Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"Your mother is sleeping," she said; "speak as softly as you can."

He followed her to the room and took a chair by Mr. Chaytor's bed. He had strange thoughts as he entered. Suppose that Mr. Chaytor, seeing him for the first time should refuse to see the likeness to Newman which others had seen? In that case, how should he act? He was puzzled to answer, and, driven by circumstances into a position he had not sought, could but leave events to take their course, which they had already done independent of himself. But nothing of the sort happened. Mr. Chaytor's eyes dwelt upon his face, and then he called Basil by the name of Newman, and Basil had no alternative but to answer to it. The nurse sat discreetly by Mrs. Chaytor's side.

"Send that woman away," said Mr. Chaytor.

His words came with difficulty; his voice was choked. The nurse heard the demand, and as she passed from the room she whispered to Basil that she would be ready outside if he wanted her. For several minutes there was silence, a silence which Basil did not venture to break. Mr. Chaytor appeared to be engaged in the effort of marshalling his thoughts.

"You have come back in time," he said, "to see me die."

"I trust there is still hope," said Basil.

"There is no hope," said the sick man. "The doctors spoke together under their breath, and thought I could not hear. They were wrong; I heard every word they said. The fools forgot that a dying man's senses are often preternaturally sharpened. Mine were, 'He will die at sunrise,' they said. Very well. I shall die at sunrise. Oh, I don't dispute them; they know their business. Sunrise is some hours yet; I have time to speak, and I mean to keep my wits together till I have said what I have got to say. What you have to do is to listen. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," said Basil.

"I don't intend," continued the dying man, "to ask you questions, for I know what kind of replies you would give. What you are, you are, and of that I have had bitter experience. Your mother, lying there at the point of death--Oh, I heard that, too, when they were putting their heads together--believes in you, trusts you, thinks you the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one, and thinks me a black cloud whose only aim is to tarnish your brightness. Let her believe so. There was never any reason or any wisdom in her love; but she is a good woman. To him she loves she gives all, and asks for nothing in return. Whom she trusts is immaculate; she cannot see a spot upon him. That is how it stands, how it has always stood, between you and her. It is different with me. Ever since you became a man--heaven pardon me for calling you one!--you have been corrupt and vicious; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have been false to friendship, false to love; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man you have had but one idea--yourself, your vanities, your degraded pleasures, your low and envious desires; and I knew it. Why, then, should I ask you questions, knowing you would lie to me in your answers. For you are as glib of speech, Newman Chaytor, as you are cunning of mind. You have been absent from us a long time: doubtless you have a good recollection of the day on which I turned you from my house. We became stricken down; we became worse than poor; we became paupers. Your mother wrote to you when you were on the goldfields, and you sent back whining letters of your misfortunes. Your mother believed you and pitied you; I disbelieved you and despised you. At length you came home, and hunting for us to see whether there was another drop of blood you could suck from our empty veins, discovered that you could hope for nothing from us, and therefore kept aloof; for it is a fact that until a week previous to your mother meeting you on Westminster Bridge, we lived on beggary and charity. How do I arrive at this knowledge of your movements? From intuition, from the bitter experiences with which you supplied me. I must pause a little. I will proceed in a minute or two, when I get back my treacherous voice. Do not poison the silence with your voice. I prefer not to hear it."

It was dreadful to hear him. The choked utterances, the pauses between the words, the fixed determination to say what was in his mind, the stern tones, produced a painful impression upon Basil; but he had perforce to obey, and so he waited till the dying man resumed: