Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

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?"