BASIL AND ANNETTE.
CHAPTER I.
In the old world the reign of winter has commenced. The woods are
snow-white, the hedges are frosted over, the pools are frozen, icicles
hang from the branches of the trees. Wayfarers walk briskly, stamp
their feet, and beat their hands to keep the circulation going; while
other humans, whom business does not call from their houses, snuggle
round the fireside, with doors and windows closed to keep out the
nipping air. Winged immigrants that came in the sweet spring days have
long since taken their departure to warmer climes, bearing with them
memories of a bright youth, to be renewed when another spring smiles
upon the land.
In the new world, at the same moment, it is nature's holiday time. The
air is scented with the fragrance of white lilies and jessamine;
fringed violets carpet the woods; the wild passion fruit, with its
gleaming scarlet flowers, illuminates the bushes; the palm-tree rears
its graceful head above festoons of feathery leaves, in which clumps
of red berries shine like clusters of stars; tall quandong-trees and
wild plums shoot up straight as arrows, for the most part clear of
vines and creepers, but not always successful in escaping the embrace
of the stag's horn fern, one of the handsomest of all Australia's
parasites; and the white-wooded umbrella-tree proudly asserts its
claim to preeminence, with its darkly lustrous laurel-shaped leaves
surmounted by long radiating spikes of crimson flowers, the brilliancy
of which rivals the glowing sunset of the South. Through the grand
forests, in which for unnumbered ages the dusky savage has roamed in
freedom, never dreaming of the invasion of a higher civilisation, flit
flocks of resplendent parrots, chief among them being the blue
mountain, the rosella, and the crimson wing; black cockatoos, with
their dazzling tails spread out, are lurking in the branches of the
bloodwood trees, where they find both food and shelter; flycatchers,
all green and gold, are cunningly watching the waterholes for prey;
laughing jackasses, with their blue feathers and cold grey eyes, which
are now twinkling with fun, are making merry over the absurd antics of
native companions, whose conceited hoppings and twirlings are comic
enough to inspire mirth in the dullest denizens of the woods; while
the soft musical notes of the bellbirds, all green and purple, blue
and golden, make harmonious the west wind which travels from the
beeches, and fill the air with melody strange and sweet.
Within hail of these summer evidences of loveliness and grandeur stand
two men, one young, the other not yet middle-aged. The younger man,
whose name is Basil Whittingham, is the embodiment of careless,
indolent grace, but just now he is evincing an unusual earnestness of
manner, both in speaking and listening. His age is barely
twenty-three, and he bears about him the unmistakable stamp of
gentleman. This is not always the case with men who have honest claims
to the title, but with some few it is a gift. It is so with Basil
Whittingham. He has blue eyes, fair hair, a supple, graceful form, a
laughing mouth, with teeth like pearl, delicate hands, and a long,
light-brown moustache, which he evidently regards as a magnificent
possession, and cherishes and nurses as a thing of beauty. Otherwise
he has not much to be proud of in the shape of possessions, for his
clothes would be anything but presentable in Mayfair, though here in
the Australian woods they may serve well enough. His trousers, tucked
into old knee boots, have conspicuously seen their best days; his
shirt, of some light material, has rents in it, showing the fair skin
of his arms embrowned by the sun where the sun could get at them; the
sash round his waist is frayed and faded; his wide-awake hat, sound in
front, is tattered at the back, where it flaps loosely over his
flowing hair; and, moreover, he is smoking a short black cutty. Yet
despite these drawbacks, if drawbacks they can be called in this land
of freedom, freer indeed than any republic under the sun, even the
most ordinary observer would be ready to acknowledge that the man was
a gentleman. One, for instance, who would not do a dirty trick, who
would not tell a lie to serve his own interests, who would not betray
a friend, and who would be more likely to wrong himself than others.
Tender, simple, brave; fearless, but not foolhardy; openhearted,
confiding, and unsuspicious of sinister, motives in those with whom he
has once shaken hands; with a sense of humour which lightens
adversity; regretting not the past, though he has wilfully steered his
boat into the Bay of Poverty, and dreading not the future; such is
Basil Whittingham, a typical type of an honest, frank, manly English
gentleman.
His companion, by name Anthony Bidaud, was born and bred in
Switzerland, but is of French extraction. He speaks, English fluently,
so well indeed that those who serve him will not believe he is a
foreigner. He has not yet reached middle age, but he looks sixty at
least, and on his worn, anxious face dwells the expression of a man
who is waiting for a mortal stroke. He is well dressed, after the free
bush fashion, and is no less a gentleman than Basil Whittingham. It is
the mutual recognition of social equality that keeps Basil penniless
and poorly clad, for he is a guest, not a dependent, on the plantation
of which Anthony Bidaud is master. This state of things suits the
careless nature of the younger gentleman, who, welcomed and received
by Anthony Bidaud as an equal, takes a pride in holding himself free
from the touch of servitude. Perhaps Annette, of whom you shall
presently hear, serves as a factor in the attitude he has chosen.
Being the hero of our story, it is needful that something should be
related of his career in the home country.
His parents were Devonshire people, and he their only child. It was
supposed that his father was a man of fortune; he lived as one, kept
hounds and horses, and maintained a costly establishment. Needless to
say that Basil was the idol of his parents; he was also the idol of a
wealthy uncle, to whom he paid a visit once in every year, and who,
being childless, had announced his intention of making Basil his heir.
Thus, all seemed smooth and pleasant-sailing before the young fellow.
But misfortunes came; at the age of fourteen he lost his mother. The
memory of the solemn moments he spent by her bedside before she closed
her eyes upon the world, abided ever with Basil, whose passionate
adoration for the dear mother was a good testimony of his affectionate
disposition. But there was something deeper than affection in the
feelings he entertained for her. She had been to him more than a
loving mother; she had been his truest counsellor and friend. Upon her
had devolved the father's duty of inculcating in their child those
strict principles of honour and right-doing which set the seal of true
manhood upon him who follows them out in his course through life.
Basil's father was of an easy, genial nature, and it was from him that
Basil inherited a cheerfulness of temper and a sense of humour which
lessened evils instead of magnifying them. The higher qualities of his
character came from his mother. Lying on her death-bed she impressed
upon him the beauty of honesty and uprightness, and the lad's heart
responded to her teaching.
"Never look to consequences, my dear child," she said. "Do always what
is right; and when you are a man counsel and guide your dear father."
He promised to obey her, but it was not until many years had passed
that he knew what she meant when she told him to counsel and guide his
father. It was she who had steered her husband's boat when it had got
into troubled waters, and steered it always into a safe harbour. No
one knew it, no one suspected it; not even her husband, who believed
that it was due to himself alone that he escaped dangers which
threatened him from time to time; but this ignorance was due to her
wisdom, and partly, also, to her love; rather than wound his feelings,
she preferred to suffer herself. It is not to be inferred from this
remark that she had not led a happy life; she had, and her home was
happy in the truest sense; but she sighed to think of her husband,
left alone to grapple with difficulties which his easy nature
prevented him from seeing.
She had a private fortune of her own, and with her husband's consent
she made a will devising it all to her son, with the exception of some
small legacies to humble friends. The money was to be invested, and to
accumulate till Basil was twenty-one years of age, when he was to come
into possession of it; so that, even without his uncle, he was
comfortably provided for. A short time after his mother's death, his
father announced his intention of giving up his establishment in the
country and settling in London. The home in which he had passed so
many happy years with his wife was desolate and sad now that she was
gone from it; he wandered through the rooms with a weight on his heart
which memory made heavier instead of lighter.
"Yes Basil," he said to his son, "it is the best thing I can do. If I
remain here I shall lose my reason; I must find some distraction from
grief."
Basil was too young to question this decision; what his father
resolved upon must be right. The old home was sold up, and father and
son removed to London. Then came the question of Basil's education.
His uncle considered removal to London a step in the wrong direction,
and he wrote to that effect; he also expressed his opinion that London
was an unsuitable place in which to conduct a young gentleman's
education. "Give the lad a tutor," he said, "and let him travel." This
was done, and before he was fifteen years of age Basil was living on
the Continent, picking up knowledge and picking up pleasure in not
quite equal quantities, the latter predominating. It was an agreeable
life, and Basil did not harm by it. Every year he came to England, and
spent a month with his father in London and a week with his uncle in
the country. On one occasion he and his uncle spent this week together
in the great city, living at Morley's Hotel, Charing Cross, and seeing
the sights, and this visit was destined to be pregnant with strange
results in years to come. Except upon all other occasions the uncle
received Basil in the country. The old gentleman was full of quips and
cranks and imaginary ills. He fancied himself an invalid, and coddled
himself up absurdly; and Basil, when he visited him, seldom left the
house. The forced seclusion did not trouble the young fellow; he could
make himself happy anywhere. Certainly there were few dull moments in
his uncle's house when Basil was in it, and the old gentleman, while
not objecting to a display of animal spirits, improved the opportunity
by endeavouring to drive into his nephew's head a special kind of
worldly wisdom. As, for instance: All men are rogues (ourselves
excepted). Never open your heart to a friend (except to an uncle who
is going to leave you all his money). Keep your secrets. Spend your
money on your own pleasures and your own ambitions. Never make
yourself responsible for another man's debts. Et cetera, et cetera, et
cetera. This kind of counsel was showered upon Basil, and produced no
effect upon him whatever; he was spared the trouble of arguing upon
these matters, even if he were in the humour for it--which he was not;
he had a knack of avoiding disagreeable topics by his uncle's
everlasting assertion that the counsel he gave was absolutely
indisputable, and was to be received as such.
"All right, uncle," said Basil; "now let us talk of something else."
And he would fly off into accounts of such of his Continental
adventures as he knew would please the old fellow. He had a capital
gift of description, and the old man would sit huddled up in his
arm-chair, cracking his sides at his nephew's wit. Basil never bade
his uncle good-bye without a cheque for a substantial sum in his
pocket. He was liberally provided for by his father, but he did not
despise his uncle's gifts. Seeing that his stories of his travels
amused his uncle, he said that he would one day write a book.
"And when you write it," his uncle Said, "burn it. Write a book
indeed! Put your time out at better interest, Basil. Make money,
money, money. Then people will bow down to you. _I'm_ not a nice
object to look at, am I? But I've got money, and people bow down to
_me!_ How much more will they be likely to do so to a handsome fellow
like you? Make money, my boy, make money, and stick to it."
Which worldly advice went as usual in at one ear and out at the other.
After all, the old gentleman's remarks had only a general application;
had there been any special interest at stake Basil would have argued
it stoutly enough, and thereby got himself into hot water.
So things went on till Basil was twenty-one years of age, when he was
to come into possession of his mother's fortune. On his birthday he
wrote to his father, saying he would be home in a fortnight, and full
of kind messages--messages which did not reach the sense of the man
for whom they were intended: on the day the letter was delivered at
the London address his father was lying in delirium on a bed from
which he was never to rise. A week before he intended to start for
home Basil received a letter informing him of the sad news. "Come back
immediately," the writer said, "if you wish to see your father alive."
Basil did not lose a moment. Travelling as quickly as possible he
arrived at his father's house--too late. It was a terrible blow to
him, more terrible than the loss of his mother, for which he had been
in a measure prepared. Death came more slowly in her case, and she had
instilled into her son a spirit of resignation which softened the
bereavement. Even before she drew her last breath Basil had thought of
her as an angel in heaven. But with his father it was so sudden; there
had been no preparation for the parting, no indication of it. It was
true that his father had been ailing for months, but he had been
careful not to alarm his son. He may have believed, as most men do,
that the worst would not happen; we are chary in applying to ourselves
the rules we are so ready to apply to others. Only in his last hour of
consciousness, before he fell into the delirium from which it was
fated he should not recover, had he asked for his desk, and taking
from it a sheet of paper wrote a few words to his son, which he
desired should be delivered in the event of anything serious happening
to him. He did not believe it even then; had he been a religious man
he would have weighed the matter more deeply, but he was one who,
living as fairly good and moral a life as the average church-goer,
seldom went to the Divine fount for comfort and counsel. It might have
been better for Basil if he had, for a warning might have come to him
to check the mad desire which had taken possession of him.
Between him and Basil there had never been a harsh word. Each bore for
the other the truest affection. Never a cross, never an ill-tempered
look; unvarying sweetness had marked their intercourse. So sudden a
separation could have been nothing less than terrible to the living.
It was long before Basil recovered from it. With the exception of his
crotchety old uncle he was absolutely without kith or kin. Letters had
passed between them with reference to the sad event. "I cannot come to
London to attend the funeral," his uncle wrote; "I am too infirm and
feeble. When you have settled your father's affairs I shall be glad to
see you to talk things over. It is time you made a serious start in
life. You have your mother's fortune, and your father's, which I
should say is a handsome one; you will have mine, though I intend to
keep you out of it as long as I can. You are a lucky dog; you ought to
die a millionaire." A mortal ending the absolute desirability of which
may well be doubted. Basil replied, hoping his uncle would live to a
good old age, and promising to visit him as soon as affairs were
settled. In his father's desk he found the scrawl which the dying man
had written. It was very short.
"My dear Basil,--The honour of my name is in your hands. Your loving
father."
He had not strength to attach his name.
It was not until the day after the funeral that the significance of
these words impressed itself on Basil. "The honour of my name is in
your hands." They were his father's last words to him. What meaning
did they bear? He had heard from his father's lawyers, informing him
that they had the will in their possession, and that they were at his
service. He wrote to them, to the effect that he would call upon them
early the following morning.
The head of the firm received him gravely and courteously, and gave
orders that they were not to be disturbed.
The will had been drawn out years since, and no alteration had been
made in it. Everything was left to Basil, unreservedly to him. There
were affectionate allusions in it which drew tears from Basil's eyes.
When this emotion had subsided he observed that the lawyer was
regarding him with an air of curiosity.
"May I ask," said the lawyer, "if full confidence existed between you
and your father?"
"The fullest," replied Basil. "He had no secrets from me, nor I any
from him."
The lawyer seemed sensibly relieved. "You know of his speculations?"
"His speculations!" exclaimed Basil, in surprise. "I was not aware
that he speculated."
"Then full confidence did not exist between you. I warned him; I could
do no more than that. In my experience, my dear sir, I have seen so
many go the same way. There is but one end to it, and this has ended
as the others have done."
"I will listen to nothing against my father," said Basil warmly.
"I have nothing to say against him," responded the lawyer, "except
that he was unwise. He had an intense craving to leave you a very
large fortune, and this craving became a kind of disease in him, and
led him on. I regret to tell you that all his speculations have ended
disastrously."
"That is to say, have resulted in a loss?"
"In great losses."
"To what extent?"
"Claims are pouring in. If they are satisfied, the will in your hands
is not worth more than waste paper. But some of the claims may be
contested, and in my belief successfully. But that will be a matter
for counsel's opinion."
"It has nothing to do with counsel," said Basil; "it has to do with
me. I am my dear father's representative, and it is for me to
determine what is to be done."
"Undoubtedly. Instructions must come from you."
"Claims are pouring in, you say. Can you tell me to what amount?"
"As far as we have received them; there are more to be presented you
understand."
"Yes."
"Plainly, then," said the lawyer, "the property your father has left
will not be sufficient to meet his debts."
"They must be paid, however." The lawyer inclined his head.
"Yes," said Basil, rising and pacing the room in his excitement, "they
must be paid. No stigma must rest upon my father's memory. Some of the
claims may be contested, you say? In justice?"
"Legally," replied the lawyer.
"I ask you again," said Basil. "In justice?"
The lawyer, declining to commit himself, made no reply.
"At least," said Basil, "you can answer me this question. My father
owes the money?"
"Yes, my dear sir, he owes the money."
"Then it must be paid. Do you not see that it _must_ be paid? No man
shall have the power of uttering one word against him."
"But," said the lawyer, eyeing the young man as he would have eyed a
psychological puzzle, "if the estate left by your father is not
sufficient to satisfy all these claims, what is to be done?"
"I have money of my own--my mother's fortune--of which you have the
particulars."
"Yes, we can give you all the information you require, and it requires
but your signature to a few documents, already prepared, my dear sir,
to place you in possession of this very handsome inheritance."
"You can probably tell me the amount of it."
"Almost to a farthing. It is invested in the safest securities,
realisable at an hour's notice, and it amounts to,"--the lawyer took
some papers from a japanned box and ran his eye over them--"it amounts
to not less than twenty-three thousand pounds."
"Will that," asked Basil, "with my father's estate, satisfy in full
the claims which are pouring in?"
"But my dear sir," expostulated the lawyer, with a look of
astonishment.
Basil would not allow him to conclude. "I have to repeat some of my
questions, it seems," he said. "Will this fortune, which is realisable
in an hour, satisfy in full the claims of my father's creditors?"
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and replied briefly, "More than
satisfy them."
"Then the matter is settled," said Basil. "I empower you to collect
the whole of these claims to the uttermost farthing; to convert the
securities which are mine into money; to prepare a complete balance
sheet, and to pay my father's creditors in full, with as little delay
as possible."
"I am to accept these instructions as definite and decisive?"
"As definite and decisive!"
"They shall be followed and carried out with as little delay as
possible. I must trouble you to call here at three o'clock this
afternoon to sign the necessary papers."
"I will be punctual. Good morning; and I am greatly obliged to you."
"Good morning, my dear sir," said the lawyer, adding under his breath,
"and I am greatly astonished at you."
At three o'clock that afternoon Basil called again at the lawyer's
office, and signed "the necessary papers," and went away with a light
heart and a smiling face. Within a month the affair was concluded, his
father's estate was realised, and his father's creditor's paid in
full. There remained to him then, out of his mother's fortune, the sum
of three thousand pounds.
He was perfectly happy and contented. Long before the business was
finally settled he had realised what his father meant by his last few
written words: "My dear Basil,--The honour of my name is in your
hands. Your loving father." To good hands indeed had the honour of a
dead man's name been entrusted. Basil had preserved it unsullied,
unblemished.
He took no credit for it; he had fulfilled a sacred trust. It was
simply a duty performed.
"Now," he said to himself; "I will go and see my uncle."
But while he was preparing to start he received a letter from that
gentleman, which will explain why the visit was never paid.
"Nephew Basil" (the letter ran), "I have received news of your mad
proceedings since your return home. No person in his sober senses
would have acted as you have done. The greater portion of the claims
made against your father's estate could have been legally and
successfully contested, and even in what remained a sharp lawyer could
have obtained a substantial abatement. This view, as I understand, was
presented to you by an able firm of solicitors, but you rejected it,
and chose to play the fool. Now, I do not care to have dealings with a
fool.
"I might have pardoned you for sacrificing your father's estate to
satisfy these claims, but I will not pardon you for sacrificing the
fortune your mother left you. It proves to me that it is not safe to
entrust money to you, and I have decided to put mine to better use
than to leave it to you. Accept this intimation as my ultimatum. It is
the last letter you will ever receive from me, and you will never see
me again. Therefore you need not go to the trouble of coming my way.
My house is not open to you. All the good counsel I have given you has
been thrown away. You might have told me at the time and I should have
saved my breath and my patience. Good-bye, foolish nephew.
"Bartholomew Whittingham."
He was angry enough to add a postscript:
"As you are so fond of paying debts for which you are not responsible,
what do you say to considering the money I have given you from time to
time as one, and handing it back? You can do as you please about it. I
can make no legal demand for it, but I gave it to you under the
impression that you were not exactly an idiot. It amounts to quite
fourteen hundred pounds. If I had it I would put it out at good
interest."
To state that Basil was not hurt by this letter would be to state what
is not true. He had an affection for the old fellow, and he was
greatly pained to think that all was over between them; but he was not
in the least disturbed by the old man's arguments. He had done what
was right; of this he was sure. But the letter stung Basil as well as
hurt him. There was a bitter twang in his uncle's remark that he could
make no legal demand for the money he had given his nephew. "He shall
have it back," said Basil, "every farthing of it." Then he was seized
with an expensive fit of humour. His uncle had spoken of interest. He
would prove that he was not a whit less independent than the old
fellow himself. He made some lame and ridiculous calculations of
interest at five per cent, per annum, and arrived at the sum of two
thousand pounds and a few pence. He got a draft for the amount, and
inclosed it in the following note:--
"All right, my dear uncle. Here is your money back again, with
interest added. If it is not enough interest, let me know, and I will
send you more. Good-bye, and good luck to you.
"Your affectionate nephew,
"Basil."
This last debt paid, Basil had barely a thousand pounds left. He did
not hear from his uncle again.
Now, what was he to do? He was without profession or trade, and did
not feel equal for any kind of service he saw around, even if it was
offered to him. "I think," he said, "I will travel a little more." He
did so, and was prudent enough to travel in an economic spirit but his
money went fast enough for all that. At the end of a year and a half
he had in his purse exactly one hundred pounds. Was he dashed? Not a
bit. But he knew that something must be done. "I will go to
Australia," he said. The project exalted him. He glowed, he rubbed his
hands, he was in a whirl of pleasant excitement. He would be in a new
land, in a land of adventure, in a land of romance. There he would be
all right, of course. Not a doubt of it. As for his empty purse--and
it _was_ pretty well empty by the time he had paid for his passage and
a few necessary odds and ends--he scarcely gave it a thought. Was he
not going to Australia, the poor man's El Dorado? So he set forth in a
sailing vessel, and enjoyed the passage immensely, and landed in
Sydney as happy as a king. The fairy harbour, the most beautiful in
all the wide world, enchanted him; the ravishing scenery enchanted
him; the quaint old city, so home-like in its appearance, enchanted
him. Certainly he had come to the right place.
He was rather more melancholy a few weeks afterwards, but he never
lost heart. Suitable employment did not present itself so readily as
he had thought it would, and gold was not to be picked up in the
streets. "I am making a mistake," he said. "I must not remain in the
city; I must go into the bush." He soon made a start, and began
tramping Queensland way, and after some weeks of wondering reached the
tract of country which Anthony Bidaud had taken up.
CHAPTER II.
On the plantation which he had brought almost to perfection by twenty
years of wise labour Anthony Bidaud lived with his only child,
Annette, fourteen years of age. He had no other of his kindred near
him. The wife he brought from Switzerland lay in a flower-covered
grave within a mile of the spot upon which he stood. They came to the
colony childless, but after a lapse of years Annette was born to them.
Until the child was nine years of age the fond mother was spared to
rear her, and then one morning Annette awoke to find the dear
protector lost to her. It was an irreparable loss in that far-away
land, and there was no one of her own sex to take the mother's place.
But Annette had her father left, and he, not unsuccessfully, strove to
fill the void in his child's life. He was unremitting in his
tenderness and watchfulness, and he bestowed upon his little one a
full-hearted love. The two had lived together till now, when Anthony
Bidaud's heart was gloomed by the fear of approaching death. He had
never been strong, and the climate of the new world in which he had
made his home was destined to be fatal to him. He made pilgrimages to
Sydney and Melbourne to consult the best physicians, but they gave him
little hope. Death was approaching surely and swiftly. A gnawing pain,
an inexpressible grief, stirred his heart as he thought of his child,
whom he idolised. The reflection that she would be left alone in this
wild spot, in this remote part of the world, without a relative, with
scarcely a friend, appalled him. Yet what could he do?
He had neither sought nor made friends, he and his wife and child had
been sufficient for each other, and when his wife died he and Annette
sighed for no other companionship. But had he sought friendships he
would not have succeeded in making them in any but fitful fashion. His
nearest neighbour was twenty miles away, and everybody in the colony
was so intent upon "getting on" and making his fortune, that there was
no time for social intercourse. In colonial cities there was at that
time but little "society;" in the bush, none.
About a hundred feet above the blue clear stream of the Pioneer stood
the house in which Anthony Bidaud lived. The slabs with which it was
built had been split from the gum and bloodwood trees growing in the
forest which lay in the rear of the huts and buildings inhabited by
the labourers, chiefly South Sea Islanders, who worked on the
plantation. The roof was composed of shingles split from the same
description of trees. The interior of the house was lined with rich,
dark red cedar, which grew in the thick scrub on the opposite banks of
the river. An avenue of bananas led from the house along the cliff to
an arbour, in which oranges, custard apples, guavas, and other
delicious fruits, ripened in unsurpassed perfection. The posts of the
verandahs which surrounded three sides of the house were covered by
gigantic passion fruit, except at one end, which was completely
enclosed by grape vines and the yellow jessamine. Hammocks were slung
in the verandahs, and the occupants could swing idly to and fro,
shaded from the hot sun, and within reach of the fruit which grew in
such wonderful abundance and luxuriance all around. A lovely home for
husband, wife, and children; a dream which a poet soul only could
properly appreciate, but for one simple human being, in whose days the
flower of human affection was not blossoming--little better than a
wilderness.
It was of this sad prospect, which his state of health warned him lay
before Annette, that Anthony Bidaud was speaking to Basil at the time
of their introduction to the reader. They had been acquainted but a
short time, but each bore for the other a genuine esteem. Some kindred
qualities of independence, high-mindedness, and honesty of purpose had
drawn them together from the hour they first met, and would have drawn
them even closer in the future; but the shadows gathering over one
life marred this fulfilment of a brighter promise. Barely two months
had elapsed since Basil Whittingham, presenting himself to Anthony
Bidaud, had asked for a shelter of his roof for a night. Annette was
present when Basil appeared; by her side a faithful Scotch terrier,
who guarded his young mistress with watchful care, and when needed,
with ferocity. Basil stooped and patted the head of the dog, who did
not snarl and show his teeth, as was his wont with strangers, but
submitted to the familiarity with unusual amiability. The sensible
creature went even farther than this; he rose, and rubbed his head
against Basil's leg, courting by the action a continuance of the
caressing.
"Father," said Annette, "no stranger has ever done that with Bruno
before."
"Bruno and I are old friends," said Basil, with a pleasant smile.
Annette thought that she had never seen such beautiful teeth.
"Oh, Bruno," she cried reproachfully, "and you never told me! Come
here directly, sir!" Bruno approached her, wagging his tail. "Really
old friends?" she asked turning to Basil.
"No, not really," he replied. "What I mean is, I love dogs, and dogs
love me."
"A good testimonial," remarked Anthony Bidaud, gazing with interest
upon this poorly attired gentleman.
"I have found it so," responded Basil, "for dog and man."
He held out his hand to Annette, who not only took it, but retained
it. This went far to complete the conquest of Anthony Bidaud. With the
ordinary tramp he was very familiar, but here was a man of another
breed. No hang-dog looks, no slouching, no lowering of the brows, no
prison-mark about him. An upright gentleman, who looked the man he was
asking a favour from square in the face.
"Have you travelled far?" asked Anthony Bidaud.
"About twenty miles I should say. Rather too hot a day for so long a
walk."
"You must be tired," said Anthony Bidaud. "You are heartily welcome
here."
"I thank you," said Basil.
That this young man had so swiftly won favour with his child and her
four-footed protector was a sufficient recommendation to Bidaud, but,
independent of that, he was rejoiced to meet with a gentleman from
whom manners and polish of good society had not been rubbed off by
familiarity with the rougher aspects of life in the new world. Basil
was a man whom no experience could harden; the inner grain of his
nature was refined and sweet. The hardships he had already met with in
the colony had not embittered him in the least. He grumbled at
nothing, took all things easily, and showed a smiling face to the
world. When he presented himself to Anthony Bidaud he was really at
his wits' end, but though he had not tasted food that day he was not
discouraged or disheartened. A clean conscience is a wonderful
sustainer. "I am like a cat," thought Basil, as he trudged blithely
through the bush, "I am bound to fall on my feet". And fall on his
feet he did that summer afternoon, which was to be the prelude of many
happier days; for before the night was over he told his host
sufficient of his antecedents to satisfy Bidaud that his hospitality
was not likely to be misplaced. Upon his persuasion his guest remained
for a week, then for another week, and so on till the present time.
Bidaud was diffident in asking Basil to enter his service, and Basil,
though he had come to the plantation with a vague idea of seeking
employment, did not entertain it after his first introduction to
Bidaud and his daughter. The terms upon which they had met and upon
which he was received forbade his asking for employment. It was
gentleman and gentleman, not master and servant. But at length
Bidaud--who had learned sufficient to be aware that Basil's purse was
empty, and that he had no friends in the colony--delicately pressed
his guest upon the subject, and, as timidly as though he was asking a
favour instead of being anxious to bestow one, hinted at some business
connection between them. Basil, from scruples with which we are
familiar but which he did not explain to his host, would not entertain
the idea, but firmly and courteously set it aside.
"You have your future to look to," said Bidaud.
"There is time enough to think of that," said Basil, cheerfully. "I am
not so very old."
Many a time did Bidaud look with eyes of affection at Basil, and wish
he had a son like him to whom he could entrust his darling Annette.
Basil was a man peculiarly adapted to inspire affection in honest,
simple hearts, and such a bond grew between him and Annette. Happy is
the man whose manners cause children to regard him as one of
themselves; he possesses an inheritance of pleasant hours which money
cannot purchase. Basil and Annette, then, spent a great deal of time
together, accompanied by the faithful Bruno, and it gladdened the
father's heart to see his child so happy in the society of their new
friend.
"Father says your name is Whittingham," said Annette.
"Yes, it is," said the young man.
"Mr. Whittingham."
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"No. You must have another name."
"Of course I have. Basil."
"Basil. That is much nicer, ever so much nicer. I shall call you
Basil."
"I shall feel honoured, Annette."
This compact being made, Annette took him in hand; the little maid had
already discovered that she knew a great deal which he did not, and
she set up a school, with Basil as her only pupil. Whether what she
taught was likely to be of use to him in the battle of life he was
bound to fight is an open question. Had some foreknowledge come upon
him as to the nature of that battle, and the roads into which it would
lead him, he would have laughingly rejected it as the wildest of
fancies. He was quite content with the present; he had found an
enchanting companion, and time was passing delightfully. During
Annette's five years of motherless life she had acquired a wonderful
knowledge of the fauna and the flora of the colony, and to these
mysteries she introduced Basil. It is not incorrect to call them
mysteries, for they are really so to ninety-nine out of every hundred
colonials, who spend their lives in ignorance of the wonders by which
they are surrounded. But it is so in all lands.
Annette, then, opened Basil's mind, and let in knowledge. She showed
him how to snare game, which abounded in vast quantities, snipe,
quail, and numerous varieties of duck, of which the whistling duck is
the most curious, and the black duck the best eating; she taught him
the names of the strange and beautiful birds which found their home in
the scrub and forests round about; she described to him the different
trees which grew in the neighbourhood of the beautiful Pioneer River,
and would not rest contented till he was familiar with them, and could
give them their right names.
"What is this, Basil?"
"What is this, Annette? Why, a tree."
"But what kind of tree?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Ha--hum--oh, yes, it is the tea-tree."
"It is not, Basil. It is the bottle-tree."
"Well, the bottle-tree. Of course it is the bottle-tree. How could I
be so stupid?"
"You are not stupid; you are inattentive. Do you see this hole cut in
the tree?"
"Of course I do."
"I will not have that answer. 'Of course I do' sounds as if I had no
right to ask the question. Say 'I do.'"
"I do."
"And mean it, if you please."
"I mean it," said Basil, with his hand on his heart, and a merry
twinkle in his eyes.
"Very good. You see the hole. Who cut it?"
"On my word of honour, Annette, I haven't the slightest idea."
"It was cut by the blacks. Now, what did they cut it for?"
"How on earth should I know?"
"You ought to know. You have been brought up in a very bad school.
I'll show you what for. Out with your knife, Basil. Dig it in here, a
long way under the hole. That is right. Now you can have a good drink
of cold sweet water. Is it not wonderful?"
"Indeed it is. Like Oliver Twist, I ask for more."
The conversation instantly took another turn. There were but few books
on the home station, and among them no work of fiction. It fell to
Basil's lot to open a new fairyland in the young girl's life. "What
was Oliver Twist?" "He was not a 'what'; he was a 'who.'" "Then who was
Oliver Twist?" Basil told the story as well as he could, and
afterwards told another; and after the second tale, still another,
this time a more simple one, from the magic cupboard of Hans Christian
Andersen. It was long before they resumed their woodland lessons.
Annette pointed out where the best figs and almonds grew, instructed
him how to make bracelets and necklaces out of the stones of the
quandong fruit, and where the sugar bags of the native bees were to be
found. They caught a native bear, not a very ferocious creature and
tamed it in a few days so thoroughly that it followed them about like
a dog, to the disgust of Bruno, who did not approve of the proceeding;
they gathered wild ginger and wild nutmegs in the scrub, and in a
famous creek they caught quantities of golden perch, with red eyes and
double chins; and once they saw two emus in the distance, and heard
the faint sound of their peculiar whistle. In such-like idling the
days flew by, and the hours were all too short, but suddenly it dawned
upon Basil that this lotus life could not last for ever. It was from a
sense of duty, and with a sinking heart (for the thought of parting
from these good friends, especially from Annette, sorely oppressed
him) that he intimated to Anthony Bidaud that he had lingered too
long, and must go farther afield.
"I must not outstay my welcome," he said.
"You cannot do that," said Bidaud. "Are you not happy here?"
"Too happy."
"No, one cannot be too happy," said Bidaud, in a tone of great
sadness. There was that weighing on his heart which he yearned to
impart to some person in whom he could confide. He had thought of it
for days past, and had resolved to unbosom his sorrow to the young
gentleman who had brought a new light of tenderness into the
prosperous home.
His story was told. Basil learned that the father feared he had not
long to live, and that he was filled with apprehension at the
contemplation of Annette being left without a friend.
"You were born in Switzerland," said Basil, thoughtfully. "Is there no
one connected with you in your own country into whose charge you could
give Annette?"
"It is twenty years since I left my native land," said Bidaud, "and
great changes must have taken place during that time."
"You left relatives there?"
"Yes, a sister--and a brother." His mention of his brother was made
with evident reluctance.
"Why not write to your brother," asked Basil, "to come and receive the
trust?"
"Heaven forbid!" cried Bidaud. "Give my darling child into Gilbert's
care! I would as soon give her into the care of a wolf! No, no, it is
not to be thought of. Six months ago I wrote to my sister, in whom I
have some confidence--she is a woman, and would surely not ill-treat
my child--informing her of my circumstances, and of the certain fate
which awaited me, and imploring her to come out to me. I promised to
provide for her, and for her family, if she had any. I thought that
the knowledge that I was rich would tempt her. To that letter I have
received no reply. Basil"--like his daughter, he called his guest by
his Christian name--"it is the sad and sober truth that you are the
only friend upon whom I can rely to render me a service. Will you do
so?"
"If it is in my power," said Basil, gravely.
"You have given me the impression that you are alone in the world."
"Practically alone," replied Basil.
"With no kindred who have claims upon you."
"My parents are dead; I was their only child. There is but one man
alive in England who is of my blood--an uncle whose heir I was to be,
but who has cast me off."
"May I inquire for what reason?"
"For a very serious reason. I did not know the value of money, he
said. My father, when he died, was heavily involved, and I ruined
myself in paying his debts. My uncle was angry at this, saying there
was no obligation upon me to satisfy my father's creditors. I held,
and hold, a different opinion; but the consequence was that my uncle
abandoned his intention of making me his heir."
"My task is all the easier for your explanation. The service I am
about to ask of you is no light one, and may be agreeable to you
because it will open out a future which few men would turn their back
upon. I do not say this to tempt you, for I know that you will be
guided entirely by your own feelings, by your own sense of right and
wrong, and that worldly advantage will weigh for nothing in the scale.
You are fond of Annette."
"I love the child; I never met with a sweeter and more sympathetic
nature than hers. She has strength of character, too."
"Do you think so?" asked Bidaud, anxiously.
"I am sure of it. Even now she rules me."
Bidaud shook his head with a sad smile. "That is not a proof. You are
content to be ruled, and what passes between you springs from
affection. The strength of character required to battle with the world
is of a different kind from that which Annette exhibits towards you.
The service I ask you to render me concerns Annette."
"Why, then," said Basil, gaily, "it is rendered before you ask for
it."
"You must know its nature before you consent. It is nothing more nor
less, Basil, than that you should stand to my child in the light of
guardian."
Basil started. The tone in which this was spoken was that of a man who
was convinced that the world was slipping from him.
"Surely you are alarming yourself unnecessarily," said the young man.
"I am not. There are warnings which it would be criminal to neglect,
especially where there is such a vital interest at stake as the
happiness of an only and beloved child. I have received these warnings
and must be prepared. Say that the spiritual whisper which tells me
that my end is approaching is false, is no faith to be placed in the
doctor's decree that my hours are numbered? A man may have morbid
fancies, but the teachings of experience and science are not to be
lightly set aside and disregarded. If my fears prove groundless, so
much the better for Annette; if they are confirmed--which they will
be, Basil, nothing can alter it--so much the worse for her unless
needful preparation is made for the crisis in her young life. Will you
now consent?"
"Let me hear more fully what you have to say," replied Basil, gravely,
"before I fully pledge myself. You speak of a brother and sister in
your own country, and you have written to one who may appear at any
moment. The claim she has upon Annette, and the authority with which
the laws of nature have invested her, are stronger than those of any
stranger. I am a young man, and the idea of becoming guardian to so
tender and sweet a flower as Annette startles me. I ask myself, am I
equal to a responsibility so serious, and the question reveals to me
my own deficiencies, of which I am generally somewhat painfully aware.
It is really as though the most serious page in my life was about to
be opened."
CHAPTER III.
"I have no fears," said Anthony Bidaud, with a gentle smile, "on the
score of your deficiencies. I have been no inattentive observer since
the fortunate day upon which I first formed acquaintance with you.
That you have had a disappointment in life counts for very little, and
such small difficulties as befall a newcomer in this new land are
scarcely to be accounted among the real difficulties of life. You do
not yet know your own strength, but already, in a position of serious
responsibility, you have acted in a manner which few men would have
had the courage to do. Your past is honourable, and contents me. You
have a kind heart, and that adds to my content. Should the worst
happen, my Annette will have by her side a true and honest counsellor.
Reflect a moment. Say that I were to die to-morrow--nay, do not argue
with me; death is the only certain thing in life, and it may come at
any unexpected moment to the strongest--say that I die to-morrow, what
would be the position of my dear child? I have an estate worth
thousands of pounds; she is a mere child, and could not manage it. She
would become the prey of schemers, who would undoubtedly not deal
fairly by her. I have a hundred servants on this plantation, and not a
friend among them. By accident you enter into our lives. I use the
term accident, but I believe it to be a providence. We are drawn to
each other. I have observed you closely, and am satisfied to deliver
into your hands a sacred charge, the charge of a young girl's future.
At such moments as these there comes to some men a subtle,
unfathomable insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe that there is a
link between you and my child which, if you do not recognise it now,
you will be bound to recognise in the future. It may be broken in the
present, but the threads will be joined as surely as we stand here
side by side. Apart from this mysticism, to which I do not expect you
to subscribe, there is a worldly, practical side which it is right and
necessary you should understand. You ask for fuller information of my
brother and sister. I will give it to you. That my brother and I did
not part friends, and that his attitude towards me influenced my
sister, was not my fault. I loved a young girl in my own station in
life, and she loved me and afterwards became my wife. That my brother
Gilbert loved her also was to be deplored; we were not to be blamed
for it, though Gilbert was furious--with me for loving her, with her
for returning my love. I endeavoured to remonstrate with him: he would
not listen to me. 'You have stepped in the way of my happiness,' he
said; 'you shall rue it.' It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh
and blood, but it is the truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in
not placing her affections upon him. He would have broken her heart.
He was a spendthrift and a libertine, and would stop at little for the
gratification of his selfish pleasures. He was furious against me, not
so much because he loved Annette's mother, but because he could not
have his own way. He was clever in crooked things, and in cunning
shrewdness there were few to beat him. Educated as a doctor, he could
have earned a good name if he had chosen to be industrious; but he
preferred to lead an idle, dissolute life. These evil courses caused
him to be deeply in debt at the time of my father's death. A portion
of my father's fortune, which was not very large, was left to me, and
Gilbert endeavoured to rob me of it, saying he was the elder, as he
was by a year. With wedded life in view I resisted the attempt, and
this angered him the more. He swore that he would never forgive me,
and that he would be revenged upon me. It was strange that my sister
leaned more towards him than towards me, but that does sometimes
happen with the scapegrace of the family. I am not endeavouring to
blacken Gilbert's character for my own glorification. In drawing his
picture I have dealt more than justly by him; were he not my brother I
should speak of actions of his which made me wonder how he and I could
have been born of the same mother. It is that I wish you to understand
why I did not write to him to come here and take charge of my dear
child, and to understand why I said that I would as soon give her into
the care of a wolf. I succeeded in obtaining my share of my father's
fortune, and soon afterwards married. Even then Gilbert did not cease
from persecuting me. He would come and take up his quarters in our
house, and insult my wife, and revile me, unto our life became
intolerable. It was then that we resolved to emigrate, chiefly to
escape his persecutions. Then he showed us plainly that his love had
changed to hate. He said to me before I left Switzerland, 'One day I
will be even with you. Remember my words--dead or alive, I will be
even with you!' Since that day I have never seen him, never heard from
him, and I do not know whether he is still living. Upon our arrival in
this colony fortune smiled upon us almost from the first. We were
happy, very happy, and as you see I have been prosperous. But I have
not been wise. I should have provided my child with a suitable
companion at the death of my wife, though heaven knows where I should
have found one; but I should have tried. To marry again was
impossible; I loved my wife too well, and I could not be false to her
memory. I have been worse than unwise: I have neglected a serious
duty. Up to this day I have shrunk from making a will, so that my
affairs would get into confusion should anything happen to me. I have
resolved to make instant amends for this neglect of duty. To-night I
shall write to a lawyer to come to me without an hour's delay, and he
shall draw out my will before he departs. In this will it is my desire
to appoint you manager of my estate and guardian of my child till she
arrives at the age of twenty-one. It is not a bad prospect I hold out
to you. At the end of seven years you will still be a young man, and
if you elect to leave Annette you can do so. She will by that time
have learned from you all that is necessary to continue the management
of the estate herself; but she will also then be free to act as she
pleases: either to remain upon it, or to sell it and go elsewhere. I
do not think there is anything more I can tell you to enable you to
arrive at a decision. I do not urge you to comply with my desire
because of any personal advantage that may accrue to yourself, but I
beg of you as a friend to render me as great a service as it is in the
power of one man to render to another. If you wish for time to
consider this proposal take it, but decide before the arrival of the
lawyer. One way or another, my will must be made before a week has
passed."
But Basil did not ask for time; he was deeply touched by the
confidence reposed in him by Anthony Bidaud, and while the father
spoke he had made up his mind. He had been very happy on the
plantation; he knew that it was a desirable home, and that within its
domains could be found much that would make a man's life agreeable and
useful He had come to the colony, as had thousands of other colonists,
with the intention of making his fortune and returning to England. He
could not hope to make a fortune in a day, though wild ideas of
gold-seeking--successful gold-seeking, of course--had floated through
his mind. Suddenly, when his fortunes were at the lowest ebb, there
was presented an opportunity which, unworldly as he was, he could not
disguise from himself it would be folly to throw away. But it was due
to Anthony Bidaud that the matter should not be concluded without
something more being said.
"I need no time to consider," he said. "Your proposition is flattering
and advantageous to myself. But you speak of not being wise. Are you
wise in placing a trust so delicate and important in the hands of a
stranger?"
"I am content to do so," said Bidaud, "and I beg you to believe that
the obligation will be on my side."
"After all," suggested Basil, with a little touch of shrewdness "it
may be with you a choice of evils."
"It is a choice of good," observed Bidaud. "I have told you,"
continued Basil, "that I have not been educated into an understanding
of business matters, and that my mission in life"--here he smiled
deprecatingly--"was to go through life in a gentlemanly way, without
working for my living."
"But you came to the colony to work?"
"Yes. I am only endeavouring to prove to you how utterly unfit I am
for the position you would assign to me."
"I am entirely convinced," said Bidaud, with a look of affection at
the young man, "of your fitness for it."
"Think of my inexperience."
"Experience will come to you as it came to me. You will learn as I
did."
"Then there is another view," said Basil, and now he spoke with a
certain hesitation. "You and Annette are here as father and daughter.
It is not to be supposed that I could supply your place. I am a young
man; in a very few years Annette will be a young woman. Will not our
relative positions then be likely to wound her susceptibilities----"
"Do not finish," said Bidaud, pressing Basil's hand warmly. "Leave all
to time. Nothing but good can spring from what I propose. If Annette
were now a young woman----"
And here he himself purposely broke off in the middle of a sentence.
Certainly his manner could not be mistaken. A flush came into Basil's
face, and he did not speak again for a few moments.
"Has the letter," he then said, "you wrote to your sister been
returned to you?"
"No."
"Then it must have been delivered."
"Not necessarily. I am not sure whether undelivered letters addressed
to Switzerland are returned to the colonial post-offices. If you have
stated your principal objections I see nothing in them to cause you to
hesitate. You will consent?"
"Yes," said Basil, "I accept the trust."
"With all my heart I thank you," said Anthony Bidaud; then he placed
his hands on Basil's shoulders, and said in a solemn tone, "Guard my
child."
"Whatever lies in my power to do," said Basil, "shall be done."
Bidaud nodded and turned away; his heart was too full to say more.
Basil turned in another direction, with the intention of seeking
Annette, in fulfilment of a promise he had made to join her in the
woods. He knew where to find her.
CHAPTER IV.
Traversing a narrow, winding bridle track, he soon reached the river.
A broad belt of white sand stretched on either side for some little
distance, the water glistening like polished mirrors in its smooth,
deep reaches. Here and there it broke into a thousand tiny
silver-crested waves, created by the inequalities in the ground.
Farther on the main stream twisted into great clusters of dark green
river oaks, and was lost to view. The white sands narrowed, and were
replaced by rocks, covered with moss and lichen, and here a bark canoe
was moored. Stepping on a large boulder, Basil jumped into the canoe,
and loosening the rope, paddled down stream. The water ran like a mill
race, and presently divided into two streams, beautified by waterfalls
and fairy islands adorned with luxuriant vegetation. This dividing of
the waters extended only some three or four hundred yards, at the
termination of which they were united in one dark lagoon. A strange
stillness reigned upon the surface of the water, but this sign of
peace was insincere, the current in reality running hard and strong.
Round about the canoe floated masses of white and mauve water lilies;
in parts the huge leaves formed a perfect carpet, which easily
supported the light weight of the lotus birds as they skipped from
shore to shore. At the lower end of the lagoon the stream became so
narrow that a man could jump across it, and here Basil left his canoe,
and plunged into the woods to find Annette.
She was sitting on a great patch of velvet moss, idling with some
flowers of the wax plant and the yellow hibiscus. Her back was towards
Basil, who stepped softly, intending to surprise her, but the
crackling of the leaves betrayed him. She turned quickly, and jumping
up, ran to meet him.
"I have been waiting for you ever so long," she said, and she slipped
her hand into his.
Basil made no excuse for being late; an age seemed to have passed
since he had last seen her, though scarcely three hours separated
"then" from "now." But short as was really the interval it had
effected an important alteration in their relations towards each
other, and the contemplation of this change made him silent. Neither
was Annette as talkative as usual, and they strolled idly along for
some distance without exchanging a word. Basil had hitherto accepted
Annette's beauty in a general sense; she was pretty, she was bright,
she was full of vivacity--that was all. Had she been a woman he would
have subjected her to a closer and more analytical observation, for he
had an artist's eye for beauty, and loved to look at it in animate and
inanimate nature; but Annette was only a child, and he had paid her
just that amount of attention which one pays to small wild-flowers
that grow by the wayside. But now, looking down upon her as she walked
by his side, he observed that her eyes were hazel, and he said to
himself that hazel eyes, in girl and woman, were the most beautiful
eyes in the world. The hazel colour in the eyes he was gazing upon was
brilliant, and Basil said to himself that it was the brilliant hazel
eyes that are the most beautiful in the world. Annette's features were
not exactly regular, but formed as fair a picture of human loveliness
as a man would wish to see, her lips sweetly curved, her teeth white
and shapely, her ears like little shells, her golden brown hair
gathered carelessly about the gracefully shaped head. Yes, Annette was
beautiful even now as a child; how much more beautiful was she likely
to be when her springtime was fully set in!
Raising her head suddenly she saw that Basil was gazing at her more
earnestly and closely than he was in the habit of doing. "I was
looking at your eyes, Annette," he said, rather guiltily. "I never
noticed their colour till to-day."
"They are hazel. Do you like hazel eyes?"
"Very much."
"I am glad of that. My eyes are like my mother's. Will you come with
me?"
"Where?"
"To her grave."
He had visited it before with Annette, and they now walked towards the
canoe, gathering wild flowers as they walked. Once Annette slipped,
and he caught her and held her up; there was an unusual tenderness in
the action, and Annette nestled closer to him, and smiled happily. In
the canoe her skilful fingers were busily at work, weaving the flowers
they had gathered into garlands to lay upon her mother's grave. She
had a special gift in such-like graceful tasks, but then her heart was
in her fingers. The loving homage was reverently rendered when they
reached the spot, and Basil assisted her in clearing the dead leaves
and in planting some fresh roots she had brought with her from the
woods.
Her task accomplished, Annette sat beside the grave, with a wistful
expression on her face which made Basil wonder what was stirring in
her mind. He waited for her to break the silence, and presently she
spoke.
"What makes you so quiet, Basil?"
"I do not know. Perhaps it is because you have said so little,
Annette."
"I have been thinking."
"Yes."
"I wanted all day to speak to you about it. I thought I would when we
were in the wood alone; then you spoke of my eyes and I thought of my
dear mother. You would have loved her, Basil, and she would have loved
you. She hears me now--yes, she hears and sees me, Basil, and I think
she is glad you came to us."
"I am glad too, Annette."
"Really glad, Basil?"
"Really glad, Annette."
"Then you will not go away from us?"
"What makes you ask that?" Her question, tremulously uttered, formed a
pregnant link in the promise he had given her father.
"It is my dream," said Annette. "I dreamt it last night, and it made
me sad. You came to say good-bye, and I was unhappy at the thought
that I should never see you again. Basil, if that was to happen I
should be sorry you ever came at all."
"Then you wish me to stay?"
"Dearly, Basil, dearly! I thought I would speak to father about it;
then I thought I would speak to you first."
"Did you not speak to your father?"
"Not about my dream; but about your going away, yes. I asked him to
persuade you to stop with us."
"Because, Annette----" he said, and paused. "Because I love you,
Basil. I told father so, and he said he loved you, too, and that he
wished he had a son like you. Then you would be my brother, and I
should be very happy. But father said he was afraid you intended to
leave us soon, and that made me dream, I suppose."
"Annette, listen to me."
"I am listening, Basil."
"Your father has spoken to me, and that is why I was so late in coming
to you. He asked me to remain here, and I promised him I would."
"You did? Oh, Basil!" Her voice expressed the most perfect joy. She
had risen in her excitement, and was now leaning towards him, her lips
parted, her eyes glowing.
"Yes, Annette, I promised him, and I promise you. For some years at
least we will live together."
She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
"That will be for ever, Basil. You have made me do happy, so happy!"
"So that is all settled," he said. "But I shall be a tyrant, Annette."
"I don't mind, Basil; I will be very good and obedient. Do you hear,
Bruno, do you hear?" She knelt and kissed the faithful dog, and
pressed his head to her bosom. "Basil is not going away. He will
remain here forever--for ever!"
Basil was very grateful for the little maid's affection, grateful that
his lines had fallen in such pleasant places. What more could man
desire? But there was a shadow gathering and swiftly approaching which
neither of them could see.
They stopped out later than usual that evening, and when they returned
to the house Annette was radiant.
"Basil has promised to remain with us, father," she said, in a voice
of great joy.
"He has told you, then, dear child?"
"Yes, father, yes. He will stop with us for ever. I don't wish for
anything now."
The three happy beings sat together in the verandah during the few
brief minutes that divided day and night. In those latitudes there is
but little twilight, and the long peaceful rest of an English sunset
is unknown. For a few moments the brilliancy was dazzling. Great
clouds of amethyst and ruby spread over the western skies, melting
soon into sombre shades of purple and crimson. Then the sun dipped
down and disappeared, and the skies were overspread with a veil of
faded gold, behind which the white stars glittered.
Their souls were in harmony with the spiritual influence of the lovely
scene, and there was an ineffable peace in their hearts. Annette
kissed Basil before she retired to rest, and whispered: "Brother
Basil, I shall have happier dreams to-night."
He kissed her tenderly, and bade her good-night. Unclouded happiness
shone in her eyes as she stole to her room, where she knelt by her
bedside, and uttered the name of Basil in her prayers.
Anthony Bidaud gazed at his daughter till she entered the house, and
even then kept his eyes fixed upon the door through which she had
disappeared.
"It is years," he said to Basil, "since I have felt so thoroughly
content as I do to-night. Come to my room early in the morning; I
shall not write to my lawyer till then, and I wish you to see the
letter."
Shortly after all the inmates of the house were asleep.
* * * * * *
And while they slept, there walked across the distant plains towards
the plantation, a man and a woman who had had that goal in view for
three months past. It was summer when they left their home across the
seas. It was summer when they reached the land to which the woman had
been summoned. But, judging from their faces, no summer errand was
theirs.
"Walk quicker," said the man, surlily. "We must get there before
sunrise. My heart is bent upon it."
"I am fit to drop," said the woman. "How much farther have we to go?"
"According to information, fifteen miles. Walk quicker, quicker! Have
you travelled so far to faint at the last moment? Remember we have not
a penny left to purchase food, and have already fasted too many hours.
I see visions of ease and comfort, of wine and food, ay, and of riches
too. I am eager to get at them."
"Do you remember," said the woman, "that you were not bidden to come?"
"What of that?" retorted the man. "I have my tale ready. Leave me to
play my part. Our days of poverty are over. This is the last of them.
Walk quicker, quicker!"
CHAPTER V.
A little after sunrise Basil was awake and out, hastening to the river
for his morning bath. He had slept well and soundly, but he had had
vivid dreams. The events of the day had sunk deep in his mind; it
would have been strange otherwise, for they had altered the currents
of his whole future life. They had furnished him with a secure and
happy home; they had placed him in a position of responsibility which
he hailed with satisfaction and a sense of justifiable pride;
moreover, they had assured him that he had won the affection of a kind
and generous gentleman and of a sweet-tempered and gentle little maid.
He was no longer an outcast; he was no longer alone in the world.
Until this void was supplied he had not felt it. Young, buoyant, and
with a fund of animal spirits which was the secret of his cheerful
nature, sufficient for the day had been the good thereof; but now
quite suddenly an unexpected and sweetly serious duty had been offered
to him, and he had accepted it. He would perform it faithfully and
conscientiously.
Every word Anthony Bidaud had spoken to him had impressed itself upon
his mind. He could have repeated their conversation almost word for
word. It was this which had inspired his dreams, which formed, as it
were, a panorama of the present and the future.
Annette as she was at this moment, a child, appeared to him and he
lived over again their delightful rambles; for although it was but
yesterday that they were enjoyed, the duty he had taken upon himself
seemed to send them far back into the past; but still Annette was a
child, and her sunny ways belonged to childhood. The story of "Paul
and Virginia" had been a favourite with him when he was a youngster,
and his dreams at first were touched by the colour of that simple
tale. The life he had lived these last few weeks on Anthony Bidaud's
plantation favoured the resemblance: the South Sea Islanders who
worked on the land, the waterfalls, the woods, the solitudes, the
protecting bond which linked him to Annette--all formed in his
sleeping fancies a companion idyll to the charming creation of
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. He carried Annette over the river, he
wandered with her through the shadows of the mountains, they were
lost and found, they sat together under the shade of the velvet
sunflower-tree; and in this part of his dreams he himself was a youth
and not a man.
So much for the present, and it was due to his light heart and the
happiness he had found that his dreams did not take the colour of the
subsequent tragedy which brought the lives of these woodland children
to their sad and pathetic end. His future and Annette's was brighter
than that of Paul and Virginia. He beheld her as a woman, and he was
still her protector. She represented the beauty of the entire world of
thought and action. Her figure was faultless, her face most lovely,
her movements gracefully perfect. There are countenances upon which an
eternal cloud appears to rest, and which even when they smile are not
illumined. Upon Annette's countenance rested an eternal sunshine, and
this quality of light irradiated not only all surrounding visible
objects, but all hopes and feelings of the heart. When Basil awoke
these felicitous fancies were not obliterated or weakened, as most
such fancies are in waking moments, and as he walked towards the river
they lightened his footsteps and made him glad. Wending his way along
a cattle track dotted with gum-trees, he saw beneath the branches of
one a woman whose face was strange to him. She was not English born,
and as she reclined in an attitude of fatigue against the tree's trunk
there was about her an air of exhaustion which stirred Basil to
compassion for her apparently forlorn condition. He remembered his own
days and nights of weary tramping through the bush, and, pausing, he
looked down upon her, and she peered up at him through her half-closed
lids.
"Good morning," said Basil.
"Is it?" she asked, with a heavy sigh.
"Is it what?"
"Good morning. To me it is a bad morning."
Basil looked round. The heavens were luminous with vivid colour, the
birds were flying busily to and from their nests, nature's myriad
pulses throbbed with gladness. To him it was the best, the brightest
of days. But this sad woman before him was pale and worn; there were
traces not only of exhaustion but of hunger in her face.
"You are hungry," said Basil.
"Don't mock me," said the woman, in no gracious tone; "let me rest."
"If you follow this track," persisted Basil, "the way I have come, you
will see the Home Station. They will give you breakfast there."
For a moment the woman appeared inclined to accept his kindness she
made a movement upwards, but almost immediately she relinquished her
intention.
"No," she said, "I will wait."
He was loth to leave her in her distressful plight, but her churlish
manner was discouraging.
"Will you not let me help you?"
"You can help me," said the woman, "by leaving me."
He had no alternative. "If you think better of it," he said, "you can
obtain shelter and food at the Home Station." Then he passed on to the
river.
A stranger was there, already stripping for the purpose of bathing.
Scarcely looking at him, Basil was about to remove to a more retired
spot when he observed something in the water which caused him to run
to the man, who was removing his last garment, and seize his arm.
"What for?" demanded the stranger.
He spoke fairly good English, as did the woman who had declined his
assistance, but with a foreign accent. He was brown, and thin, and
wrinkled, and Basil saw at once that he was not an Englishman.
"I presume you have not breakfasted yet," was Basil's apparently
inconsequential answer to the question.
"Not yet," said the stranger impatiently, shaking himself free from
Basil's grasp. "Why do you stop me? Is not the river free?"
"Quite free," said Basil; "but instead of eating you may be eaten."
He pointed downwards, and leaning forward the stranger beheld a huge
alligator lurking beneath a thin thicket of reeds. The brute was
perfectly motionless, but all its voracious senses were on the alert.
"Ugh!" cried the stranger, beginning to dress hurriedly. "That would
be a bad commencement of my business."
He did not say "thank you," nor make the slightest acknowledgment of
the service Basil had rendered him. This jarred upon the young man,
who stood watching him get into his clothes. They were ragged and
travel-stained, and the stranger's physical condition was evidently
none of the best; but his eyes were keen, and all his intellectual
forces were awake. In this respect Basil found an odd resemblance in
him to the alligator waiting for prey in the waving reeds beneath, and
also a less odd resemblance to the woman he had left lying in the
shadow of the gum-trees.
"You have business here, then?" asked the young man.
"I have--important business. Understand that I answer simply to prove
that I am not an intruder."
"I understand. Is the woman I met on my way a relative of yours?"
"What woman?" cried the stranger, in sharp accents. "Like you in face,
and bearing about her signs of hard travel."
"Did she speak to you? Why do you question me about her? By what
right?"
"There is no particular right in question that I can see?" said Basil.
"I spoke to her as I am speaking to you, and asked if I could serve
her."
"And she!"
"Was as uncivil as yourself, and declined my offer of assistance."
"She acted well. We are not beggars. For my incivility, that is how
you take it. You misconstrue me."
"I am glad to hear it. You seem tired."
"I have been walking all day and all night, and all day and all night
again, for more days and nights than I care to count I have done
nothing but walk, walk, walk, since my arrival at this world's end."
"Have you but just arrived?"
"Yes, but just arrived, wearied and worn out with nothing but walking,
walking, walking. Is that what this world's end was made for?"
If the stranger had not Stated that he had important business to
transact, and had there not been something superior in his speech and
deportment to the ordinary tramp with whom every man in the Australian
colonies is familiar, Basil would have set him down as a member of
that delectable fraternity. Notwithstanding this favourable opinion,
however, Basil took an instinctive dislike to the man. He had seen in
him an odd likeness to the alligator, and brief as had been their
interview up to this point, he had gone the length of mentally
comparing him now to a fox, now to a jackal--to any member of the
brute species indeed whose nature was distinguished by the elements of
rapacity and cunning.
"Have you far to go?" he asked.
"No farther," replied the stranger, with an upward glance at Anthony
Bidaud's house, one end of which was visible from the spot upon which
they were conversing.
"Is that your destination?" inquired Basil, observing the upward
glance.
"That," said the stranger, with a light laugh, "is my destination, if
I have not been misinformed."
The laugh intensified Basil's dislike; there was a mocking sinister
ring in it, but he nevertheless continued the conversation.
"Misinformed in what respect?"
"That is M. Bidaud's house?"
"It is M. Bidaud's house."
"M. Anthony Bidaud?"
"Yes."
"Originally from Switzerland."
Basil's hazard of the stranger's precise nationality now took definite
form.
"As you are," he said.
"As I am," said the stranger, "and as Anthony Bidaud is."
"You are right in your surmise. He is from Switzerland."
"My surmise? Ah? He has a fine estate here."
"He has."
"But his wife--she is dead."
"That is so, unhappily."
"What is one man's meat is another man's poison--a proverb that may be
reversed." His small eyes glittered, and his thin pointed features
seemed all to converge to one point. ("Fox, decidedly," thought
Basil.) The stranger continued. "His health, is it good?"
In the light of Anthony Bidaud's revelation on the previous evening
this was a startling question, and Basil answered:
"It is an inquiry you had best make of himself if you are likely to
see him."
"It is more than likely that I shall see him," said the stranger, "and
he will tell me. He has but one child."
"You are well informed. He has but one."
"Whose name is Annette."
"Whose name," said Basil, wondering from what source the stranger had
obtained his information, "is Annette."
"Charming, charming, charming," said the stranger. "Everything is
charming, except"--with a loathing gesture at the alligator, which lay
still as a log, waiting for prey--"that monster; except also that I am
dead with fatigue. I came here for a bath to refresh myself after much
travelling. Is there any part of this treacherous river in which a man
may bathe in safety?"
"I will show you a place."
"No tricks, young sir, said the stranger, suspicion in his voice.
"Why should I play you tricks? If you do not care to trust me, seek a
secure spot yourself."
"No, I will accompany you, who must know the river well. You do, eh?"
"I am thoroughly acquainted with it."
"You guessed my nation; shall I guess yours? Australian."
"I am an Englishman."
"A great nation; a great people. Is this the spot?"
They had arrived at a smooth piece of water, semi-circularly protected
by rocks from the invasion of alligators.
"This is the spot," said Basil, "you will be perfectly safe here."
The water was so clear that they could see to the bottom. Black and
silver bream, perch, mullet, and barramundi were swimming in its
translucent depths. The stranger peered carefully among the rocks to
make sure that they were free from foes, and then, without thanking
Basil, began to strip off his clothes.
"And you--where will you bathe?"
"A little farther up stream. Good morning."
"Ah, good morning; but I may see you again if you are living near."
"I live," said Basil, "in the house yonder."
CHAPTER VI.
A sudden excitement was observable in the stranger. He paused in his
undressing, and laid his hand on Basil's arm, clutching with nervous
fingers.
"You are very intimate with M. Anthony Bidaud?" he said.
"We are friends."
"Friends? Ah! You are not related? No, you cannot be, for you are
English. Yet there are other ties. His wife is dead, you say, and as I
know. Yes, dead. But he may be looking for another, may be already
married again." He spoke in feverish haste. ("A touch of the jackal
here," thought Basil.) "Tell me, you friend of M. Anthony Bidaud."
"He is not married again," said Basil, "and to my knowledge is not
seeking another wife."
The stranger drew a long breath of relief, followed immediately by the
exhibition of a new suspicion. "His daughter, Annette--if he spoke
truth a child. But men lie sometimes, very often, you, I, all men. He
married long, long ago, and this Annette may well be a young woman of
twenty." He scowled as he looked at Basil's handsome face. "Is she
married, or going to be?
"Absurd," said Basil, but a little touch of colour came into his face
which the sharp eyes of the stranger noted, "she is scarcely fourteen
years of age."
"Good, good. Time, let us hope, to prevent mischief. But, pardon me,
if you live in the house of M. Bidaud, there must be a reason. You do
not look like a common labourer; you are something better, a
gentleman--eh?" And again all his thin pointed features seemed,
foxlike, to converge to one point.
"I am a gentleman," said Basil, "and I am staying with M. Bidaud as a
guest." He referred to the present, not feeling warranted in speaking
of the future. The arrangement he had entered into with Anthony Bidaud
had yet to be carried into effect.
"Ah, ah, as a guest, only as a guest, but with an eye to the future,
perhaps. M. Anthony Bidaud is rich, and in two years his daughter, his
only child, will be sixteen and nearly ripe. There is a saying, is
there not, among you English that welcomes the coming and speeds the
parting guest? I have been in your country, and know something of its
literature, and in my own land my education was not neglected. That
saying about the coming and parting guest is a good omen, for I have
but just arrived, and you----"
But Basil did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence. Annoyed
at the turn the conversation had taken he turned on his heel, and left
the stranger to enjoy his bath. He walked slowly to his own, rather
ruffled by the interview.
"Who can he be?" he thought, as he prepared for his swim. "He seems to
be acquainted with M. Bidaud and with his personal history. What on
earth made me answer his interminable questions? His pertinacity, I
suppose, and a kind of magnetism in him which it was hard to resist.
But I might have been courteous without being communicative. I said
nothing, however, of my own prompting, and his questions followed each
other naturally. What he learnt from me he could have learnt from a
dozen others, and after all there is no harm done. He certainly has
the knack of rubbing the wrong way; an extraordinarily annoying
fellow, but neither loutish nor ignorant. That is why I was
constrained to follow his lead. This is his destination; his business
then, must be with M. Bidaud. Important business, he said--and with
Annette's father. I did not like his references to Annette. Will it be
right or wrong for me to convey my impressions of this stranger to M.
Bidaud? Wrong. I will merely mention that I met with such a man, who
was coming to the house upon business. He spoke of having walked a
long way. He must be poor, or he would have chosen another mode of
conveyance, especially as he seems to be in somewhat feverish haste.
Being poor is nothing against him; I am poor myself. Psha! What a
worry I am making of nothing!"
He could not dismiss the subject, however, and the currents of his
thoughts ran on even as he swam.
"The woman I met on my way to the river; how skilfully he evaded my
inquiries as to the relationship between them! His tone when he spoke
of her showed that he had power over her. I have not the least doubt
he is the kind of man who can make himself intensely disagreeable.
Poor woman! There is a resemblance in their features; I have heard
that husband and wife frequently grow like each other in face. She was
hungry, but she declined the offer of a good meal. Acting, I should
say, under her husband's instructions, and too frightened of him to
disobey him. Faithful creatures, women. Patient as camels some of them
and as docile. A hard tramp she seems to have had of it, and he has
not spared her. Well, she can rest here a few days. Would I like them
to remain on the plantation? No. He would keep me in a continual state
of irritation. His allusions to Annette were in the worst of taste. I
dare say before the day is out I shall know the nature of his
business. M. Bidaud will tell me. Confound the fellow! I'll not think
of him any more."
As a contribution towards this end he plunged half a dozen times into
the deepest parts of the river, and finally emerged, glowing. The
disturbing impressions produced by the stranger were dissipated, and
Basil thought it would look churlish if on his road back to the house
he did not go to see whether he could be of any service to him. He saw
nothing, however, of the man or the woman, and greatly refreshed, he
proceeded to the house. The sun was now high in the heavens, and the
labourers were at work on the plantation. He exchanged greetings with
a few of the better sort, and inquired whether they had seen anything
of the strangers. They replied in the negative; they had seen nothing
of them.
"Have you, Rocke?" he asked of one who was regarding him with a scowl.
"No," said Rocke. "What business is it of mine?"
It was Rocke's misfortune to always wear a scowl on his face, but in
this scowl there were degrees. To produce an amiable smile was with
Rocke an impossibility; nature had been cruel, and his parents, one or
both of them, had transmitted to him a sour temper as an inheritance;
but the state of his feelings could be correctly judged by the kind of
scowl he wore; a nice observer could scarcely make a mistake as to
whether he tolerated, disliked, or hated the man he was gazing on.
There could be no mistake made now; he hated Basil.
There was a reason. Every man has his good points, even the worst of
men, and Rocke's good point was that he conscientiously performed the
duties for which he was engaged. However hard the work before him,
done it was with a will--and a scowl. Now, this was a distinct virtue,
and Anthony Bidaud gave him credit for it, and appreciated the
conscientious worker, as any other master would do of a man who gave
him full value for his wage. So far, so good; master and man were
satisfied. But before Basil's arrival on the plantation Rocke had got
it into his head--which was not an intellectual head--that Anthony
Bidaud entertained the notion of creating a general supervisor and
manager of the estate, and that he, Rocke, was the man to be
appointed; and since Basil's arrival his ambitious dream was disturbed
by the conviction that Basil would step into the shoes he wished to
wear.
"I don't know that it is any business of yours," said Basil to Rocke,
"only I thought you might have seen these persons."
"Well, I haven't," said Rocke.
Basil nodded cheerfully, and proceeded towards the house. He was not a
man of paroxysms; except upon very special occasions his temperament
was equable. As to whether Rocke had spoken the truth or no he did not
speculate; it was not in Rocke he was interested, but in the man and
woman with whom he had spoken on his way to the river.
Anthony Bidaud was an early riser, and Basil went to the room in which
the master of the plantation was in the habit of transacting his
private business. He knocked twice or thrice at the door without
receiving an answer, and then, turning the handle, he entered the
room.
Anthony Bidaud was reclining in the chair in which he usually sat when
engaged in correspondence. His back was towards Basil, and before him
on the table writing materials were spread. He sat quite still, and
for a moment or two the young man was uncertain what to do. Then he
called Bidaud by name. No answer came, and Basil, surprised at the
stillness, advanced to Bidaud, and stood immediately behind him. Still
no notice was taken of Basil. Then he laid his hand upon Bidaud's
shoulder. The occupant of the chair did not move, and Basil leaned
anxiously forward to look into his face. At first Basil believed him
to be asleep, but a closer examination sent the blood rushing to the
young man's heart in terror. Bidaud's arm hung listlessly by his side,
and upon his face dwelt an expression of acute suffering. Again Basil
called him by name, and shook him roughly, but no responsive word or
movement greeted him from the quiet figure in the chair. Basil thrust
his hand into Bidaud's shirt over the region of his heart, and
trembled to meet with no pulsation there. He raised Bidaud's arm and
released it. It dropped lifeless down.
"Merciful heavens!" cried Basil, looking helplessly around. "Can this
be death?"
The question he asked of himself was heard by another man. The
stranger he had met on the banks of the river had noiselessly opened
the door, and now advanced to the chair.
"Who speaks of death?" asked the stranger. "Ah, it is you, who are a
guest in this house. And I find you and him "--he stretched a long
bony finger at the recumbent figure of Anthony Bidaud--"here together,
alone. You with a face of fear, terror, and excitement; he quite
still, quite still!"
He was perfectly composed, and there was a malicious smile on his lips
as he confronted Basil. Dazed by the situation, Basil could find no
words to reply.
"You are confounded," continued the stranger. "It needs explanation.
Who is this man sitting so quietly in his chair?"
"M. Anthony Bidaud," said Basil, with white lips, "the master of this
house."
"Ah, M. Anthony Bidaud, the master of this house," said the stranger,
echoing Basil's words, but whereas Basil's voice was agitated, his had
not a tremor in it. "I will see if you are speaking the truth." He
lowered his face, and his eyes rested upon the face of the motionless
figure. "Yes, it is he, Anthony Bidaud, worn, alas! and wasted. Sad,
sad, sad!" Grief was expressed in the words but not in the tone of the
speaker. "What was it you asked a moment ago? Can this be death? I am
a doctor. I will tell you."
Lifting the lifeless form in his arms he laid it upon a couch, and
tearing open the shirt and waistcoat, placed his ear to Anthony
Bidaud's heart; then took his pulse between finger and thumb. He
proceeded with his examination by taking from his pocket a little
leather case containing a small comb and a narrow slip of
looking-glass. Rubbing the surface of the glass dry with a
handkerchief that had dropped to the ground, he passed it over the
mouth of Anthony Bidaud; then held it up to the light.
"Yes," he said, looking Basil full in the face, "it is death. It is
lucky I travelled hither in the night, and did not allow myself to be
delayed by fatigue. Fortune, I thank you. You have treated me scurvily
hitherto; at length you relent, and smile upon me. Being a lady, I
kiss my hand to you."
There was something so inexpressibly heartless in the action that
Basil cried indignantly, "Who are you, and by what right have you
intruded yourself into this room?"
The stranger did not immediately reply. He felt in his pocket for a
snuff-box, and producing it regaled himself with a pinch. He offered
the box to Basil, who pushed it aside. He smiled and placed the box in
his pocket, and was also about to replace the leather case, when an
amusing thought occurred to him. He dressed his hair with the comb,
and gazed at himself in the glass with an affectation of vanity. His
smile broadened as he noticed the look of horror in Basil's face.
"You wish to know," he said slowly, "who I am, and by what right I
intrude myself into this room. You have presumption, you, M. Anthony
Bidaud's guest, to use the word 'intrude' to me! I am this dead
gentleman's brother. My name is Gilbert Bidaud. Eh? Did you speak?"
CHAPTER VII.
So many conflicting emotions had been pressed into the last few
minutes that Basil was utterly bewildered. The cold, sardonic face
before him, wreathed into mocking smiles even in the presence of
death, added to his bewilderment. He passed his hand across his eyes,
wondering whether he was dreaming, but removing his hand from his
forehead he saw the dead form of Anthony Bidaud on the sofa, and heard
the light laugh of the man who called himself Anthony's brother. This
laugh recalled him to himself; he was in full possession of his
senses, and understood what had occurred, and to some extent what it
portended.
Gilbert Bidaud! And the woman with him was not his wife, but his
sister, to whom Annette's father had written six months ago, imploring
her to come to him, and promising to provide for her and her family.
That being so, she was here by authority. She was but an instrument in
the hands of Gilbert Bidaud, whose lightest word she was constrained
to obey.
Gilbert Bidaud!
"It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, but it is the
truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in not placing her
affections upon him. He would have broken her heart. He was a
spendthrift and a libertine, and would stop at little for the
gratification of his selfish pleasures."
It was but last evening that these words were spoken by lips that
would never speak again, and now this spendthrift and libertine was
within touch of him, was standing with a smiling face by the dead body
of the brother he would have wronged. There came to Basil's mind the
image of Annette, the sweet confiding girl, who was to have been given
into his care to guard and protect. All that was over now. Inexorable
death had stopped the fulfilment of the fond father's wish. And
Annette herself, how would it fare with her? She was ignorant as yet
of the crushing, terrible blow which had so suddenly fallen upon her.
Who would impart the cruel news to her? Who would comfort her in her
bereavement? Even as these reflections crossed his mind he heard the
young girl's voice singing outside as she tripped downstairs from her
bedroom. He glided to the door, and softly turned the key. Just in
time. Annette lingered at the door, tried the handle gently with the
intention of kissing her father good-morning, and, finding the door
fast, passed on gaily and continued her song.
"That is Annette?" questioned Gilbert Bidaud. Basil nodded. "A sweet
voice, the voice of a child, whose nature is not yet moulded. We will
mould it, my sister and I. We will instil into her virgin soul,
principles. She will be grateful that we have come, being of her
blood. I have a number of your English sayings at my fingers' ends.
Blood is thicker than water. I represent the one, you the other. She
is not a woman--yet. The mind of a child is like a slate! fancies,
likings, are easily rubbed off. It is more serious when we grow older.
The child forgets, the woman remembers. Do you catch my meaning?"
"I should be sorry to say I did," replied Basil.
"Ah, you would pay me a compliment, gilding me with virtues to which I
do not aspire, to which I have never aspired. I am a plain man, I;
honest to the backbone; with my heart on my sieve, transparent. It has
not paid up to this time, but my hour has come. Why did you lock the
door?"
"Does not that answer you?" pointing to the dead body of Annette's
father.
"Ah, she does not know. You are considerate, you." A strange smile
came to his lips as he added, "No one knows but you and I."
Basil stepped to the table. Perhaps the letter which Anthony Bidaud
intended to write to his lawyer was there; it might contain something
by which he could be guided at this dread crisis. But the sheet of
paper which Anthony Bidaud had taken from the open desk displayed only
the mark of a scrawl at the top. The pen, with the ink scarcely dried
in it, lay upon the table. Evidently at the very moment that Anthony
Bidaud had put pen to paper he was visited by the death-stroke. The
pen had dropped from his fingers, and he had fallen back lifeless in
his chair. There was, however, an addressed envelope, and Basil noted
the name and the direction, which were those of the lawyer whom
Anthony Bidaud intended to summon to the plantation.
Gilbert Bidaud had followed his movements attentively, and now, when
Basil looked up from the table, he repeated the last words he had
uttered.
"No one knows but you and I."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Basil.
"What I mean," said Bidaud, touching his forehead with a finger, "I
keep here for the present. It is sometimes dangerous to explain
meanings too soon. Take heed. When I came to this colony--but a short
time since--I was inwardly warned that I might meet with men from whom
it would be necessary to protect myself. Therefore I purchased
this"--producing a revolver--"and this"--producing a knife--"only to
be used in self-defence, against you, against any man."
There was nothing menacing in his tone. He spoke, indeed, rather
playfully than otherwise, and handled the revolver and knife as though
they were toys instead of dangerous weapons. A wild thought crossed
Basil's mind, and he acted upon it instantly.
"You say you are Gilbert Bidaud, brother of this unfortunate
gentleman, but I have only your word for it."
"Ah, ah," said Gilbert Bidaud, with an air of great amusement, "you
have only my word for it. But what kind of authority do you hold here
that you should demand answers to questions upon this or any other
subject?"
Basil could not answer this direct challenge; he inwardly recognised
the weakness of his position; Anthony Bidaud dead, he was but a cipher
on his estate.
"You are as a feather to a rock," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a gesture
of contempt, "and I am but amusing myself with you. I stand quietly
here for a reason I may presently explain. This house has lost a
master." He glanced at his dead brother. "This house has gained a
master." He touched his breast triumphantly. "It is but a change, a
law of nature. My brother and I have not met for twenty years. He had
a good motive for avoiding me; he fled from Switzerland with money of
mine, and now, through death, he is compelled to make restitution."
"It is false," cried Basil, chivalrously defending the friend he had
lost. "If you are Gilbert Bidaud it was you who attempted to rob him
of his inheritance."
"Ah, ah. Did my estimable brother open his heart entirely to you?"
"Sufficiently to reveal your true character--even to the last words
you spoke to him before he left Switzerland."
"Favour me with them. It may be excused if I do not faithfully recall
them at this distance of time."
"'One day,' you said to him 'I will be even with you. Remember my
words--dead or alive, I will be even with you."
"I remember. My words were prophetic. Fate was on my side, justice was
on my side. They whispered to me, 'Wait.' I waited. And now--look
there! So, so, my ingenious young friend; you know the whole story."
"It was related to me by your brother."
"By this lump of clay! It would be the act of a fool to deal tenderly
by you; and I, as you may have already learned, am no fool. How came
my brother by his death?"
"How came he by his death?" stammered Basil, puzzled by the question,
and not seeing the drift of it.
"Ay, how came he by his death? I am not so ignorant as you suppose. I
have made inquiries about you; there are men on this estate who bear
you no good will. You are here, not as a guest, but an interloper. You
and my brother were strangers a few short weeks ago, and you forced
yourself upon him and lived here, a beggar, eating his food, drinking
his wine, and paying for them neither in service nor money. That is a
creditable part to be played by one who calls himself an English
gentleman. Summoned here by M. Anthony Bidaud--I have in my pocket the
letter he wrote to our sister--I hasten on the wings of love, tarrying
not on the road, but wearing myself near to death in order that I may
satisfy his longing desire to embrace me. I meet you by accident on
the river's bank, and I perceive that you regard yourself as master
here. The river is yours, the land is yours, my brother is yours, his
daughter Annette is yours--ah, you wince at that. All this you
proclaim in your lordly way, and patronise me--me, whose rightful
place you would have usurped. Before meeting you pass my sister,
resting in her labour of love, and you offer her charity--you, a
beggar, pass this insult upon a lady who, under my direction, will
educate my dear brother's little daughter, and teach her--principles.
You leave me by the river; I, guileless, unsuspicious, a child in
innocence, calmly take my bath, and reflect with delight upon the joy
of my brother when he takes me to his arms. Walking to this house, I
meet a labourer, whose name is Rocke. He tells me something of you; he
directs me to my brother's private room. I open the door; I see you
standing by my brother's side. You are in a state of fear and
agitation; your face is white, your limbs tremble. I hear you ask the
question, 'Can this be death?' To whom or to what do you address this
enquiry? To your conscience, for you believe yourself to be alone; you
are unconscious that I am present 'Can this be death?' I convince
myself, and you. It _is_ death. I am deprived of the opportunity of
saying to my brother that I forgive him for the wrong he did me in the
past. It is most cruel, and you have robbed me of the opportunity;
but, before I forget it, I will chance the efficacy of my forgiveness,
though he be dead." With a mock humility shocking to witness, he
extended his hands, and, looking upwards, said, "Brother, I forgive
you. I return to my argument. What passed between you and my brother
before I entered this room? Again I ask, how came he by his death! If
it is not a natural end, who is the murderer?"
In hot indignation Basil started forward, but by a great effort of
will restrained himself. He had been appalled by the careless mocking
tone in which Gilbert Bidaud had spoken, by his false assumption of a
grief he did not feel, by the evident enjoyment he derived from the
glaring insincerity of his professions. For no two things could be
more distinctly at variance than Gilbert Bidaud's words and the tone
in which he uttered them. It exhibited a refinement of malice, and,
what rendered it more revolting, of malice in which the intellectual
quality was conspicuous.
"It is well," continued Gilbert Bidaud, "that you exercise
self-control. I might call aloud for help; I might, in less time than
it takes me to speak it, create in this room the evidences of a
struggle, in the course of which I might fire my revolver, produced
for self-defence; I might inform those who would break the door
down--it is locked by you, remember--that you attempted to murder me,
even as you-- Ah, I perceive you understand. Yes, all this I might do,
and you would be in the toils. Do not move until I have done with you,
or you will be in deadly danger. In such parts of the world as this,
exasperated men often proceed hastily to summary justice, and it might
be executed upon you. I am teaching you lessons, as I shall teach my
dear niece Annette, principles. You are young; I, alas, am old. I have
nothing to learn; you have much. Tell me, you hanger-on in this house,
you beggar of my brother's hospitality, what passed between you and
him before I entered this room?"
"Nothing," replied Basil, confounded by the possibilities of a
ruthless malice with which Gilbert Bidaud had threatened him. "I have
already informed you that when I entered the room he was dead."
"What brought you here?"
"I came by appointment," said Basil. He no longer doubted that the man
before him was Anthony Bidaud's brother; and he was surprised that he
had not detected the resemblance upon his first meeting with Gilbert.
"What was the nature of the appointment?"
"He wished me to read a letter he intended to write to his lawyer."
"Ah, ah! He intended to write to his lawyer. May I ask this lawyer's
name?"
"It is there upon an envelope."
"His place of residence?"
"Sydney, I believe."
"A long way off. The letter was to have been written this morning?"
"Yes. He at first intended to write it last night, but he put it off
till to-day. The postponement was most unfortunate."
"To you?"
"To me."
"I should have urged him to carry out his intention last night, as he
designed."
"Ah! _Aprés dommage chacun est sage_--except the dead. Why should you
have urged him?"
"It would have been to my interests--and his, I fear."
"Leave his out of the question; he has done with the world. Yours is
another matter. How could a simple letter to a lawyer have been in
your interests? A letter is not a legal document." His preternatural
sharpness as he made this remark was a revelation to an honest nature
like Basil's. There seemed to be no limit to Gilbert Bidaud's cunning.
"At least it would have explained matters, and cleared me from your
suspicions."
"Words are easily spoken, and weigh no more than air. To what effect
was to have been this letter?"
"He desired to make his will."
Gilbert Bidaud drew a deep breath of satisfaction; he had elicited
something tangible, something which had wonderfully strengthened his
position. "Then there is no will, and the letter, which would have
been valueless, was not written. Your expression of regret leads me to
infer that the will was to have been in your favour."
"To a certain extent."
"False. He intended to repair the injustice from which I have so long
suffered; his property would have been divided between me and the
little Annette. It is too late for him to do that now; but I stand as
natural guardian to my niece. I am truly the master here; the law will
declare me so. Console yourself. You shall depart from this house a
free man. You are not in danger. Bear witness to my magnanimity; my
brother died a natural death. I will testify it, to save you."
"That will not do," said Basil. "From what cause he died shall be
proved by proper evidence."
"It shall. I, a doctor, will supply it."
"I reject your proof; you are an interested party. It shall be
independent evidence that shall establish the cause of death."
"So be it, young Daniel," said Gilbert Bidaud, briskly. "Meanwhile, I
release you from suspicion; I, the gentleman you have insulted,
believe you to be innocent. I go to seek my niece, to introduce myself
to her, and to break to her the sad, the melancholy news. But before I
go I give you notice of your discharge. For one week from this day you
shall enjoy my hospitality, but for no longer, for not an hour longer.
Accept it, beggar, or leave at once."
He paused at the door, opened it, removed the key to the outside, and
with a contemptuous motion, ordered Basil to quit the room. The young
man had no choice but to obey. Whatever might be Gilbert Bidaud's
character, he stood in the house as legal representative of the dead.
Annette was but a child, and her uncle was her lawful guardian.
Grieved, sorrow-stricken, and humiliated, Basil left the room, and
heard Gilbert Bidaud turn the key.
CHAPTER VIII.
What should he do now, how should he act? To accept Gilbert Bidaud's
hospitality was impossible. The old man was his bitter enemy, and
would show him no consideration. Indeed, what consideration could he
expect? There was no denying that he had no right to remain on the
estate, but he felt he could not leave it for ever without seeing
Annette once more, without speaking to her perhaps for the last time.
Nor could be well take his final departure without making an attempt
to clear himself from the foul suspicions which, in his absence, he
felt convinced Gilbert Bidaud would set in circulation against him. He
had led a spotless life, and the thought that a stain should now be
cast upon it was unbearable. But what means could he take to clear
himself from the breath of slander? He could think of no way at
present, and he walked into the open with a heavy weight of melancholy
at his heart.
He wandered into the woods and gathered some fruit; he had a vigorous
appetite, and it would be a folly to starve himself. But the food of
which he partook had never tasted less sweet than on this sad morning.
His hunger appeased, he returned to the vicinity of the house.
He heard a cry of distress in the distance, and saw men and women
hurrying to the spot from which the cry proceeded. The voice was
Annette's.
Presently he saw the men and women coming towards the house. They were
headed by Gilbert Bidaud and his sister, and one of the men--before
the group came close to him he saw that it was Rocke--was carrying in
his arms the insensible form of Annette. Impelled by love and infinite
compassion for the child, he started forward, but was haughtily waved
off by Gilbert Bidaud.
"That man," said Gilbert to those in his rear, "has my permission to
remain on this estate for one week. When that time has expired he will
be a trespasser."
As he finished speaking Annette opened her eyes--they fell upon Basil.
"Basil, Basil!" she cried, extending her arms to him.
"Annette!"
Once more he attempted to go to her; once more Gilbert Bidaud waved
him off, and stepped before him.
"If he touches her, if he follows her, arrest him. I give you
authority."
Basil fell back. Annette's mournful eyes were fixed upon his face in
dumb despair.
"Hurry in--hurry in," said Gilbert Bidaud in a harsh tone.