Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

Basil's mind was quite clear when he left the house, and as he had bowed his head to the bereaved mother when she declared him to be Newman Chaytor, the villain who had betrayed and cast her off, so did he bow his head to the elder woman in the shop below, who flung upon him a look of anger and abhorrence as he passed from her sight. In the light of the infamous wrong inflicted upon this family, the wrong inflicted upon himself seemed to be lessened. Suffering and humiliation were his portion, but not shame; herein Newman Chaytor was powerless. There had grown in his mind an ideal presentment of womanhood which shed a refined and delicate grace upon all his dealings with the sex. His knowledge of the world had taught him that some had fallen and were vile, but he had no harsh thoughts even for these hapless ones, whom he regarded with tender pity. There were women with whom he had come in contact whose images were touched with sacred light. His mother was one, Annette was another; and it was partly this good influence which enabled him to bear, with some degree of moral fortitude, the weight of the troubles through which he was passing. A heavy load had been added to these troubles by the accusation which now had been brought against him; another man's sins had been thrust upon his shoulders, and the circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he could scarcely hope to break it down. He had said that he would pray for a miracle to aid him in his bitter trials, and indeed it seemed as if nothing short of a miracle would serve him. But although none occurred to bring the truth to light, new experiences were awaiting him as strange as any within his ken, and one, with some sweet touch of humanity in it, was to come indirectly through the enemy who had played him false.

Of the fourpence he had left one penny went that day for food, and he contrasted his position with that of a shipwrecked man cast away in a boat, helpless on a wild and desolate sea, with starvation staring him in the face. "Among these millions," he thought, "I cannot be the only one; there must be others adrift as I am. Heaven pity them!" It was curious that, revolving this theme in his mind, he looked about for men and women whose state resembled his own, and fancying he saw some, longed for money more for their sake than for his own. Only in small natures is grief entirely selfish. One question continually presented itself. What could he do to better himself--what do to turn the tide? He saw people begging in the roadways, and others fighting desperately for dear life, their weapons a few boxes of matches. If he had known where to purchase half-a-dozen boxes for the threepence which still remained of his fortune he would have risked the venture, but he did not know where to go for the investment, and those he asked for information scowled at him or turned away, conscious perhaps that their ranks were overcrowded, or that the addition of one to the horde of mendicants would lessen their chances. During these times he gained pregnant knowledge of a social nature. Living entirely in the streets, pictures presented themselves in poor and rich thoroughfares alike. His poverty made the contrasts startling. Ladies in carriages nursing over-fed lapdogs; small morsels of humanity shuffling along with their toes peeping out of their boots. In Covent Garden hothouse fruit at fabulous prices, and white-faced mortals picking up refuse and stealthily devouring it. Grand parties in great mansions, priceless jewels flashing as the ladies stepped out of their carriages; in a street hard by a woe-worn girl asleep on a doorstep, with a pallid baby in her arms. These pictures did not embitter him; he pitied the poor and envied not the rich, and had it been his good fortune to be employed as a descriptive writer, his pen would not have been dipped in gall. He did not purposely linger as he walked the streets, for the reason that when he lagged he attracted the notice of policemen, who followed him slowly, and quietly noted his movements. On such occasions, feeling himself an object of suspicion, he would quicken his steps to escape closer observation. Through all these sad wanderings he was ever on the watch for Newman Chaytor; he would not allow himself to sink into absolute apathy; while life remained he would do what lay in his power to lift himself out of the slough of despond. Only when his strength was exhausted would he lie down and die. Thus did he endure three more doleful days, at the end of which his last penny was spent. "The end is coming," he thought, and waited for it. He had been five nights now without a bed, and on three of these nights had been soaked to the skin. This exposure, with lack of nourishing food, had already told upon a system constitutionally sound and healthy. That the end was coming was no idle reflection; he felt it in his bones. Whither should he turn for succour? Naturally strong, and willing and anxious to work even for the barest pittance, he found himself more forsaken and powerless in this city of unrest than Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island. Charity is proverbially cold; it is frozen indeed when a willing man is driven to such a pass.

Another day passed, and another soaking night, and then fever threatened. Delirious fancies took possession of him, haunted, tortured and deluded him. He laughed aloud in the street, and aroused to momentary reason by the looks of the passers-by, shambled away in silence that engirt him as with iron bands--to break out again presently when he was in another street. Each night some impulse for which he sought no reason led his steps in the direction of the bridge where he had met Newman Chaytor's victim; had he seen her again, and she had offered him money, it is doubtful whether he would have had the strength to refuse.

Exhausted and spent, having been thirty hours without food, he clung to the buttress of the bridge, and with dim eyes looked forward on the river's lights. There seemed to be some meaning in their unrest; from the mysterious depths messages from another world came to his dazed mind. "Presently, presently," he thought, "but I should like first to see Annette, and undeceive her. I would give my best heart's blood to set myself straight with her. Too late to save her--too late, too late!" He had no idea of seeking eternal rest by deliberate action, only that he felt it was very near, and could not be long delayed.

How he craved for food! How the demon hunger was tearing at his vitals! His head fell forward, his mouth sucked his coat sleeve. A policeman touched his arm; he languidly raised his head, and the policeman gazed steadily at him, and then proceeded on his beat without speaking a word. Maybe he recognised that a case of genuine suffering was before him. Basil remained in the same position, his eyes turned in the direction the officer was taking. But he did not see him; he was blind to all surrounding things. Therefore it was that he had no consciousness of the presence of an old woman, poorly dressed, who had stopped when the policeman stopped, and appeared rooted to the spot as her eyes fell upon Basil's face. Suddenly the emotion which for a brief space had overpowered her, found voice. With a piercing scream she tottered towards Basil, cleared the grey hair from her eyes, and peered up into his face. Then with a piercing scream, she cried:

"Newman! My son, my darling, darling son! O God be thanked for restoring you to me!"

She threw her trembling arms around him, but Basil did not feel them, and had no understanding of her words. With a dolorous groan he slid from her arms to the ground, and lay there without sense or motion. Nature's demands had reached a supreme point, and the groan which issued from his lips was the last effort of exhausted strength.

Although the bridge appeared to be deserted, with only the policeman, the old woman, and Basil in view, a small knot of persons, as if by magic, instantly surrounded the fallen man and the woman who knelt by his side. The policeman, attracted by the scream, turned, and slowly sauntered towards the group.

"What's the matter, mother?" asked an onlooker.

"It's my son," moaned the woman, "my dear son, Newman. He has come from the goldfields, and is dying, dying."