Benjamin Farjeon - Basil and Annette

Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his mother if she ever had twins.

"What on earth do you mean, my dear?" she asked, laughing at him.

"It is plain enough," he answered incautiously. "I dream sometimes of a brother the exact counterpart of myself."

"You work too hard," said his mother, pityingly. "You must take a holiday, my darling."

"Who's to pay for it?" he asked gloomily.

"I am," she said fondly. "I have saved fifty pounds for you."

"Give it to me," he said eagerly, and with the money he went to Paris for a fortnight and squandered it on himself and his pleasures.

The foolish mother was continually doing this kind of thing, saving up money, wheedling her husband out of it upon false pretexts, stinting herself and making sacrifices for the worthless, ungrateful idol of her loving heart. So time passed, and Chaytor was still in the office of Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, picking up no sound knowledge of the law, but extracting from it for future use all the sharp and cunning subtleties of which some vile men make bad use. To the firm came a letter from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, with the tenor of which Chaytor made himself familiar. He was a spy in the office, and never scrupled at opening letters and reading them on the sly to master their contents. In the letter which Basil's uncle wrote occurred these words:

"Send me in a registered packet, by first post, my will, the will I made in favour of my nephew, Mr. Basil Whittingham. He has acted like a fool, and I am going to destroy it and disinherit him. At some future time I will give you instructions to draw up another, making different dispositions of my property. I am not a young man, but I shall live a good many years yet, and there is plenty of time before me. Meanwhile bear witness by this letter that I have disinherited my nephew Basil Whittingham."

Of course they followed his instructions, and the will was forwarded to him.

"He has stolen forty thousand pounds from me," thought Chaytor.

Within a week thereafter he overheard a conversation between two of the principals. He was never above listening at doors and creeping up back staircases. The lawyers were speaking of Bartholomew Whittingham and the will.

"Will he destroy it?" asked one.

"I think not," replied the other. "It is my opinion he will keep it by him, half intending to destroy it, half to preserve it, and that it will be found intact and unaltered when he dies."

"I do not agree with you. He will destroy it one day in a rage, and make another the next."

"In favour of whom?"

"Of his nephew. He has in his heart an absorbing love for the young gentleman, and he is a good fellow at bottom. Mr. Basil Whittingham will come into the whole of the property."

The conversation was continued on these lines, and the partners ultimately agreed that after all Basil would be the heir. "There is a chance yet," thought Chaytor, for although the dangerous period of ecstasy was passed there still lingered in his mind a hope of fortunate possibilities.

He continued his evil courses, gambled, drank, and led a free life, getting deeper and deeper into debt. His mother assisted him out of many a scrape, and never for one single moment wavered in her faith in him, in her love for him. It was a sweet trait in her character, but love without wisdom is frequently productive of more harm than good. Chaytor's position grew so desperate that detection and its attendant disgraceful penalty became imminent. He had made himself a proficient and skilful imitator of handwriting, and more than once had he forged his father's name to cheques and bills. The father was aware of this, but out of tenderness for his wife had done nothing more than upbraid his son for the infamy. Many a stormy scene had passed between them, which both carefully concealed from the knowledge of the fond woman whose heart would have been broken had she known the truth. On every one of these occasions Chaytor had humbled himself and promised atonement, with tears and sighs and mock repentance which saddened but did not convince the father.

"For your mother's sake," invariably he said.

"Yes, yes," murmured the hypocrite, "for my dear mother's sake-my mother, so good, so loving, so tender-hearted!"

"Let this be the last time," said the father sternly.

"It shall be, it shall be!" murmured the son.

It was a formula. The father may sometimes have deceived himself into belief; the son, never. Even while he was humbling himself he would be casting about for the next throw.

This continued for some considerable time, but at length came the crash. Chaytor and his parents were seated at breakfast at nine o'clock. The father had the morning letters in his pocket; he had read them and put them by. He cast but one glance at his son, and Chaytor turned pale and winced. He saw that the storm was about to burst. As usual, nothing was said before Mrs. Chaytor. The meal was over, she kissed her son, and left the room to attend to her domestic affairs.

"I must be off," said Chaytor. "Mustn't be late this morning. A lot to attend to at the office."

"You need not hurry," said the father. "I have something to say to you."

"Won't it keep till the evening?"

"No. It must be said here and now." He stepped to the door and locked it. "We will spare her as long as possible; she will know soon enough."

"Oh, all right," said Chaytor sullenly. "Fire away."

The father took out his letters, and, selecting one, handed it to his son who read it, shivered, and returned it.

"What have you to say to it?" asked the father.

"Nothing. It is only for three hundred pounds."

"A bill, due to-day, which I did not sign."

"It was done for all our sakes, to save the honour of the family name. I was in a hole and there was no other way of getting out of it."

"The bill must be taken up before twelve o'clock."

"Will it be?"

"It will, for your mother's sake."

"Then there is nothing more to be said. I am very sorry, but it could not be helped. I promise that it shall never occur again. I'll take my oath of it if you like."

"I take neither your word nor your oath. You are a scoundrel."

"Here, draw it mild. I am your son."

"Unhappily. If your mother were not living you should be shown into the dock for the forgery."

"But she is alive. I shall not appear in the dock, and you may as well let me go. Look here, father, what's the use of crying over spilt milk?"

"Not much; and as I look upon you as hopeless, I would go on paying for it while your mother lived. If she were taken from me I should leave you to the punishment you deserve, and risk my name being dragged through the mire."

"I hope," said Chaytor, with vile sanctimoniousness, "that my dear mother will live till she is a hundred."

"There is, I must remind you, another side to the shield. I said 'as long as I can afford it.'"

"Well, you can afford it."

"I cannot," said Mr. Chaytor, with a sour smile. "My career snaps to-day, after paying this forged bill with money that properly belongs to my creditors. Newman Chaytor, you have come to the end of your tether."

"You are saying this to frighten me," said Chaytor, affecting an indifference he did not feel. "Why, you are rolling in money."

"You are mistaken. Speculations into which I have entered have failed disastrously. If you had not robbed me to the tune of thousands of pounds-the sum total of your villainies amounts to that-I might have weathered the storm, but as I am situated it is impossible. It is almost a triumph to me to stand here before you a ruined man, knowing you can no longer rob me."

"Still I do not believe you," said Chaytor.

"Wait and see; you will not have to wait long."

The tone in which he uttered this carried conviction with it.