Basil and Annette

CHAPTER XXXVII

We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had established his position as Basil Whittingham, he had obtained possession of Basil's fortune, he was on a familiar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings respecting the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, no difficulty whatever. The evidence in his possession, proving himself to be the man he represented himself to be, was complete; and there being no grounds for suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, and on the high road.

He went to London, and remained there only a few days. He made no attempt to see his parents, and was careful to avoid the neighbourhood in which they lived. With a large fortune at his disposal, and being fertile in methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself; but his character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is supposed he ever allowed himself to yield to the dictates of humanity. He knew that his parents were in direst poverty-his mother's last letter to him made this very clear-but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion for the mother who idolised him or the father he had brought to ruin. Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled every action of his life. His own ease, his own pleasures, his own safety-these were paramount, and pioneered him through the crooked paths he had trod since boyhood. The correspondence he had kept up with Annette rendered it an easy matter for him to find her. He had apprised her that he was starting for home, and had directed her not to write to him again to Australia. In this last letter he informed her that he had come into a great fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by business matters for a few weeks that he would not be able to see her immediately he arrived in England. He gave her instructions how to communicate with him at home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her heart for him. It is hard to say how many times Annette read this letter. Basil was on his way home-coming home, coming home, coming home-she kept on repeating the magic words; and there was a light in her eyes, music in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last he was coming, the friend whom she could trust, the man her dear father had loved and honoured. She would see him soon, for he would not linger over the business he had to transact; her hand would be in his, his eyes on her face-and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had she changed since he last saw her? Would he know her again, or would she have to say, "Basil, I am Annette?" No! that would not be necessary; she had sent him her portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would pick her out of a thousand women. She had changed-yes, she was aware of that, and aware, too, that she was very beautiful. What woman is not who has grace and beauty for her dower; and is there a woman in the world who is not proud of the possession, and who does not smile and greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon the bright reflection of a brighter reality? Annette was innocently glad that she was fair, and all through her gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked her for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The quality of vanity there was in this thought was human and natural. The name of Basil represented to her all that there was of nobility, goodness, and generosity. In Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in life. She worshipped an ideal. He had asked her to keep a corner in her heart for him. Was not her whole heart his? And he was coming home-home! The word assumed a new meaning. It would be truly home when Basil was with her.

"You are excited, Annette," said Gilbert Bidaud, who, although he seldom indulged in long conversations with his niece, noted every sign and change in her. Only in one respect had he been baffled; he had not succeeded in discovering how the correspondence between Basil and Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, Emily, but that shrewd young person was so extraordinarily careful and astute that he could not lure her, for all the traps he set, into betraying herself. He hinted once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no farther.

"Emily is my maid," said Annette, "and no one but I have a right to discharge her."

"And you do not mean to do so?" said Gilbert Bidaud.

"No, uncle, I do not mean to do so."

"Even though I expressed a wish that she should go."

"Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving me. I am fond of her. If she goes, I go too."

"You go! where?"

"Where you would not find me, uncle."

Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She might fall into other hands, and herself and fortune be lost to him. He was not quite sure of his position in respect to Annette, and his best safety lay in not disturbing the waters. His brother's affairs in Australia had been administered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here in Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for him. He had Annette's fortune absolutely in his control; he had used her money for his own purposes, for he had none of his own; he had kept no accounts; in worldly matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become wiser so long as she was in his charge. She was obedient and docile in most ways, the only exceptions being her feeling for Emily, and the secret correspondence she was carrying on with Basil. These matters were not important; they did not trench upon his authority or position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, sentimental girl would write, and Basil's letters were probably harmless enough. Besides, he was at a safe distance. Time enough to fight when the enemy was in view. "He will marry," thought Gilbert Bidaud, "he will forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is safest." So time went on, outwardly calm, till Annette received Basil's letter announcing his intended return to England. It was then that Gilbert noted the change in her. They were on the continent at the time; of late years Gilbert seldom visited England; there was more enjoyment and greater security for him in his own country and in others more congenial to him. He purchased, with Annette's money, a villa in Fernex, which he called Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his own name; he had come to regard Annette's fortune as his; if troublesome thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to his own cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might present themselves.

"You are excited, Annette," he said.

She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was impossible; her restless movements, her sparkling eyes, her joyous face, were sufficient confirmation of her uncle's statements. But to admit it would lead to questions which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was silent.

"My dear niece," said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth voice, "there is not that confidence between us which I should wish to exist. Why? Have I oppressed you? Have I treated you harshly? You can scarcely so accuse me. Have I not allowed you to have your own way in all things? You have had perfect liberty, have you not? Be frank with me. I have at heart only your interests. I wish only to secure your happiness. When your poor father-my dear brother-died, you were almost a baby, a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. I said to my heart-it is my habit, my dear niece, to commune with myself-I said to my heart, 'Annette is a child, an infant, with strong affections and attachments. You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. She will not regard you with favour; she will not understand you.' And so it was. It was my unhappy duty to be stern and hard with some you regarded as friends; it was my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we commenced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you are, stood aloof from you and exercised the duties of guardian and uncle without showing that my heart was filled with love for you. Thus have we lived, with a spiritual gulf dividing us. My dear niece, you are no longer a child, you are a woman who can think for herself, who is open to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you the hand of amity, of love. Take it, and tell me how I can minister to your happiness."

It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he had ever made to her, and she was deceived by his specious frankness. She could not refuse the hand he held out to her, and as she placed hers within it, she reflected, "When Basil arrives they must meet. They were not friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing accomplished if they can be made friends here, through me. Then Basil can come freely, with uncle's consent, and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke to me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as well as he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great love for me, but may it not have been partly my own fault. If they have wounded me, may I not have wounded them?"

Gilbert Bidaud saw that she was reflecting upon the new view he had presented to her, and he did not disturb her meditations. Presently she said:

"Uncle, I have had some good news." "It delights me," said Gilbert Bidaud. "In your own good time you shall confide it to me."

"I will confide it to you now. Basil is coming home."

"See now," said Gilbert, in a tone of great good-humour, "how you have misjudged me. Here have you, my ward, over whom I have the right to exercise some authority, been corresponding with a young gentleman between whom and myself there are differences of opinion. Candidly I admit that I did not look upon him with love. Know now for the first time that on the plantation I was warned against him, that he had enemies who spoke of him as an adventurer. How was I to know that those who spoke thus spoke falsely? You may answer, being a woman who has cherished in her heart a regard for her Australian friend, 'You should have asked me; I would have told you the truth about him.' Ah, but consider. What were you? A mere infant, innocent, guileless, unsuspecting. I venerate childhood, and venerate it the more because it has no worldly wisdom. Happy, happy state! Would that we could live all our lives in ignorance so blissful! Then there would be no more duplicity, no more cheating and roguery. But it is otherwise, and we must accept the world. Therefore the young gentleman and I crossed swords on the first day we met, and from that time have misunderstood each other. In my thoughts, perhaps, I have done him wrong; in his thoughts, perhaps, he has done me wrong. And my niece, the only child of my dear brother, sided with the stranger against me. I was wounded, sorely wounded; and when I discovered that you and he were writing to each other secretly, I spoke harshly to you; I may even have uttered some foolish threats. What man, my child, can be ever wise, can ever say the right words, can ever do the right things? None, not one, and I perhaps, who have peculiar moods and temper, less than many. But see, now, what came of those harsh words, those foolish threats? You still correspond with your friend Basil, and I stood quietly aside and interfered not. Could I not have stopped the correspondence, if I had been seriously determined to do so? Doubt it not, my child. At any moment I could have done so. But I said, 'No, I will not spoil Annette's pleasure; it is an innocent pleasure; let it go on; I will not interfere. One day my niece will do me justice. And it may be, that one day her friend Basil and I will better understand each other.' Is it not so?"

"Indeed, uncle," said Annette, timidly, "it is I who have been in the wrong."

"No, no," said Gilbert, interrupting her, "I will not have you say so. The fault was mine. What say the English? You cannot put an old head on young shoulders. I expected too much. From to-day we commence afresh. Eh, my dear child?"

"Yes, uncle."

"So be it," he said, kissing her. "We misunderstand each other never again. It is agreed. Our friend Basil-I will make him my friend if he will let me; you shall see-is coming home. He shall be welcome."

"Uncle, you remove a weight from my heart."

"It is what I would do, always. A weight is also removed from mine. How long will our friend Basil be before he appears."

"I do not know exactly. He will write."

"He will write," echoed Gilbert merrily, pinching Annette's cheek. "We have our secret post-office-ah, ah! Tell him it must be secret no longer. Write openly to him; he shall write openly to you. He has been many years in Australia. Has he grown rich on the goldfields? Did he find what they call a golden claim?"

"He does not say; but I think he did not get rich there."

"Not get rich there. Did he get rich anywhere, or does he come poor?"

The picture of a needy adventurer rose before him, and had he not been a master in cunning he would have betrayed himself.

"He writes," said Annette, "that his uncle has left him a large fortune."

Gilbert drew a long breath of relief. Easier to cope with Basil rich than poor. If Basil wanted Annette, and Annette wanted him, why, he would make a bargain with the young man, who, being wealthy, would not be greedy for Annette's money. Gilbert Bidaud was a keen judge of character, and he knew Basil to be a manly, generous-hearted honourable fellow, who would be more likely to despise than to covet money with the girl he loved. If that were so, Gilbert saw a road to immunity for the past and a life of independence in the future. There was a striking resemblance in certain features of his character and that of Newman Chaytor, as there is in the natures of all purely selfish men.

"That is a pleasant thing to hear," he said. "I congratulate him from my heart." He would have added, "And I congratulate you," but he restrained himself; it was delicate ground, and it would be better to wait. Subsequently, in a conversation with his sister, he expressed himself more freely. Basil would be received and welcomed-yes, but he would be carefully sounded and observed, and she was to play her part both with Annette and her lover. It pleased Gilbert to call him so, but it did not please the girl's aunt.

"You have foolish ideas," she said. "Annette was thirteen years when we took her from the plantation. What kind of love could a man have for such a child?"

"You will see, you will see," said Gilbert. "This Basil is what we call an eccentric, and it is because he is so that I have settled upon the plan of bringing them together under our noses. Remember, my idiot of a brother left me not a coin. We have our future to look to, and gentleman Basil is the man to make it sure for us. Would you wish to have to slave for your bread as you used to do-and often not get it?"

"No; but if I have an enemy I like him at a distance."

"Foolish woman! If I have an enemy I like him here, close to me, where my hand can reach him. I will have him-if I have the choice-as I have now-in the light, not in the dark."

Annette also had a conversation with her trusty maid Emily concerning this new revelation in Gilbert Bidaud's character. Annette was very enthusiastic about it, and very self-reproachful concerning the past, but Emily looked grave and shook her head.

"I'd rather agree with you than not, miss," she said, "but I don't think I can about your uncle."

"You must not be obstinate and prejudiced, Emily," said Annette, with mild severity.

"I'll try not to be, miss, but if an animal is born a donkey, a donkey he remains all the days of his life."

Annette laughed, and said, of course, but what did Emily mean?

"It's a roundabout way of explaining myself," said Emily. "And there's different kinds of donkeys, some mild, and that'll take the whip as patient as a wooden dummy; others that'll kick out and let fly at you with their heels. The same with horses, the same with dogs, the same with cats."

"What do you mean, Emily?"

"Only when vice is in an animal you can't wheedle it out of him. No more you can out of a man or a woman. I don't say they can help it, but what's born in 'em must come out. If I'm born sly I keep sly, and the chances are I grow slyer as I grow older. I don't believe in sudden changes, miss, and if you'll excuse me I'll wait a little before I make up my mind about your uncle."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Newman Chaytor first met Annette in Paris. She wrote to him to London, saying that her uncle intended to make a stay there of a few weeks, and telling him the name of the hotel they stopped at. Chaytor's business in London was by that time transacted and he was nervous to get away with his spoil. Bold as he had been, and little as he believed he had to fear, there were moments when he was seized with panic. What if Basil should not be dead? What if, recovering, and being rescued from the tomb into which Chaytor had plunged him, some suspicion should cross his mind of the treachery which had been practised towards him? What if, after that, bent upon revenge, he should find his way home, and there discover how he had been wronged and robbed? Newman Chaytor was bathed in cold sweat, and his limbs shook as he contemplated this contingency. In his calmer moments he strove to laugh himself out of his fears, but he never entirely got rid of them, and he deemed it safer to live most of his time out of England. For reasons of safety, also, he converted Basil's fortune into cash, and carried a large portion of it upon his person in Bank of England notes. He had clothes made after his own design, and in his waistcoats and trousers were inner pockets in which he concealed his treasure. There were five bank notes of a thousand pounds each, twenty of five hundred each, and the rest in hundreds and fifties. They occupied but little space, and during the first month or two of his coming into possession of the money, he was continually counting it in the secresy of his room, with doors locked and windows shaded. The passing of a cloud, the fluttering of a bird's wings across his window, the sound of breathing or footstep outside his door, drove him into agonies of apprehension as he was thus engaged. He would stop suddenly and listen, and creep to door or window, and wait there till the fancied cause for fear was gone; then he would resume his operations and pack the money away in the lining of his clothes. The dread of losing it, of his being robbed, of its being wrested from him, was never absent. When he entered a new hotel he examined the doors of his rooms, tried the locks and fastenings, and peered about in every nook and corner, until he was satisfied that there was no chink or loophole of danger. But as fast as his fears were allayed in one direction they sprang up in another. The hydra-headed monster he had created for himself left him no rest by day or night. He slept with his clothes under his bolster, and waking up, would grope in the dark with his hands to assure himself that they had not been taken away. There were nights which were nothing less than one long terror to him. The occupants of the apartments to the right and left of him were talkative; he could not catch the sense of their words, but they were, of course, talking of him. They were quiet; of course they were so to put him off his guard. He would jump from his bed and stand, listening, and whether he heard sounds or heard none, every existent and non-existent sign became a menace and a terror. As time wore on it could not be but that these fears became less strong and vivid, but they were never entirely obliterated, and were occasionally revived in all their original force. There was, however, one new habit which he practised mechanically, and of which he never got rid. This was a movement of the left hand towards those parts of his clothing in which the money was concealed. He was quite unconscious of the frequency of this peculiar motion, and took as little notice of it as any man takes of the natural movements of his limbs.

When he received Annette's letter informing him that they were in Paris he immediately resolved to go there. "I am wondering," wrote Annette, "whether we shall see you here, or whether we shall have to wait because your business is not finished. You must forget all that I have said about Uncle Gilbert; we did not understand each other, but we do now, and he is very very kind to me; and although he cannot be as anxious to see you as I am, he is ready to give you a warm and hearty welcome."

"She is an affectionate little puss," thought Chaytor, "and does not seem to conceal anything from her dear Basil, but if she thinks I am going to tie myself to her apron strings she is mistaken. I will feel my way with her, and-yes, a good idea! will have a peep at her somehow without her seeing me, before I introduce myself. Judging from the photograph she sent me in Australia" – he was so accustomed to think of himself as Basil that he often forgot he was Newman Chaytor-"she is as pretty as a picture; but then portraits are deceitful-like the originals. They are so touched up by the photographers, that a very ordinary-looking woman is transformed into an angel. If that is the case with Annette she will see very little of me. Give me beauty, bright eyes, white teeth, a good figure, a pretty, kissable mouth, and I am satisfied. So, my little Annette, it all depends upon yourself. As for Uncle Gilbert, it is a good job that he is changed; it will make things easier for me. I don't want to quarrel, not I, and if I take a fancy to Annette, and he can help to smooth the way for me, why, all the better."

From the day he set foot on the vessel which brought him to England, Chaytor had been most painstaking and careful about his appearance. He spent hours before the glass arranging his hair after the fashion of Basil's hair, as our hero had worn it in England; and, being a bit of an artist, he succeeded perfectly. The resemblance was marvellous, and Chaytor congratulated himself and chuckled at his cleverness. "Upon my soul," he said, "we must have been changed at our birth. I am Basil, and he-" He paused. No shudder passed through him, he was visited by no pang of remorse at the thought of Basil lying dead at the bottom of the shaft. It must have been very quick and sudden! Death must have ensued instantaneously. Had he not listened and lingered, without a sound of suffering, without even a sigh reaching him? "No man could do more than that," he thought. "There's no telling what I should have done if he had groaned or cried for help. But as he was dead and done for, what was the use of my loitering there?" Across the many thousands of miles of sea and land, his mental vision travelled with more than lightning swiftness, and he saw at the bottom of a dark shaft the form of his victim huddled up and still. And as he gazed, the form unfolded itself, and rising to its feet, glided towards him. The vision had presented itself once before, and he acted now as he had acted then. Almost frenzied he dashed the phantom aside, with as much force as if Basil had stood bodily before him, and, finding that this was of no avail, threw himself upon the ground, and grovelled there with closed eyes until reason re-assumed its sway and whispered that he was but the fool of fevered fancies. "I shall go mad if I don't mind," he muttered. "I know what's the matter with me; I am keeping myself too solitary. I want friends, companionship." It is a fact that he would not make friends with any one; the fewer questions that were asked of him the better. He was in constant dread of meeting with some person of whom Basil had not spoken who would begin to speak of old times. Out of England this was not so likely to occur. Man of pleasure as he was he had never been a heavy drinker, but now he flew to brandy to deaden his fears. Altogether, despite his success, he was not greatly to be envied. The lot of the poorest and most unfortunate of men is to be preferred to that of a man of evil heart, whose Nemesis is ever by his side throwing its black shadow over every conscious hour.

On the Continent Chaytor experienced some relief. He had always been fond of Paris, and now he threw himself with zest into the pleasures of that gay city. "This is life," he said enthusiastically; "it is for this I have worked. Eureka! I have found the philosopher's stone-freedom, light, enjoyment." He was in no hurry to go to Annette; he would have his fling first-but, that, he said to himself, he would always have, Annette or no Annette. His misfortune was that he could not rule circumstance. Gilbert Bidaud set eyes on him as he was driving with some gay companions, for here in Paris Chaytor was not so bent upon avoiding society as in England. "Surely," mused the elder fox, as he slipped into a carriage and gave the driver instructions to follow Chaytor and his companions, "that is my old friend Basil, for whom my foolish niece is looking and longing. He presented himself to me in the Australian wilderness as a model of perfection, a knight without a stain upon his shield, but in Paris he appears to be very human. Very human indeed," he repeated with a laugh, as he noted the wild gaiety of the man he was following. Be sure that he did not lose sight of his quarry until he learnt as many particulars concerning it as he could gain. So fox watched fox, and the game went on, Annette waiting and dreaming of the Bayard without flaw and without reproach who reigned in her heart of hearts.

"Have you heard from our friend Basil?" asked Gilbert Bidaud.

"Not for ten days," replied Annette. "He said he feared he would not have time to write again till he came to Paris, he was so beset with lawyers and business men."

"Yes, yes," said Gilbert; "he must have much to do. He will come to us, I hope, the moment he reaches Paris."

"Oh, yes, uncle; he will not wait a day, an hour; he will come straight here."

Gilbert Bidaud nodded cheerfully, and said no more, but his cunning mind was busy revolving pros and cons.

Chaytor, after awhile, carried out his resolution of seeing Annette before he presented himself to her. Ascertaining the rooms she and her people occupied, he engaged apartments for a couple of days in an hotel from the windows of which he could observe her movements. He used opera glasses, and so arranged his post of observation that he could not himself be seen. In the petty minutiæ of small schemes, he was a master.

The first time he saw Annette he almost let his glasses fall from his hand. Her radiant countenance, her sparkling eyes, the beauty of her face, the grace of her movements, were a revelation to him. Never had he seen a creature so lovely and perfect. So fascinated was he that he dreaded it might not be Annette-but yes, there was her uncle, Gilbert Bidaud, standing now by her side, and apparently talking pleasantly to her. Chaytor, though he had seen the old man but once in the Australian woods, when he was a concealed witness of the interview between Gilbert, Basil and Annette, recognised him immediately. Gilbert Bidaud was not changed in the least, and Chaytor decided within himself that neither Basil or Annette knew how to manage the old fellow. He, Newman Chaytor, would be able to do so; he would be the master of the situation, and would pull the strings of his puppets according to his moods and wishes. He did not dream that Gilbert Bidaud was aware that he was in their vicinity, that he even knew the number of the rooms he had engaged in the hotel, and the name he had assumed for the purposes of his secret watch. From the moment that Gilbert had set eyes upon him, every step he took, every movement he made, was noted down by agents employed by the old man, who kept a written record for possible use in the future. These two forces were well matched, but the odds were in favour of the elder animal. "It is clear," said Newman Chaytor, "that Basil was mistaken in his estimate of Gilbert Bidaud, and that he poisoned Annette's mind against her uncle. The old man is harmless enough, and he and I will be great friends." Presently Gilbert kissed his niece and left the room, laughing to himself at the comedy scene he had played. His thoughts may also be put into words.

"He is in that room, watching Annette. He has arranged the curtains and the furniture in the manner most convenient for his watch. What is his object, and what do his movements prove? He wishes to convince himself that Annette is a bird attractive enough to follow, to woo, to win. If I knew what has passed between them in the letters they wrote to each other, I should be more certain of my conclusions, but as it is I shall not be far out. He wishes also to observe me secretly, and to make up his mind about me before we come together. Well, he shall have opportunity-he shall see what a kind pleasant uncle I am. We were not the best of friends across the ocean-in good truth, we were as bitter enemies as men could possibly be; and he remembers that we exchanged hard and bitter words. Do I bear animosity? No; here, my dear friend, is my hand: take it." He held it out, and the cunning of his nature was exposed in the expression of his thin lips and his cold blue eyes. "But what do his movements prove? That, setting himself up as a gentleman, above doing a sly action, profuse in his scorn of others and in glorification of himself, he is the personification of low cunning and meanness. He deceived me when we clashed in the forest; expressing scorn of him, and flinging mud upon his motives, I yet believed him to be a gentleman, and was in my soul angry because the belief was forced upon me. Bah! my friend Basil, my self-elected gentleman of honour unblemished and untarnished, you are unmasked. You play your game; I will play mine. We shall see who will win."

While these communings were going on Chaytor continued his watch. His greedy eyes dwelt upon Annette's sweet face-heavens, he thought, how beautiful she is! – his sinful soul gloated upon her grace of form and feature. Would she know him when her eyes fell upon him? Would she see at once that he was Basil, or was there anything in his appearance that would inspire a doubt? That afternoon he examined himself narrowly in the glass; he practised Basil's little tricks of motion, one of the most conspicuous of which was the caressing of his moustache between finger and thumb, and any doubts he may have had disappeared. "I am more like Basil Whittingham than he ever was," he said. "Even in a court of law the chances would be all on my side." When he was in a confident mood nothing more improbable could be conceived than that Basil would ever cross his path. It was not improbable, it was impossible. Basil was dead, and there was an end of the matter; he had all the field to himself.