Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"The question is," said Chaytor, "whether it is worth while to brood upon such a little matter. The heart of a child--what is it? A pulse with about as much meaning in it as the heart of an animal. There is no sincerity in it. I have no doubt you would be amazed if you were to know Annette as she is now, almost a woman, moulded after her uncle's teaching, and therefore repulsive in nature as he was. You are wise in your resolve to make no attempt to shatter an ideal. I have suffered myself in love and friendship, and I know better than you how little dependence is to be placed in woman. Let us get back to the claim. We'll not give it up till we've proved it quite worthless."

[CHAPTER XIX.]

Had Basil been acquainted with the extent of Newman Chaytor's baseness and villainy he would have been confounded by the revelation. But unhappily for himself he was in entire ignorance of it, and it was out of the chivalry of his nature that he placed Chaytor on an eminence, in the way of human goodness, to which few persons can lay claim. But Basil was a man who formed ideals; it was a necessity of his existence, and it is such men who in their course through life are the most deeply wounded.

Chaytor's visits to Sydney were not upon business of his own, he had none to take him there; they were simply and solely made for the purpose of obtaining the letters which arrived for Basil from England, and any also which might arrive for himself; but these latter were of secondary importance. In his enquiries at the Post-office he was always furnished with an order signed, "Basil Whittingham" (of which he was the forger) to deliver to bearer any letters in that name. Thus he was armed to meet a possible difficulty, although it would have been easy enough to obtain Basil's letters without such order. But as he had frequently observed he was a man who never threw away a chance.

As a matter of fact, he received letters both for himself and Basil, which he kept carefully concealed in an inner pocket. He had become a man of method in the crooked paths he was pursuing, and these letters, before being packed away, were placed in a wrapper, securely sealed, with written directions outside to the effect that if anything happened to him and they fell into the hands of another person they should be immediately burnt. This insured their destruction in the event of their falling into the hands of Basil, for Chaytor had implicit faith in his comrade's quixotism and chivalry, at which he laughed in his sleeve.

It has already been stated that Chaytor had made himself a master of the peculiarities of Basil's handwriting. Having served his apprenticeship in his disgraceful career in England he could now produce an imitation of Basil's hand so perfect as to deceive the most skilful of experts, who often in genuine writing make mistakes which should, but do not, confound them. Shortly after Annette and her uncle and aunt had taken their departure from Australia he wrote to Basil's uncle in England. It is not necessary to reproduce the letter; sufficient to say that it was chatty and agreeable, that it recalled reminiscences which could not but be pleasant to the old gentleman, that it abounded in affectionate allusions, and wound up with the expression of a hope that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would live till he was a hundred in health and happiness. There was not a word in the letter which could be construed into the begging of a favour; it was all gratitude and affection; and the writer asked whether there was any special thing in Australia which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would like to have. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said the wily correspondent, "than to obtain and send it to you in memory of dear old times. I will hunt the emu for you; I will even send you home a kangaroo. God bless you, my dear uncle! I have been a foolish fellow I know, but what is done cannot be undone, and I have only myself to blame. There, I did not intend to make the most distant allusion to anything in the past that has offended you, but it slipped out, and I can only ask your forgiveness." In a postscript the writer said that his address was the Post Office, Sydney, not, he observed, that he expected Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham to write to him or answer his letter, but there was no harm in mentioning it. It was just such a letter as would delight an old gentleman who had in his heart of hearts a warm regard for the young fellow whose conduct had displeased him. Chaytor had some real ability in him, which, developed in a straight way, would have met with its reward; but there are men who cannot walk the straight paths, and Chaytor was one of these.

Two months afterwards, before any answer could have reached him, Chaytor wrote a second letter, as bright and chatty as the first, brimful of anecdote and story, and this he despatched, curious as to the result of his arrows. They hit the mark right in the bull's-eye, but Chaytor was not quite aware of this. However, he was satisfied some time afterwards at receiving a brief note from a firm of lawyers--not from Messrs. Rivington, Sons and Rivington, to whom he had been articled, but from another firm, and for this he was thankful--which said that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had received his nephew's letter, and was glad to learn that he was in good health and spirits. That was all, but it was enough for Chaytor. In the first place it proved that his handwriting was perfect and the circumstances he spoke of correct. In the second place it proved that Basil's uncle had a soft spot left for him and that the writer had touched it. In the third place it proved that his letters were welcome, and that others would be acceptable.

"A good commencement," thought Chaytor. "I have but to play my cards boldly, and the old fool's forty thousand pounds will be mine. What a slice of luck for me that Rivington, Sons, and Rivington no longer transact his business! At a distance I could deceive them. At close quarters their suspicions might be excited, although I would chance even that, if there were no other way. I wonder how long the old miser will live. I am not anxious that he should die yet; things are not ripe; there is Basil to get rid of." He was ready and resolved for any desperate expedient to compass his ends, and he kept not only the letters he received, but copies of the letters he sent, for future guidance, if needed. Be sure that he continued to write, and that he made not the slightest reference to any hope of becoming the old gentleman's heir, or of being reinstated in his affection. It is strange how a man's intellect and intelligence are sharpened when he is following a congenial occupation. Machiavelli himself could not have excelled Newman Chaytor in the execution of the villainous scheme he was bent upon carrying out. He became even a fine judge of character, and not a word he wrote was malapropos. Let it be stated that, despite the risk he was running, he derived genuine pleasure from the plot he had devised. He thought himself, with justice, a very clever fellow; if all went on in England as he hoped it would he had no fear as to being able to silence or get rid of Basil on the Australian side of the world. He would be a dolt indeed if he could not remove a man so weak and trustful as Basil from his path. He had other letters from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's lawyers, and he knew, from a growing cordiality in their tone (a sentiment in which lawyers never of their own prompting indulge in their business transactions) that they were dictated by the old gentleman himself. His interpretation of Basil's uncle not writing in his own person was that he had made up his mind not to have any direct personal communication with his nephew, and that being of an obstinate disposition, he was not going to break his resolution. "For all that," thought Chaytor, "I will have his money. I'll take an even bet that he has either not destroyed his old will, or that he has made a new one, making Basil his heir. Newman Chaytor, there are not many men who can beat you."

He received other letters as well from other persons--from his old mother, addressed to himself, and from Annette, addressed to Basil. Certainly when he went to Sydney his hands were full, and he had enough to do. He did not grudge the labour. He saw in the distance the pleasures of life awaiting him, and it is a fact that in time he came to believe that they were his to enjoy, and that Basil had no rightful claim to them. It was he, Newman Chaytor, who had schemed for them, who was working for them. What was Basil doing? Nothing. Standing idly by, without making an effort to come into his own. "This is the way men get on," said Chaytor to himself, surveying with pride the letter he had just finished to Basil's uncle, "and I mean to get on. Why, the trouble of writing this letter alone is worth a thousand pounds. And what is the risk worth, I should like to know? I am earning double the money I shall get."

The letters of his old mother to himself were less frequent--not more than one every nine or ten months. They always commenced, "My dearly beloved son," and they plunged at once into a description of the difficulties with which she and her poor husband were battling. Her first letter gave him a piece of news which caused him great joy. It informed him that a certain bill which Chaytor had left behind him, dishonoured, had been bought by his father, at the sacrifice of some of the doubtful securities which he had saved from the wreck of his fortune. "You can come home with safety now, my dear son," wrote the unhappy old woman. "Well, that is a good hearing," mused Newman Chaytor; "I was always afraid of that bill; it might have turned up against me at any moment, but now it is disposed of, and I am safe. So, the old man still had something left worth money all the time he was preaching poverty to me. Such duplicity is disgusting. He owes me a lot for frightening me out of the country as he did. And here is the old woman going on with the preaching about hard times and poverty. Such selfishness is wicked, upon my soul it is." It was true that his mother's letters ran principally on the same theme. They had not a penny; they lived in one room; their rent was behindhand; her husband was more feeble than ever; they often went without food, for both she and he were determined to starve rather than appeal to the parish. Could not her dear son send them a trifle, if it was only a few shillings, to help them fight the battle which was drawing to its close? She hoped he would forgive her for asking him, but times were so hard, and the winter was very severe. They had had no fire for two days, and the landlady said if they could not pay the last two weeks' rent that they would have to turn out. "Try, my dear boy, try, for the sake of the mother who bore you, and who would sell her heart's blood for you, if there was a market for it."