Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"You must come with me; he is suspicious of me, as you know, and would order me out of the room if you were not by."

"Can I leave my dear boy with safety?"

"With perfect safety; he will not awake from sleep for a long time yet, and when he does it will not harm him to find himself alone."

"He must not find himself alone--I will not have it, I will not, I will not!"

"Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will sleep for hours; it is nature's restorative."

"Doctor," said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that Basil was deeply moved, "he will recover?"

"He will. Come; I have not much time at my disposal."

He walked to the door, but before she left the room, Basil felt her tender hands about him again, ministering to his ease and comfort. Presently he knew by the closing of the door that he was alone again. Then he applied himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed through his mind in fair order.

He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, the meeting of the young woman on the bridge, his visit to her house, and the cruel accusation she brought against him. When he struggled against it she had desired him to come into the light, and had said, "You are Newman Chaytor." With this pronouncement and condemnation he left her, and the look of abhorrence the woman's mother had cast upon him lived in his memory as a burning brand. Then followed the days through which he starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking forward on the river's lights, and waiting for death. He had no remembrance of what subsequently occurred on that night and on many days and nights afterwards. Sounds of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the words that were spoken: except that on one occasion something had reached his senses to the effect that the room in which he lay was unhealthy, and that it would be better if he were removed to more airy quarters. He was dimly conscious that this was done, and that gentle hands had lifted him from his bed, and that he was carried to another house through fresher air which flowed softly over his fevered brow. Had this really been done, or was he deluding himself with fancies? He opened his eyes, and gazed around. The room was large, and there was but little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. There was a pleasant paper on the walls, the device being flowers, the colours of which, though subdued, had some healthful brightness in them. On a table near his bed were medicine bottles, a basin with soup jelly in it, and a plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was being nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was something more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt devotion, in these evidences and in what he had lately heard. The woman to whom he owed this great debt had saved him from death--the doctor had said as much, and Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have been her motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had rendered him a service it would be hard, if not impossible for him to repay. Saved from death! To what end? That he might live to clear himself from the foul accusation which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish the guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, indeed, that could never be repaid. Exhausted with thought, he sank into slumber, with a growing hope in his heart that there might yet be some brightness for him in the future.

When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes they fell upon the form of the woman who had tended him. She was kneeling by his bed, gazing upon his face. A shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her clearly.