shine as bright as bright can be in a dark room at ten o'clock at night-for that was the time when Philpott's friend opened the door, and cried, 'Does Mr. Philpott live here?' It shone in our room, sir, though there was never a candle to light it up, and Philpott was sitting by me with his head in his hands. Philpott starts up in a fright-when people are in the state we were brought to the least unexpected, thing makes their hearts beat with fear-he starts up and says, 'Who are you?' 'That's Philpott's voice,' says our friend. 'I'd know it among a thousand; but don't you know mine, old fellow? And what are you sitting in the dark for?' Then he tells us who he is, and Philpott takes hold of his hand and says he's glad to see his old friend-which he couldn't, sir-and, ashamed of his poverty, pulls him out of the room. He comes back almost directly, and stoops over me and kisses me, and whispers that heaven has sent us a friend when most we needed one, and I feel my dear man's tears on my face. Then, sir, if you'll believe me it seemed to me as if the sun was shining in our dark room, and all the trouble in my mind flew straight away. From that time all went well with us; it was right about face in real earnest. Philpott's friend had another friend who got my husband in the force, and now we've got a bit of money put by for a rainy day, and don't need the rent for a couple of empty rooms."
Mrs. Philpott's account of her troubles was much longer than she intended to make it, and her concluding words were spoken wistfully and appealingly. They were not lost upon Basil, but they did not turn him from his purpose. With a kindly pressure of her hand, and promising to call and see her unless circumstances prevented-which meant unless his fortunes remained in their present desperate condition-he took his leave of her and passed out of her sight.
"Poor young gentleman," sighed the good woman. "I would have given the world if he'd have stopped with us. What on earth will become of him? It's hard to come down like that. Better to be born poor and remain so, than to be born rich and lose everything. His face was the image of despair, though he was politeness itself all the time I was talking. I sha'n't be able to get him out of my head."
She and her husband talked of him that night, and if kind wishes and sympathising words were of practical value, Basil would have been comforted and strengthened.
Strengthened in some poor way he was. It had been his hard fate to be made the victim of as black treachery as one man ever practised towards another; but he had met with kindness also at the hands of strangers. He strove to extract consolation from that reflection. Heaven knows he needed it, for he was now to make acquaintance with poverty in its grimmest aspect. He was absolutely powerless. He had debated with himself various courses which might be said to be open to a man in his extremity, but he saw no possible road to success in any one of them. The most feasible was that he should go to a capable lawyer and endeavour to enlist his skill on his behalf. But what lawyer would listen to a man who presented himself with a tale so strange and without the smallest means to pay for services rendered? It would be a natural conclusion that he was mad, or that he, being Newman Chaytor, was adopting this desperate expedient to prove himself to be Basil Whittingham. That he was a gentleman was true; he had the manners of one, but so had many who were not gentlemen. Then his appearance was against him; he had no other clothes than those he stood upright in, and these were shabby and in bad repair. Even if he had possessed assurance, it would not have served him-nay, it would have told against him, as proclaiming, "Here is a plausible scoundrel, who seeks to deceive us by swagger." He was truly in a helpless plight.
The necessity of living was forced upon him, and to live a man must have money to purchase food. Recalling the efforts made by Mr. Philpott in his days of distress, as described by that man's good wife, he applied for situations he saw advertised, but there were a hundred applicants for every office, and he ever arrived too late, or was pushed aside, or was considered unsuitable. In one of his applications he was very nearly successful, but it came to a question of character, and he had no reference except the editor of the Princetown Argus, who was fourteen thousand miles away. What wonder that he was laughed at and dismissed? Then he thought that his experiences on the goldfields and his training as a journalist might help him, and he wrote some sketches and articles and sent them to magazines and newspapers. He heard nothing of them after they were dropped into the editorial boxes. The fault may have been his own, for he had no heart to throw spirit into his effusions, but his state was no less pitiable because of that. He felt as if indeed he had for ever lost his place in the world. By day he walked the streets, and at night occupied a bed in the commonest of London lodging-houses. At first he paid fourpence for his bed, but latterly he could afford no more than two-pence, and presently he would not be able to afford even that. It was a stipulation of his nightly accommodation that he should turn out early in the morning, and this he was willing enough to do, for he had but little sleep, and the beings he was compelled to herd with filled him with dismay. It was not their poverty that shocked him; it was their language, their sentiments, their expressions of pleasure in all that was depraved. He had had no idea of the existence of such classes, and now that he came face to face with them he shrank from them in horror. Had they been merely thieves it is possible that he might have tolerated them, and even entertained pity for them, arguing that they were born to theft, that their parents had been thieves before them and had taught them no better; or that they had been driven into the ranks by sheer necessity; but it was the corruption of their souls that terrified him; it was the consciousness that with vice and virtue placed for them to choose, with means for each, they would have chosen vice and revelled in it. Amid all this corruption and degradation he maintained a pitiable self-respect and kept his soul pure. Often did he go without a meal, but he would listen to no temptations, electing by instinct, rather to suffer physically than to lower his moral nature to the level of those by whom he was surrounded. When he walked the streets by day he did not walk aimlessly and without purpose. It was probable enough that Newman Chaytor was in London, and if so the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent possession would enable him to live in the best and most fashionable quarters of the city. Basil haunted those better localities, and watched for the villain who had betrayed him in the vicinity of the grand hotels, the clubs, and the resorts of fashion in the parks. Sometimes at night he lingered about the high-class theatres to see the audience come out. In the event of his meeting his enemy he had no settled plan except that he would endeavour to find out where he lived, and through that knowledge to obtain access to Annette.
One night he met with a strange adventure. He had come from Covent Garden, where, mingling in the crowd, he had watched the audience issue from the Opera House, in which a famous songstress had been singing. It was an animated, bustling scene, but it was impossible for a man in such sore distress to take pleasure in it; neither did he draw bitterness from the gaiety; he merely looked on with a pathos in his eyes which was now their usual expression. Frequently, in his days of prosperity, had he attended the opera, as one of the fashion, and heard this same songstress, whose praise was on every man's lips; now he was an outcast, hungry, almost in rags, without even a name which the world would accept as his by right of birth and inheritance. It was a cold night, but dry-that was a comfort to a poorly clad man. Indeed, there is in all conditions of life something to be grateful for, if we would only seek for it.
A curious fancy entertained Basil's mind. He heard the carriages called out-"Lady This's carriage," "Lord That's carriage," "The Honourable T'other's carriage." How if "Mr. Basil Whittingham's carriage" was called out? So completely was he for the moment lost to the sad realities of his position, so thoroughly did the fancy take possession of him, that he actually listened for the announcement, and had it been made it is probable that he would have pushed his way through the crowd with the intention of entering the carriage. But nothing of the kind occurred. Gradually the theatre was emptied, and the audience wended homeward, riding or afoot, north, south, east, and west, till only the fringe was left-night-birds who filtered slowly to their several haunts, not all of which could boast of roof and bed. A night-bird himself, Basil walked slowly on towards Westminster. He had fivepence in his pocket, and no prospect of adding anything to it to-morrow, and he was considering whether he should spend twopence for a bed, or pass the night on a bench on the Embankment. It was a weighty matter to decide, as important to him as the debate which was proceeding in the House, upon which a nation's destiny hung. In Parliament Street a young couple brushed past him; they had been supping after the theatre, and Basil heard the man address the woman, as "Little Wifey," and saw her nestle closer to her husband's arm as he uttered this term of endearment. For a moment Basil forgot his own misery, and a bright smile came to his lips; but it faded instantly, and he trudged wearily on discussing the momentous question of bed or bench. Undecided, he found himself on Westminster Bridge, where he stood gazing upon the long panorama of lights from lamps and stars. Were this wonderful and suggestive picture situated in a foreign country, English people would include it in their touring jaunts and come home and rave about it, but as it is situated in London its beauties are unheeded.
Basil, leaning over the stone rampart, looking down into the river, was presently conscious that some person was standing by his side. He turned his head, and saw a woman, who gazed with singular intentness upon him. She was neither young nor fair, but she had traces of beauty in her face which betokened that in her springtime she could not have been without admirers. Her age was about thirty, and she was well dressed. So much Basil took in at a glance, and then he averted his eyes and resumed his walk across the bridge. The woman followed him closely, and when he paused and gently waved her off, she said:
"Why do you avoid me? I want nothing of you."
"Good-night, then," said Basil in a kind voice, and would have proceeded on his way if the woman had not prevented him.
"No, not good-night yet," she said. "Did you not understand me when I said I want nothing of you? It is true; but happening to catch sight of your face as I was crossing the bridge I could not pass without speaking to you. It would have brought a punishment upon me-knowing what I know."
Being compelled by her persistence to a closer observance of her, Basil was moved to a certain pity for her. There were tears in her eyes and a pathos in her voice which touched him. Desolate outcast as he was, whom the world, if he proclaimed himself, would declare to be an impostor, what kind of manhood was that which would refuse a word of compassion to a woman who appeared to be in affliction? His pitying glance strangely affected her; she clung to the stone wall and burst into a passion of tears.
"I am sorry for your trouble," said Basil, waiting till she had recovered herself. "Can I do anything to help you?"
"Nothing," she replied. "No one can help me. I have lost all I love in the world. This is a strange meeting; I have been thinking of you to-day, but never dreamt I should see you to-night. To-night of all nights!"
"Thinking of me!" exclaimed Basil in amazement.
"You will not consider it strange," said the woman, "when you know all. I could not stop at home; I have been sitting by her side since three o'clock, and then a voice whispered to me, 'Go out for an hour, look up to Heaven where the Supreme Guide is, and pray for a miracle.' So I came out, and have been praying to Him to give her back to me."
"Poor woman!" murmured Basil, for now he knew from her words that she had lost one who was dear to her. "I pity you from my heart."
"You are changed," said the woman; "not in face, for I should have known you anywhere, but in your voice and manner. It is gentler, kinder than it used to be."
Basil did not answer her: he thought that grief had affected her mind, and that her words bore no direct relation to himself. He had no suspicion of the truth which was subsequently to be revealed to him.
"It is many years since we met," she said. "Have you been long in England?"
"A few months," said Basil.
"You have not made your fortune?
"No, indeed."
"You look poor enough. Have you no money?"