Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

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!"