"The more fool you. Where was I? Oh, asleep in the comfortable bed you

gave me while these scoundrels were planning robbery. In the middle of

the night I woke up--pitch dark it was----forgive me for speaking

ungratefully to you. My heart is overflowing with gratitude, but I am

at the same time filled with remorse."

"Don't trouble about that, Basil," said Chaytor. "You can't hurt

yourself in my esteem. Go on with your reminiscence; it is a healthy

exercise; it will strengthen your wandering memory."

"Pitch dark it was. I was not sure then, but I am now, that thieves

had been in my room. Have I been lying here long, Chaytor?"

"Two weeks and more."

"And you have been nursing me all that time?"

"As well as I could. You could have found no other nurse--though easy

to find a better--in Gum Flat; you and I are the only two living

humans in the township."

"Why did you not leave me to die?"

"Because I am not quite a brute."

"Forgive me for provoking such a reply. But why--indeed, why have you

been so good to me?"

"I will answer you honestly, Basil. Because I love you."

He lowered his voice and bent his eyes to the ground as he made the

false statement; and Basil turned his head, and a little sob escaped

him at the expression of devotion.

"I hope I may live to repay you," he said, holding out his hand, which

Chaytor seized.

"You will. All I ask of you is not to desert me. Stick to me as a

friend, as I have stuck to you; I have been so basely deceived in

friendship that my faith in human goodness would be irrevocably

shattered if you prove false." His voice faltered; tears came into his

eyes.

"That will I never do. My life is yours."

"I want your heart."

"You have it. The world contains no nobler man than my friend, Newman

Chaytor."

"I am well repaid. Now you must rest; you have talked enough."

"No, I will finish first. Hearing sounds outside the tent I called for

your assistance. We went out together and were immediately attacked.

Were you much hurt, Chaytor?"

"A little," replied Chaytor, modestly. "A scratch or two not worth

mentioning."

"It is like you to make light of your own injuries. We pursued the

scoundrels through the darkness, but they knew the ground they were

travelling, we did not. An uncovered shaft lay in my way, and down I

fell. That is all I remember. But I know that my bones would be

bleaching there at the present moment if it had not been for you."

"Try to remember a little more," said Chaytor, anxious that not a

grain of credit should be lost to him. "I came up to the shaft sorely

bruised, and called out to you."

"Yes, yes, it comes back to me. You brought me some brandy--you

cheered and comforted me--you rolled the trunk of a tree over the

mouth of the shaft--it was half a mile away--and after hours of

terrible agony I was brought into the sweet light of day. But for you

I should have died. Indeed and indeed, I remember nothing more. You

must tell me the rest."

This Chaytor did with an affectation of modesty, but with absolute

exaggeration of the services he had rendered, and Basil lay and

listened, and his heart went out to the man who had proved so devoted

a friend, and had sacrificed so much for his sake.

"My gratitude is yours to my dying day," he said. "No man ever did for

another what you have done for me. Give me my clothes."

"You are not strong enough yet to get up, Basil."

"I don't want to get up. I want to see what the scoundrels have left

in my pockets." He felt, and cried: "Everything gone! my purse, my

pocket-book, everything--even a lock of my mother's hair. They might

have left me that!"

"They made a clean sweep, I suppose," said Chaytor.

He had considered this matter while Basil lay unconscious, and had

come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to strip Basil's pockets

bare than to make a selection of one or two things, which was scarcely

what a thief in his haste would have done. Thus it was that Basil

found his pockets completely empty.

"You have for a friend the neediest beggar that ever drew breath,"

said Basil bitterly.

"I'll put up with that," said Chaytor, with great cheerfulness. "Now,

don't worry yourself about anything whatever. You shall share with me

to the last pipe of tobacco, and when that's gone we will work for

more."

"Ah, tobacco! Would a whiff or two do me any harm?"

"Do you good. You'll have to smoke out of my pipe; the villains have

stolen yours."

He filled his pipe, and, giving it to Basil, held a lighted match to

the tobacco. Basil, lying on his side, watched the curling smoke as it

floated above his head. Distressed as he was, the evidences of Newman

Chaytor's goodness were to some extent a compensating balance to his

troubles. And now he was enjoying the soothing influence of a quiet

smoke. Those persons who regard the weed as noxious and baleful have a

perfect right to their opinion, but they cannot ignore the fact that

to many thousands of thousands of estimable beings it serves as a

comforter, frequently indeed as a healer. It was so in the present

instance. As the smoke wreathed and curled above him an ineffable

consolation crept into Basil's soul. Things seemed at their blackest;

the peace and hope of a bright future had been destroyed; the man who

had grown to honour him, and who had assured him of the future, had

with awful suddenness breathed his last breath; the little child he

loved, and to whom he was to have been guardian and protector, was

thrust into the care of a malignant, remorseless man; suspicion of

foul play had been thrown upon him; Old Corrie had lent him his mare,

and he had allowed it to be stolen; he had been so near to death that

but one man, and he a short time since an utter stranger, stood

between him and eternity; and he was lying now on a bed of sickness an

utter, utter beggar. Grim enough in all conscience, but the simple

smoking of a pipe put a different and a better aspect upon it. There

was hope in the future; he was young, he would get well and strong

again; Anthony Bidaud was dead, but spiritual comfort died not with

life; he would see Annette once more, and would take his leave of her

assured of her love, so far as a child could give such an assurance,

and in the hope of meeting her again in years to come; he would

outlive the injurious suspicion of wrong-dealing which he did not

doubt Gilbert Bidaud was spreading against him; and he would be able

to vindicate himself in Old Corrie's eyes and perhaps by-and-by

recompense the old fellow for the loss of the more. Much virtue in a

pipe when it can so transform the prospect stretching before a man

brought to such a pass as Basil had been.

"Yes," he said aloud, "all will come right in the end."

"Of course it will," said Chaytor. "What special mental question are

you answering?"

"Nothing special. I was thinking in a general way of my troubles, and

your pipe has put a more cheerful colour on them. Am I mistaken in

thinking you told me you were a doctor?"

"No. That is why I have been able to pull you through so quickly."

"How long will it be before I am able to get about?"

"At the end of the week if you will be reasonable."

"I promise. I feel well already. The moment I am strong enough I must

go to Bidaud's plantation."

"I will go with you."

"Of course. We are mates from this day forth. The end of the week? Not

earlier?"

"Don't be impatient. My plan is to make a perfect cure. No patching.

At present I am in command."

"I obey. But let it be as soon as possible."

Chaytor congratulated himself. However things turned out in the

future, all had gone on swimmingly up to this moment. Every little

move he had made had been successful. Basil had not the slightest

suspicion that it was he who had stolen his pocket-book and purse, and

emptied his pockets.

"If an angel from heaven," chuckled Chaytor that night, as he walked

to and fro outside the store, "came and told him the truth, he would

not believe it. I have him under my thumb--under my thumb. How to work

his old uncle in England? How to get hold of that forty thousand

pounds? It must not go out of the family; I will not submit to it.

Would a letter or two from Basil, written by me in Basil's hand, do

any good? I don't mind eating any amount of humble pie to accomplish

my purpose. Even were it not a vicarious humiliation I am willing to

do it, the money being guided into its proper channel, and Basil

safely out of the way."

He paused, with a sinister look in his eyes. Had Basil seen him then

he would hardly have recognised him. Dark thoughts flitted through his

mind, and animated his features.

"Nothing shall stop me," he cried, "nothing!" And he raised his hands

to the skies as though registering an oath. A sad cloud stole upon the

moon and obscured its light. "What is life without enjoyment?" he

muttered. "By fair means or foul I mean to enjoy. I should like to

know what we are sent into the world for if we are deprived of a fair

share of the best things?" There being no one to answer him, he

presently went inside to bed.

The next day Basil was so much better that without asking permission

he got up and dressed himself. Chaytor did not remonstrate with him;

he knew, now that Basil was mending, that he would mend quickly. So it

proved; before the week was out the two men set forth on the tramp to

Bidaud's plantations.

CHAPTER XIV.

At noon on the second day they were within hail of Old Corrie's hut.

It was meal time, and the old woodman was cooking his dinner. Balanced

on the blazing log was a frying-pan filled with mutton-chops, some

half-dozen or so, which were not more than enough for a tough-limbed

fellow working from sunrise till sunset in the open air. He looked up

as Basil and Chaytor approached, and with a nod of his head proceeded

to turn the frizzling chops in the pan. This was his way; he was the

reverse of demonstrative.

Such a greeting from another man, and that man a friend, would have

disconcerted Basil, but he was familiar with Old Corrie's

peculiarities and had it not been for his own inward disquiet

regarding the mare, he would have felt quite at his ease.

"Back again," said Old Corrie, transferring a couple of chops on to a

tin plate.

"Yes," said Basil.

"Been away longer than you expected."

"Yes."

"On the tramp?"

"Yes. Look here, Corrie--"

"There's no hurry," interrupted Old Corrie. "You must be hungry. Go

inside, and you'll see half a sheep dressed. Cut off what you want and

cook it while the fire serves."

"But I would rather say first what I have to say. When I've told you

all, my mate and I might not be welcome."

"Don't risk it, then. Never run to court trouble, Master Basil. I'm an

older man than you; take the advice I give you."

"It is good advice," said Chaytor, whose appetite was sharp set, and

to whom the smell of the chops was well-nigh maddening.

Old Corrie looked at him with penetrating eyes, and Chaytor bore the

gaze well. He was not deficient in a certain quality of courage when

he was out of peril and master of the situation, as he believed

himself to be here. Old Corrie showed no sign of approval or

disapproval, but proceeded quietly with his dinner. Basil took the

woodman's advice. He went into the hut, cut a sufficient number of

chops from the half body of the sheep which was hanging up, and came

back and took possession of the frying-pan, which was now at his

disposal. Chaytor looked on; he had not been made exactly welcome, and

was in doubt of Old Corrie's opinion of him, therefore he did not feel

warranted in making himself at home. When the young men commenced

their meal, Old Corrie had finished his, and now, pipe in mouth, he

leant his back against a great tree and contemplated his guests.

"Little lady! Little lady!"

The sound came from within the hut. Chaytor started, Basil looked up

with a piece of mutton between his thumb and knife: forks they had

none.

"Basil! Basil! Basil and Annette! Little lady! Little lady!"

"It's the magpie I told you about," said Old Corrie to Basil, "the

last time I saw you."

"Its vocabulary is extended," said Basil.

"By request," said Old Corrie in a pleasant voice, "of the little lady

herself."

Basil glowed. Annette had not forgotten him, even thought kindly of

him; otherwise, why should she wish that the bird Old Corrie was

training for her should become familiar with his name? Chaytor smarted

under a sense of injury. Basil and Old Corrie were speaking of

something which he did not understand--a proof that Basil had not told

him everything. This, in Chaytor's estimation, was underhanded and

injurious. Basil and everything in relation to him, his antecedents,

his whole story, belonged by right to him, Newman Chaytor, who had

saved his life, who had the strongest claim of gratitude upon him

which a man could possible have. Old Corrie noted the vindictive flash

in his eyes, but made no comment upon it.

"And is that really a bird?" said Chaytor, in a tone of polite

inquiry.

"Go and see for yourself," replied Old Corrie, "but don't go too

close. It hasn't the best of tempers."

"I should like to see the bird that could frighten me," said Chaytor,

rising.

"Should you?" said Old Corrie. "Then on second thoughts I prefer that

you stay where you are."

Chaytor laughed and resumed his seat. The meal proceeded in silence

after this, and when the last chop was disposed of, Old Corrie said,

"Now we will have our chat, Master Basil; and as we've a few private

matters to talk of, our mate here perhaps----"

The hint was plain, though imperfectly expressed.

"I am in the way," said Chaytor. "I'll smoke my pipe in the woods.

Coo-ey when you want me, Basil."

He strode off; exterior genial and placid, interior like a volcano.

"He shall pay for it," was his thought. It pleased him to garner up a

store of imaginary injuries which were to be requited in the future.

Then, when the time arrived for him to deal a blow, it would be merely

giving tit for tat. Many men besides Chaytor reason in this crooked

way, but none whose natures and motives are honourable and

straightforward.

"Where did you pick him up?" asked Old Corrie when he and Basil were

alone.

"I want to speak to you first about your mare," said Basil.

"And I want to know first where you picked up your new mate,"

persisted Corrie.

"He saved my life," said Basil. "Had it not been for his great and

unselfish kindness I should not be here to-day." Then he told the

woodman all that he knew of Chaytor, and dilated in glowing terms upon

his noble conduct.

"It sounds well," said Old Corrie, "and I have nothing to say in

contradiction; only I have a crank in me. I look into a man's face and

I like him, and I look into a man's face and I don't like him. The

first time I clapped eyes on you, Master Basil, I took a fancy to you.

I can't say the same for your mate, but let it stand. I had it in my

mind to make a proposition to you in case you came back in time, but I

doubt whether it can be carried out now. Have you entered into a

bargain to go mates with him?"

"I have, and have no wish to break it. I should be the basest of men

if I tried to throw him over."

"Keep to your word, lad; I'm the loser, for I thought it likely the

two of us might strike up a partnership."

"Why not the three of us?" asked Basil, to whom the prospect of

working with Old Corrie was very agreeable.

"Because in the first place it wouldn't suit me, and in the second it

wouldn't suit him."

"But if he were willing?"

Old Corrie bent his brows kindly upon Basil's ingenuous face. "Ask

him, Master Basil."

"Will you not listen to me first? I want to speak to you about your

mare."

"A quarter of an hour more or less won't bring her back, will it?"

said Old Corrie, with no touch of reproach in his voice. "Go and speak

to your mate, and let me know what he says."

Basil departed and returned. It was as Old Corrie supposed: Chaytor

was not willing to admit Corrie into their partnership.

"He says you took a dislike to him from the first," said Basil.

"Almost my own words," said Old Corrie, with a laugh. "He's a shrewd

customer."

"----And that he is certain you and he would not agree. I would give a

finger off each hand if it could have been, for a warmer-hearted and

nobler man does not exist than Chaytor; and as for you, Corrie, I

would wish nothing better. But I am bound to him by the strongest ties

of gratitude."

"Say no more, Master Basil, say no more. Mayhap we shall meet

by-and-by, and we shall be no worse friends because this has fallen

through. We have a lot to say to each other. I'm off the day after

to-morrow; I should have been off before if it had not been for you

and the little lady."

"She has been here?" cried Basil.

"She has been here four times since you left--the last time

yesterday--not to see me, but you. She manages the thing herself, poor

little lady, and comes alone, after giving the slip to those about

her. Her first grief is over, though she will never forget the good

father she has lost--never. It isn't in her nature to forget--bear

that in mind, Master Basil. She clings to the friends that are left

her. Friends, did I say? Why, she has only one--you, Master Basil; I

don't count. Besides, if I did it would matter little to her, for

there's nothing more unlikely than that, after two days have gone by,

I shall ever look upon her sweet face again. She goes one way, I go

another.

"She goes one way?" repeated Basil; "will she not remain on the

plantation?"

"She will not. You see it isn't for her to choose; she must do as she

is directed. But we are mixing up things, and it will help them right

well if I tell you what I've got to tell straight on, commencing with

A, ending with Z. Let us clear the ground so that the axe may swing

without being caught in loose branches. I'll hear what you've got to

say. My mare is lost, I know."

"How do you know?"

"You would have brought it back with you if it hadn't been. Now then,

lad, straight out, no beating about the bush. It's not in your line. I

don't for a moment mistrust you. There's truth in your face always,

Master Basil, and I wish with all my heart the little lady had you by

her side to guide her instead of the skunk that's stepped into her

dead father's shoes. You're a square man, and my mare is lost through

no fault of yours, my lad."

Encouraged by these generous words, Basil told his story straight, and

Old Corrie listened with a pleasant face.

"The mare's gone," said Old Corrie when Basil had done, "and bad luck

go with her. I know the brands on her: mayhap I shall come across her

one of these fine days. Describe the rascals to me."

Basil did as well as he could, and said Old Corrie was not treating

him as he deserved.

"I am treating you as an honest gentleman," said Old Corrie, "as I

know you to be. Jem the Hatter the villain's called, is he? When a man

once gets a nickname on the goldfields it sticks to him through thick

and thin; if we meet he shall remember it. I give you a receipt in

full, Master Basil." And the good fellow held out his two hands, which

Basil shook heartily. "I was sure something serious kept you away."

With Basil's hand clasped firmly in his, he gazed steadily into the

young man's face. "It is on odd fancy I've got," he said, "but it's

come across me two or three times while we've been talking. Is there

any relationship between you and your new mate?"

"None."

"Sure of that?"

"Sure."

"And you met for the first time on Gum Flat?"

"For the first time."

"Well, it is odd, and the more I look at you now the odder it becomes.

You've let your hair grow since you went away."

"Obliged to," said Basil, laughing. "I had no razor. There are a

couple I can claim in Mr. Bidaud's house, as well as a brush or two;

but I daresay I shall not get them now that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is in

possession. What is your odd fancy, Corrie?"

"Why that you and your new mate would be as like each other as two

peas, if you were dressed alike and trimmed your hair alike. Haven't

you noticed it yourself?"

"I've noticed that we resemble each other somewhat," said Basil, "but

not to the extent you mention. I remember now he spoke of it himself;

and that is one reason perhaps why he took a liking to me, and nursed

me as he did. But I am terribly anxious to hear about the plantation

and Annette. What is going to happen there that she is to leave it?"

"In my own way, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, brushing his hand

across his eyes to chase the fancy away, "and to commence at the

beginning. When you left me in the wood I was splitting slabs, a job I

was doing for poor Mr. Anthony Bidaud. You doubted whether his brother

would hold to it, as there was no written bond to show for it, and you

were right. I went up to the house, as I said I would, and saw Mr.

Gilbert. You described him well, Master Basil; he's a man I would be

sorry to trust. I told him of the contract between me and his brother.

'Where is it?' he asked. 'There was none written,' I answered; 'it was

an order given as a dozen others have been, and of course you'll abide

by it.' 'Of course I will not,' said he. 'Who are you that I should

take your word? And you would fix your own price for the slabs?

Clever, Mr. Corrie. Clever, Mr. Corrie!' I had told him my name. 'But

I am a cleverer and a sharper.' A sharper he is in the right meaning

of it, but he is not English, and didn't exactly know what he was

calling himself. 'No, no,' he said, 'the moment a man's dead the

vultures come. You are one. But I am equal to you. Burn your slabs.'

'You're a pretty specimen,' I said. 'Your brother was a gentleman; it

doesn't run in the family.' He's a strange man, Master Basil, and if

he ever loses his temper he takes care not to show it. More than what

I've told you passed between us, and once he said quite coolly that if

I could summon his brother as a witness, he was willing to abide by

his testimony. The testimony of a dead man! And to speak so lightly of

one's flesh and blood! I wouldn't trust such a man out of my sight."

"Did you see his sister?" asked Basil.

"I did, but she said very little, and never spoke without looking at

Mr. Gilbert for a cue. He gave it her always in a silent way that

passed my comprehension, but they understand each other by signs."

"And Annette--did you see her?"

"Yes, but at a distance. They kept her from me, I think, but I saw her

looking at me quite mournfully, and I felt like going boldly up to

her, but second thoughts were best, and I kept away, only giving her

to understand as well as I could without speaking that I was her

friend, ready at any time to do her a service. 'Well,' said I to Mr.

Gilbert, 'my compliments to you. Your throwing over the contract your

brother made won't hurt me a bit; I could buy up a dozen like

you'--which was brag, Master Basil, and he knew it was--'but I should

be sorry to dishonour the dead as you are doing.' He took out a

snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch, smiled, and said, 'Sentiment,

Mr. Corrie, sentiment. I treat the dead as I treat the living. Rid me

of you.' It was his foreign way of bidding me pack, but I told him I

should take my time, that I had plenty of friends among his brother's

workmen, and that I should go away very slowly. 'And let me give you a

piece of advice,' I said. 'If you or any agent of yours comes spying

near my hut I'll mark him so that he shall remember it.' 'Ah, ah,' he

said, still smiling in my face, 'threats eh?' 'Yes, threats,' said I,

'and as many more of 'em as I choose to give tongue to.' 'Foolish Mr.

Corrie, foolish Mr. Corrie,' he said, taking more snuff, 'to lose your

temper. Let _me_ give _you_ a piece of advice. Think first, speak

afterwards. It is a lesson--take it to heart. You are too impulsive,

Mr. Corrie, like another person who also trespasses here, one who

calls himself Basil.' 'Mr. Basil is a friend of mine,' I said, 'say

one word against him, and I'll knock you down.' He was frightened,

though he didn't show it, and he beckoned to a man, who came and stood

by him. You know him, I daresay, Master Basil; his name is Rocke."

"He is my enemy, I am afraid," said Basil.

"I found that out afterwards; he has been spreading reports about you

either out of his own spite, or employed by cold-blooded Mr. Gilbert

Bidaud. So Rocke came and stood by his side, but not too willingly.

We've met before Rocke and me, and he knows the strength of my muscle.

I smiled at him, and he grinned at me, and I said, 'We were speaking

of Master Basil, and I was saying that if anyone said a word against

him I was ready to knock him down. Perhaps you'd like to say

something.' 'Not at all,' said Rocke, and his grin changed to a scowl,

'I know when it will pay me best to hold my tongue.' Mr. Gilbert

Bidaud shook with laughter. 'Good Rocke,' he said, 'wise Rocke. We'll

make a judge of you. Anything more to say?' This was to me and I

answered, almost as cool now as he was himself, 'Only this. You spit

upon a dead man's bond, and you are a scoundrel. Don't come near my

hut, you or anyone that sides with you.' Rocke understood this. 'But,'

said I, 'any friend of Master Basil's is heartily welcome, and I'll

give them the best I have. So good day to you, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud.'

Then I went among the workmen and chatted with them, and picked up

scraps of information, and turned the current wherever I saw it was

setting against you."

"My hearty thanks for the service, Corrie," said Basil.

"You're as heartily welcome. If one friend don't stick up for another

behind his back we might as well be tigers. You see, Master Basil,

you're a stranger here compared with me; I've been chumming with the

men this many a year, and never had a word with one except Rocke, and

even he has some sort of respect for me. Then you're a gentleman; I'm

not. My lad, there are signs that can't be hidden; you've got the

hallmark on you. Well, when I'd done as much as I could in a friendly

way, I turned my back on the plantation, and came back here, and went

on with my splitting, as if the contract still held good."

"Was not that a waste of time, Corrie?"

"I took my own view of it. There was the dead man soon to be in his

grave; here was I with the blood running free through my veins. If

he'd been alive he'd have kept his word; I was alive, and I'd keep

mine. So I finished the contract out of respect for Mr. Anthony

Bidaud, and there the slabs are, stacked and ready. While I was at

work my thoughts were on you; four days passed, and you hadn't

returned. I concluded that something had happened to you, but that

you'd appear some time or another, and all I could do was to hope that

you'd come back before I left the place. I had a great wish to see the

little lady, but I didn't know how to compass it. Compassed it was,

however, without my moving in it. Just a week it was after you'd gone

that I was at work in the wood; it was afternoon, a good many hours

from sundown, when my laughing jackass began to laugh outrageous. When

we're alone together he behaves soberly and decently, contented with

quietly laughing and chuckling to himself, and it's only when

something out of the way occurs that he gives himself airs. He's the

vainest of the vain, Master Basil, and he does it to show off. His

tantrums made me look round, and there, standing looking at me and the

laughing jackass, without a morsel of fear of me or the bird, was the

little lady."

"Annette?" cried Basil.

"The little lady herself," said Old Corrie.

CHAPTER XV.

"Was she alone?" asked Basil.

"Yes, quite alone. I dropped my axe, told the jackass to shut

up--which it didn't, Master Basil--and took the hand she held out to

me. Such a little hand, Master Basil! I give you my word that as I

held it in mine my thoughts went back, more years than I care to

count, to the time when I was a little 'un myself, snuggling close up

to my mother's apron. I can't remember when I'd thought of those days

last. They were stowed away in a coffin, and dropped into a grave

which stood between me as a boy and me as a man. It's like having

lived two lives, one of which was dead and buried. Now, all at once,

the dead past came to life, and said, in a manner of speaking, 'I

belong to you,' and it didn't seem unnatural. The touch of the little

lady's hand was like a magic wand, and if she had said to me, 'Let's

have a game of hopscotch,' I believe I should have done it and thought

it the proper thing to do. But she said nothing of the sort, only

looked at me with melancholy sweetness, and hoped I was not sorry to

see her. Sorry! I was heartily and thankfully glad, and I told her so,

and the tears came into her pretty eyes, and I said, without thinking

at the moment that she'd lost a dear father, 'Don't cry, don't cry!

there's nothing to cry for;' but I set myself right directly by

saying, 'I mean, I hope it isn't me that makes you cry.' 'No,' she

answered, 'it's only that you speak so kind.' My blood boiled up, for

those words of hers showed me that since her father's death she had

not been treated with kindness, and if she hadn't been a little lady,

rich in her own right, I should have offered to run off with her there

and then. But under any circumstances that would have been a dangerous

thing to do, for her and me; it would have brought her uncle down upon

me, and he'd have had the law on his side. So, instead of offering to

do a thing so foolish, I said, 'Did you come on purpose to see me?'

'Yes,' she answered, on purpose. 'I gave them the slip, and they don't

know where I am.' 'Don't you be afraid then, my little maid,' I said,

'they won't find you here, because they won't venture within half a

mile of me. You've done no harm in coming to see a friend, as you may

be sure I am. Can I do anything for you?' 'Yes,' she said; 'you like

Basil, don't you?' Upon that I said I was as true a friend of yours as

I was of hers. 'Will you tell me, please,' she said then, 'why he has

gone quite away without trying to see me? I know it wouldn't be easy,

because my uncle and aunt are against him; but I thought he would have

tried. I have been to every one of his favourite places, in the hope

of meeting him, and my uncle has said such hard things of him that my

heart is fit to break.' Poor little lady! She could hardly speak for

her tears. Well, now, that laughing jackass was making such a chatter,

and behaving so outrageous, pretending to sob, which made her sob the

more, that I proposed to take her to my hut here, where we could talk

quietly. She put her little hand in mine and walked along with me to

my hut, and the minute we came in the magpie cried out, 'Little lady,

little lady.' She looked up at this, and I told her it was a magpie I

was training for her. It gave her greater pleasure than such a little

thing as that ought to have done, and though she did not say it in so

many words I saw in her face the grateful thought that she still had

friends in the world that had grown so sad and lonely. Then I told her

all about your last meeting with me--how tenderly you had spoken of

her, what love you had for her, and how I had lent you my mare to take

you to a place where you hoped to find a doctor and a lawyer who might

be able to serve her in some way. The news comforted her, but she was

greatly distressed by the fear that you had met with an accident which

prevented your return. I wouldn't listen to this for the little maid's

sake, and said I was positive you would soon be back, and that nothing

was farther from your mind than the idea of going away entirely

without seeing her again. 'He will have to make haste,' said the

little lady, with a world of thought in her face, 'or he will never be

able to find me.' I asked why, and she answered that she believed,

when everything was settled, that her uncle would sell the plantation

and take her away to Europe. 'Can't it be prevented?' she asked, and I

said I was afraid it could not; that her uncle stood now in the place

of her father, and could do as he liked. 'If you are compelled to go,'

I said, 'you shall take the magpie away with you to remind you of the

old place--that is, if you will be allowed to keep it.' 'I shall be,'

she said; and now, child as she was, I noticed in her signs of a

resolute will I hadn't given her credit for. 'If you give it to me, it

will be mine, and they shall not take it from me. I will fight for it,

indeed, I will.' I was pleased to hear her speak like that; it showed

that she had spirit which would be of use to her when she was a woman

grown. She stopped with me as long as she dared, and before she went

away she said she would come again, and asked me if I thought I could

teach the bird to speak your name. 'It would be easy enough,' I

answered, and that is how it comes about that the magpie--which for

cleverness and common-sense, Master Basil, I would match against the

cunningest bird that ever was hatched--can call out 'Basil--Basil,' as

clearly as you pronounce your own name. It was at that meeting, and at

every meeting afterwards, she gave me a message to you if you

returned. You were to be sure not to go away again without seeing her;

if you couldn't contrive it, she would; that proved her spirit again;

and that if it should unfortunately happen that you returned after she

was taken away you were never to forget that Annette loved you, and

would love you all her life, whatever part of the world she might be

in. Those are her words as near as I can remember them, and they're

easy enough for you to understand, but it isn't so easy to make you

understand the voice in which she spoke them. I declare, Master Basil,

it runs through me now, broken by little sobs, with her pretty hands

clasping and unclasping themselves and her tender body shaking like a

reed."

"Dear little Annette," said Basil, and his eyes, too, were tearful,

and his voice broken a little; "dear little Annette."

"She's worth a man's thoughts, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, "and a

man's pity, and will be better worth em' when she's a woman grown.

You're a fortunate man, child as she is, to have won a love like the

little lady's, for if I'm a judge of human nature, and I believe

myself to be--which isn't exactly conceit on my part, mind you--it's

love that will last and never be forgotten. It's no light thing,

Master Basil, love like that; when it comes to a man he'll hold on to

it if he's got a grain of sense in him."

"You cannot say one word in praise of Annette," said Basil, "that I'm

not ready to cap with a dozen. I believe, with you, that she has a

soul of constancy, and I hold her in my heart as I would a beloved

sister. If I could only help and advise her! But how can I do that

when she is to be taken away to a distant land?"

"There's no telling what may happen in the future," said Old Corrie.

"What to-day seems impossible to-morrow comes to pass. To beat one's

head against a stone wall because things aren't as we wish them to be

is the height of foolishness, but it's my opinion that going on

steadily doing one's duty, working manfully and doing what's right and

square, is the best and surest way to open out the road we'd like to

tread. Your new mate, Mr. Chaytor, hasn't disturbed us, and I must do

him the justice to say that he shows sense and discretion."

"He is one in a thousand," said Basil, "and it is impossible for me to

express to you how sorry I am that you have not taken kindly to each

other."

"It does happen sometimes, but not often, that men are mistaken in

their likings and dislikings, but we'll not argue the point. Now I've

got to tell you how things stand at the plantation. There was an

inquest on the body of Mr. Anthony Bidaud, doctors and lawyers being

called in by Mr. Gilbert, and the verdict was that he died of natural

causes. There being no will, Mr. Gilbert took legal possession, as

guardian to his niece under age. He decides that it will not be good

for her to remain where she is; but must be educated as a lady, and

brought up as one. That, says Mr. Gilbert, can't be done on the

plantation; it must be done in a civilized country. Consequently the

plantation must be sold. With lawyers paid to push things on, three

months' work had been done in three weeks. A purchaser has been found,

deeds drawn up, money paid, and next Monday they're off; Mr. Gilbert

Bidaud, his sister, name unknown, and the little lady."

"Hot haste, indeed," said Basil.

"To which neither you nor I can have anything to say legally."

"It is so, unhappily. And then to Europe?"

"And then to Europe. I am telling you what the little lady tells me. I

can't go beyond that."

"Of course not. But does she not know to what part of Europe?"

"She knows nothing more. He keeps his mouth shut; you can't compel him

to open it. There are cases, Master Basil, in which honesty is no

match for roguery; this is one. Mr. Gilbert Bidaud has the law on his

side, and can laugh openly at you. Now, the little lady was here

yesterday. 'No news of Basil?' she asked. 'No news of Basil,' I said.

'Is he dead, do you think?' she whispered, with a face like snow.

'No,' I said stoutly; 'don't you go on imagining things of that sort.

He's alive, and will give a satisfactory account of himself when he

comes back.' I spoke confidently to keep up her heart, though I had

misgivings of you. 'I shall be here to-morrow,' she said, 'and every

day till we leave the plantation.' She has contrived cleverly, hasn't

she, to slip them as she does?"

"Then I shall see her soon!" said Basil, eagerly.

"In less than an hour, if she comes at her usual time. Our confab is

over. You had best go and seek your mate. I'll make my apologies to

him, if he needs 'em, for keeping you so long."

If Basil had known, he had not far to go to find Newman Chaytor, for

that worthy was quite close to him. Being of an inquiring mind Chaytor

had resolved to hear all that passed between Basil and Old Corrie, and

had found a secure hiding-place in the rear, and well within earshot,

of the two friends. He stored it all up, being blessed with an

exceptionally retentive memory. Old Corrie went one way, and Basil

went another, and Chaytor emerged from his hiding-place. "I am quite

curious about little Annette," he said to himself, as he followed

Basil at a safe distance. "Quite a sentimental little body--and an

heiress, too! Well, we shall see. Say that my friend Basil's future is

a nut--I'll crack it; I may find a sweet kernel inside."

He came up to Basil, and greeted him with a frank smile. "We've been

talking about the plantation," said Basil, "and poor Anthony Bidaud's

daughter, Annette. She is coming this afternoon to see me. I'll tell

you everything by-and-by."

"I don't want to intrude upon your private affairs, Basil," said

Chaytor.

"You have a right to know," said Basil. "I have no secrets from you,

Chaytor."

Then they talked of other matters, Chaytor with animation, Basil with

a mind occupied by thoughts of Annette. "I see," said Chaytor, patting

Basil's shoulder with false kindness, "that you are thinking of the

little maid. Now I'm not going to play the churl. Don't mind me for

the rest of the day."

"You're a good fellow," said Basil, as Chaytor walked away; but he did

not walk far. Unobserved by Basil, he kept secret watch upon him,

determined to see Annette, determined to hear what she and Basil had

to say to each other. As Old Corrie had said, "there are cases in

which honesty is no match for roguery." Basil posted himself in such a

position that he could see any person who came towards the wood from

Bidaud's plantation. He heard the thud of Old Corrie's axe in the

forest; the honest woodman could have remained idle had he chosen, but

he was unhappy unless he was at work, and though he desired no profit

from it he felled and split trees for the pleasure of the thing. Now

and again there came to Basil's ears the piping and chattering of

gorgeous-coloured birds as they fluttered hither and thither, busy on

their own concerns, love-making, nest-mending, and the like; in their

commonwealth many touches of human passion and sentiment found a

reflex. Vanity was there, jealousy was there, hectoring and bullying

of the weak was there, and much sly pilfering went on; entertainments,

too, were being given, for at some distance from the three men in the

woods, one swinging his axe with a will and wiping his cheerful brows,

another with his heart in his eyes watching for a little figure in the

distance, and the third, stirred by none but evil thoughts, watching

with cunning eyes the watcher--at some distance from these two honest

men and one rogue were assembled some couple of dozen feathered

songsters in green and yellow coats. They perched upon convenient

boughs and branches, forming a circle, with invisible music books

before them, and at a given signal from their leader they began to

pipe their songs without words, and filled space with melody. Their

music may be likened to the faintly sweet echoes of skilled

bell-ringers, each tiny bird the master of a note which was never

piped unless in harmony. It was while these fairy bells were pealing

their sweetest chord that Basil saw Annette approaching. He ran

towards her eagerly, and called her name; and she with a sudden flush

in her face and with her heart palpitating with joy, cried, "Basil!

Basil!" and fell into his arms.

CHAPTER XVI.

He led her to a secluded spot, followed secretly by fox Chaytor. They

passed close to where Old Corrie was working, and he, hearing

footsteps--be sure, however, that Chaytor's were noiseless--laid down

his axe, and went towards them.

"He has come--he has come!" cried Annette.

"What did I tell you?" said Old Corrie. "All you've got to do in this

world, little lady, is to have patience."

She was so overjoyed, having tight hold of Basil's hand, that she

would have accepted the wildest theories without question.

"Mr. Corrie," she said, "may I have the magpie to-day?"

"Surely," he replied, "it is quite ready for you, and you will be able

to teach it anything you please. But why so soon? Aren't you coming

again?"

Her face became sad, and she clutched Basil's fingers convulsively: "I

am afraid not this is the last, last time! I have heard something, Mr.

Corrie, and if it is true my uncle and aunt are going to take me away

to-morrow morning."

"In that case," said Old Corrie, "I will have the bird ready for you.

Now you and Master Basil can talk; I'll not interrupt you." He went

away at once, and left them together. For a little while they had

nothing of a coherent nature to say to each other; but then Basil,

recognising the necessity of introducing some kind of system into

their conversation, related to Annette all that had happened within

his knowledge since the sad morning of her father's death, and heard

from her lips all that she had to relate. Much of it he had already

heard from Old Corrie. The refrain she harped upon was, "And must we,

must we part, Basil? And shall we never, never see each other again?"

"Part we must, dear Annette," he said; "I have no control over you,

and no authority that can in any way be established. When I first came

to the plantation I was a stranger to you and your father, and the law

would acknowledge me as no better now."

"Next to my dear father and mother," said Annette, "I love you best in

all the world. They cannot take that away from me; what I feel is my

own, my very own. Oh, Basil, I sometimes have wicked thoughts, and

feel myself turning bad; I never felt so before my uncle came."

"Annette, listen to me. You must struggle against these thoughts and

must say to yourself, 'They will make my dear father and mother

sorrowful. They have shown me kindness and love and I will show the

same to them.' You cannot see them, Annette, but their spirits are

watching over you; and there is a just and merciful God in heaven who

is watching over you, too, and whom you must not offend."

"I will do as you say, Basil, dear; I will never, never forget your

words. They will keep me good."

"Let them keep you brave as well, my dear. I promise to remember you

always, to love you always, and perhaps when you are a woman--it will

not be so long, Annette--we shall meet again."

"Oh, Basil, that will be true happiness."

"Time flies quickly, Annette. It seems but yesterday since I was a boy

myself, and when I look back and think of my own dear parents, I am

happy in the belief that I never did anything to cause them sorrow.

"You could not, Basil."

"Ah, my dear, I don't know that; but I had a good mother and so had

you, and my father and yours were both noble men. They are not with

us, and that makes the duty we owe them all the stronger. To do what

is right because we feel that it is right to do it, not because it is

done in the sight of others--that is what makes us good, Annette. My

mother taught me that lesson as she lay on her death bed, and it has

brought me great happiness; it has supported me in adversity. You must

not mind my speaking so seriously, Annette----"

"I love to hear you, Basil. I will be like you, indeed I will.

"Much better, I hope. You see, my dear, this is the last time we shall

be together for a long time; but not so long after all, if we look at

it in the right light, and I should like you to remember me as you

would remember a brother, who, being older than you, is perhaps a

little wiser."

"I will, Basil. All my wicked thoughts are gone; they shall never come

again; but I shall still feel a little unhappy sometimes."

"Of course you will, dear, and so shall I. But faith in God's goodness

and the performance of our duty will always lighten that unhappiness.

The stars of heaven are not brighter than the stars of hope and love

we can keep shining in our hearts."

"Kiss me, Basil; that is the seal. I shall go away happier now."

"Tell me, Annette. Are your uncle and aunt kind to you?"

"They are neither kind nor unkind. They talk a great deal to each

other, but very seldom to me, unless it is to order me to do

something. Aunt says, 'Go to bed,' and I go to bed; 'It is time to get

up,' and I get up? 'Come to dinner,' and I come to dinner. It is all

like that; they never speak to me as my father and mother did, and

they have never kissed me."

"You must be obedient to them, Annette."

"I will be, Basil."

"They are your guardians, and a great deal depends upon them."

"Yes, I know that; but I don't think they like me, and, Basil, I don't

think uncle is a good man."

"It will be better," said Basil gravely, "not to fancy that. It may be

only that he is a little different from other men, and that you are

not accustomed to his ways."

"I will try," said Annette piteously, "to obey you in everything, but

I can't help my thoughts, and I can't help seeing and hearing. He

speaks in a hard voice to everybody; he is unkind to animals; he has

never put a flower on my dear father's grave."

"There, there, Annette--don't cry. I only want you to make the best,

and not the worst, of things."

"I will, Basil--indeed, indeed I will. When I am far away from you,

you _will_ think, will you not, that I am trying hard to do everything

to please you?"

"I promise to think so, and I have every faith in you. It is all for

your good, you know, Annette. When you are out of this country where

are your aunt and uncle going to live."

"In Europe."

"But in what part of Europe?"

"I don't know. All that uncle and aunt say is, 'We are going to

Europe.' 'But in what country?' I asked. 'Don't be inquisitive,' they

answered; 'we are going to Europe;' and they will say nothing more. I

am sometimes afraid to speak when they are near me."

"Poor little Annette! Now attend to me, dear. Wherever you are you can

write to me."

"Yes, Basil, yes. And may I? Oh, how good you are! Oh, if ever I

should get a letter from you! It will be the next best thing to having

you with me."

"Remember what I am saying, Annette. I want you to write to me,

wherever you are, and I want to answer your letters. This is the way

it can be done. When you are settled write me your first letter--I

shall not mind how long it is----"

"It shall be a long, long one, Basil."

"And address it to 'Mr. Basil Whittingham, Post-office, Sydney, New

South Wales.' I shall be sure to get it. Now for my answer. If you are

happy in your uncle's house, and tell me so, I will send my answer

there; but if you think it will be best for me not to send it to his

house, I will address it to the post-office in whatever town or city

you may be living. Some friend in the new country (you are sure to

make friends, my dear) will tell you how you may get my letters. This

looks a little like deceit, but it will be pardonable deceit if you

are unhappy--not otherwise. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Basil. I shall have something to think of now; you have

given me something to do. And will you ever come to me?"

"It is my hope; I intend to work hard here to get money, and if I am

fortunate, in a few years, when you are a beautiful woman----"

"I would like to be, Basil, for your sake."

"I will come to wherever you may be."

"I do not wish for anything more, Basil. I shall pray night and

morning for your good fortune. How happy you have made me--how

happy--how happy! I shall keep the stars of love and hope shining in

my heart--for you. How beautifully the bellbirds are singing. I shall

hear them when I am thousands of miles away. But, Basil, you will want

something to remember me by."

"No, dear Annette, I need nothing to remind me of you."

"You do, Basil, and I have brought it for you. Look, Basil, my

locket----"

"But Annette----"

"Have I said 'No' to anything you have told me--and will you say 'No'

to this little thing? I think it will not be right if you do; so, dear

Brother Basil, you must not refuse me. I wish I had something better

to give you, but you will be satisfied with this, will you not? I have

worn it always round my neck, since I was a little, little girl, and

you must wear it round yours. Promise me."

"I promise, dear, if you will not be denied."

"I will not, indeed I will not--and your promise is made. See, Basil,

here it lies open in my hand; take it. The picture is a portrait of my

dear mother; father had it painted for me by a gentleman who came once

to the plantation. Then when you come to me in the country across the

sea, you will show it to me and tell me that you have worn it always

and always, because you love me, and because I love you."

"I have nothing to give you, Annette. I am very, very poor."

"You have given me a star of hope, Basil. How sorry I am that you are

poor! But my nurse, who has been sent away----"

"Have they done that, Annette?"

"Yes, and she cried so at leaving me. She told me that one day I

should be very, very rich. So what does it matter if you are poor? Let

me fasten it round your neck. Now you have me and my dear mother next

your heart."

He took the innocent child in his arms, and she lay nestling there a

few moments with bright thoughts of the happy future in her mind.

Suddenly a loud "Coo-ey" was heard and the sound of hurried footsteps.

It was Old Corrie's voice that gave the alarm. It was intended as

such, for when Basil started to his feet and stood with his arm round

Annette, holding her close to him, he looked up, and saw Gilbert

Bidaud standing before him.

CHAPTER XVII.

A malicious smile played about the old man's lips as he glanced at

Basil and Annette. For a few moments he did not speak, but stood

enjoying the situation, feeling himself master of it; and when he

broke the silence his voice was smooth and suave. The malignancy of

his feelings was to be found in his words, not in the tone in which he

uttered them.

"Ah, Mr. Basil Whittingham once more? Mr. Basil Whittingham, the

English gentleman, ready at a moment's notice to give lessons in

manners, conduct, and good breeding. But then it is to proclaim

oneself a fool to take a man at his own estimate of himself. I find

you here in the company of my niece. Favour me with an explanation,

Mr. Basil Whittingham."

"There is nothing to explain," said Basil, still with his arm round

Annette. "I have been absent some time, and happening, fortunately, to

return before Miss Bidaud left the country, have met her here, and was

exchanging a few words of farewell."

"Of course, of course. Who would venture to dispute with so

reproachless a gentleman? Who would venture to whisper that in these

last few words of farewell there was any attempt to work upon a

child's feelings, and to make the spurious metal of self-interest

shine like purest gold? On one side a young girl, as yet a mere child,

whose feelings are easily worked upon; on the other side a grown man

versed in the cunning of the world, and using it with a keen eye to

profitable use in the future. Not quite an equal match, it appears to

me, but I may be no judge. If I were to hint that this meeting between

you and my dear niece and ward has anything of a clandestine nature in

it, you would probably treat me to a display of indignant fireworks.

If I were to hint that, instead of so advising this child that she

should hold out her arms gladly to the new life into which she is

about to enter, you were instilling into her a feeling of repugnance

against it, and of mistrust against those whose duty it will be to

guide her aright and teach her--principles"--his eyes twinkled with

malignant humour as he spoke this word--"you, English gentleman that

you are, would repudiate the insinuation with lofty scorn. But when

you exchange confidences with me you are in the presence of a man who

has also seen something of the world, and who, although it has dealt

him hard buffets, retains some old-fashioned notions of honour and

manliness. I apply the test to you, adventurer, and you become

instantly exposed. Ah! here is my sister, this sweet young child's

aunt, who will relieve you of your burden."

He took the hand of the unresisting girl and led her to her aunt,

whose arm glided round Annette's waist, holding it as in a vice.

"I will not answer you," said Basil, with an encouraging smile at

Annette, whose face instantly brightened. "Annette knows I have spoken

the truth, and that is enough."

"Yes, Basil," said Annette, boldly, "you have spoken the truth, and I

will never, never forget what you have said to me to-day."

"Take her away," said Gilbert Bidaud to his sister; "the farce is

played out. In a week it will be forgotten."

"Good-bye, Basil," said Annette "and God bless you."

"Good-bye, Annette," said Basil, "and God guard you."

"How touching, how touching!" murmured Gilbert Bidaud. "It is surely a

scene from an old comedy. Take her away."

"Just one moment, please," said Old Corrie, joining the group. "Here

is something that belongs to the little lady, that she would like to

take with her to the new world. It will remind her of the old, and of

friends she leaves in it."

It was the magpie in its wicker cage, whose tongue being loosened by

company, or perhaps by a desire to show off its accomplishments to an

appreciative audience, became volubly communicative.

"Basil! Basil! Basil and Annette! Little lady! Little lady!"

In his heart Gilbert Bidaud was disposed to strangle the bird, but his

smile was amiability itself as he said to Annette, "Yours, my child?"

"Yes, mine," she answered. "Mr. Corrie gave it to me."

"But Mr. Corrie is not rich," said Gilbert Bidaud, pulling out his

purse; "you are. Shall we not pay him for it?"

"No," said Annette, before Old Corrie could speak. "I would not care

for it if he took money for it."

"Well said, little lady," said Old Corrie; "the bird is friendship's

offering, and for that will be valued and well cared for, I don't

doubt. It is your property, mind, and no one has a right to meddle

with it."

"Friendship's offering!" said Gilbert Bidaud, with a long, quiet

laugh. "We came out to the bush to learn something, did we not,

sister? Why, here we find the finest of human virtues and sentiments,

the smuggest of moralities, the essence of refined feeling. It is

really refreshing. Do not be afraid, Mr. Corrie. Although I would not

take your word about that wood-splitting contract, I have some respect

for you, as a rough specimen of bush life and manners. We part

friends, I hope."

"Not a bit of it," said Old Corrie. "If ladies were not present I'd

open my mind to you."

"Thank heaven," said Gilbert Bidaud, raising his eyes with mock

devotion, "for the restraining influence of the gentler sex. You do

not diminish my esteem for you. I know rough honesty when I meet with

it."

"You shift about," interrupted Old Corrie, "like a treacherous wind.

I'm rough honesty now, am I? You're the kind of man that can turn

white into black. Let us make things equal by another sort of bargain.

I've given little lady the bird. You'll not take it from her?"

"Heavens?" cried Gilbert Bidaud, clasping his hands. "What do you

think of me?"

"That's not an answer. You'll not take it from her?"

"I will not. Keep it, my child, and be happy."

"Do you hear, little lady? Let us be thankful for small mercies. Shake

hands, my dear. When you're a woman grown, don't forget Old Corrie."

"I never will--I never will," sobbed Annette.

"And don't forget," said Old Corrie, laying his hand on Basil's

shoulder, "that Master Basil here is a gentleman to be honoured and

loved, a man to be proud of, a man to treasure in your heart."

"I will never forget it," said Annette; with a fond look at Basil.

"And this, I think," said Gilbert Bidaud, with genial smiles all

round, "is the end of an act. Let the curtain fall to slow music."

But it was not destined so to fall. As Annette's aunt turned to leave

with her niece, her eyes, dwelling scornfully on Basil for a moment,

caught sight of the chain attached to the locket which Annette had put

round his neck. Quick as lightning she put her hand to the child's

neck, and discovered the loss.

"He has stolen Annette's locket!" she cried, pointing to the chain.

As quick in his movements as his sister, Gilbert Bidaud stretched

forth his hand and tore the locket and chain from Basil's neck. It was

done so swiftly and suddenly that Basil was unable to prevent it; but

the hot blood rushed into his face as he said:

"Were you a younger man I would give you cause to remember your

violence. Annette, speak the truth."

"I gave it to you, Basil," said Annette, slipping from her aunt's

grasp, and putting her hand on Gilbert Bidaud's. "It is false to say

he stole it. It belonged to me, and I could do what I pleased with it.

I gave it to Basil, and he did not want to take it at first, but I

made him."

She strove to wrench it from her uncle's hand, but it was easy for him

to keep it from her.

"I will have it!" cried Annette. "I will, I will! It is Basil's, and

you have no right to it."

"A storm in a teapot," said Gilbert Bidaud, who seldom lost his

self-possession for longer than a moment, "Sister, you should

apologise to the young gentleman. Take the precious gift."

But instead of handing it to Basil he threw it over the young man's

head, and Newman Chaytor, who during the whole of this scene had been

skulking, unseen, in the rear, and had heard every word of the

conversation, caught it before it fell, and slunk off with it.

"I shall find it, Annette," said Basil. "Good-bye, once more. May your

life be bright and happy!"

Those were the last words, and being uttered at the moment Newman

Chaytor caught the locket and was slinking off, were heard and

treasured by him.

The whole of that day Basil, assisted by Old Corrie and Chaytor,

searched for the locket, of course unsuccessfully. He was in great

distress at the loss; it seemed to be ominous of misfortune.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The story of the lives of Basil and Chaytor during the ensuing three

years may be briefly summarised. So far as obtaining more than

sufficient gold for the bare necessaries of life were concerned,

ill-luck pursued them. They went from goldfield to goldfield, and

followed every new rush they heard of, and were never successful in

striking a rich claim. It was all the more tantalising because they

were within a few feet of great fortune at least half-a-dozen times.

On one goldfield they marked out ground, close to a claim of fabulous

richness, every bucket of wash-dirt that was hauled from the gutter

being heavily weighted with gold. This was the prospectors' claim, and

the shaft next to it struck the gutter to the tune of twelve ounces a

day per man. The same with the second, and Basil and Chaytor had every

reason, therefore, to congratulate themselves, especially when the men

working in the claim beyond them also struck the lead, and struck it

rich. But when at length the two gold diggers in whom we are chiefly

interested came upon the gutter, they were dismayed to find that

instead of ten ounces to the tub, it was as much as they could do to

wash out ten grains. It was the only poor claim along the whole of the

gutter; on each side of them the diggers were coining money, and they

were literally beggars. It is frequently so on the goldfields, the

life on which very much resembles a lottery, riches next door to

poverty; but the hope of turning up a lucky number seldom dies out in

the heart of the miner. He growls a bit, apostrophises his hard luck

in strong language, is despondent for a day, and the next shakes off

his despondent fit, and buckles to again with a will, going perhaps to

another new rush, jubilant and full of hope, to meet again with the

same bad fortune. The romance of the goldfield is a rich vein for

novelists, some few of whom have tapped it successfully; but the theme

is far from being worn out, and presents as tempting material to-day

as it did years ago, when gold was first discovered in Australia.

"It is maddening, Basil," said Chaytor, as he gazed gloomily at the

"prospect" in his tin dish--two or three specks which would not have

covered a pin's head. "Here we are upon the gutter again, and the

stuff will wash about half a pennyweight to the tub."

"It's jolly hard," said Basil, proceeding to fill his pipe with cut

cavendish, "but what can we do? Grin and bear it."

"Ah, you're philosophical, you are," growled Chaytor, "but I'm not so

easy minded. Just think of it, and bring a little spirit to bear upon

it, will you?"

"Off you go," said Basil. "I'm listening."

"Here we are on Dead Man's Flat, and here we've been these last three

weeks. Just four days and three weeks ago we struck our claim in

Mountain Maid Gully, having got two ounces and three pennyweights for

our month's hard work. That contemptible parcel of gold brought us in

barely eight pounds, the gold buyer pretending to blow away sand

before he put it in the scale, but blowing away more than two

pennyweights of the stuff, and reducing it to a little over two

ounces. We weighed it in our own gold scales before we took it to him,

and it was two ounces three pennyweights full weight. You can't deny

that."

"I've no intention of denying it. Don't be irritable. Go on, and let

off steam; it will do you good."

"I want to point out this thing particularly," fumed Chaytor, "so that

we can get to the rights of our ill luck, get to the bottom of it, I

mean, and find out the why and the wherefore. Eight pounds we receive

for our gold, when we should have received eight pounds ten; not a

sixpence less; but the world is full of thieves. Now, that eight

pounds gives us a little under twenty shillings a week a man. I would

sooner starve."

"I wouldn't--though I've had bitter blows, Chaytor."

"Not worse than I have."

"It is the pinching of our own shoes we feel, old fellow. We're a

selfish lot of brutes. Thank you for pulling me up. I'm sorry for you,

Chaytor."

"And I'm sorry for you. Thinking our claim worthless we leave Mountain

Maid Gully, and come here to Dead Man's Flat. We are ready to jump out

of our skins with joy, for we come just in time--so we think. Here's a

new lead struck, with big nuggets in it, and we mark out our claim

exactly one hundred and twenty feet from the prospector's ground. They

get one day twenty ounces, the next day twenty-eight, the next day

forty-two--a fortune, if it lasts."

"Which it seldom does."

"It often does, and even if it lasts only six or seven weeks it brings

in a lot. 'We're in luck this time,' I say to you, and I dream of

nuggets as big as my head. The gutter, we reckon, is forty feet down,

and we reach it in three weeks. Everybody round us is making his

pile--why shouldn't we? But before we strike the lead a digger comes

up, and says, 'Hallo, mates, have you heard about the claim you left

in Mountain Maid Gully?' 'No,' say we, 'what about it?'--'Oh,' says

the digger, 'only that two new chums jumped in after you'd gone away

and found out it was the richest claim on the goldfield. They took a

thousand ounces out of it the second week they were at work.' What do

you say to that, Basil?"

"Jolly hard luck, Chaytor."

"Cursed hard luck, I say."

"Strong words won't better it."

"They're a relief. You take it philosophically, I admit; I growl over

it like a bear with a sore head. I'd like to know why there's this

difference between us."

"I'll try and tell you presently, when you've finished about the two

claims."

"All right. I shouldn't be much of a man if the news about the ground

we ran away from didn't rile me. I was so wild I could hardly sleep

that night. But when I heard that in the next claim to the one we're

working now a nugget weighing a hundred and fifty ounces was found I

thought perhaps we'd got a richer claim than the one we'd deserted. So

I bottled up my bad temper, and went on working with a good grace. And

now we're on the gutter again, and here's the result." He held out the

tin dish, and gazed at the tiny specks of gold with disgust. "Why it's

the very worst we've struck yet."

"Not quite that. We've had as bad. What shall we do? Stick to it, or

try somewhere else?

"We daren't go away. Stick to it we must. If we left it and I heard

afterwards the same sort of story we were told about our claim on

Mountain Maid, I should do somebody a mischief. You agree with me,

then, that we remain and work the claim out?"

"I agree to anything you wish, Chaytor. I will stay or go away, just

as you decide."

Chaytor looked at him with an eye of curiosity. "Were you ever a

fellow of much strength of character, Basil?"

"I think so, once; not in any remarkable degree, but sufficient for

most purposes."

"And now?"

"And now," replied Basil, taking his pipe from his mouth, and holding

it listlessly between his fingers, "the life seems to have gone out of

me. The only tie that binds me to it is you. I owe you an everlasting

debt of gratitude, old fellow, and I wish I could do something to

repay it. But in tying yourself to me you are tied to a log that keeps

dragging you down. The ill luck that pursues us come from me. Throw me

off and fortune will smile upon you."

"And upon you?"

"No. The taste of all that's sweet and beautiful has gone out of my

mouth; I'm a soured man inside of me; you're a thousand times better

than I am. What is bitterness in you comes uppermost; it pleases you

to hide the best part of you; but you cannot hide it from me, for I've

had experience of you and know you. Now I'm the exact reverse.

Outwardly you would think I'm an easy-going, easy-natured fellow,

willing always to make the best of things, and to look on the

brightest side. It is untrue; I am a living hypocrite. Inwardly I

revile the world; because of my own disappointments I can see no good

in it. Good fortune or bad fortune, what does it matter to me now? It

cannot restore my faith, it cannot destroy the shroud which hangs over

my heart. That is the difference between us. You are a thoroughly good

fellow, I am a thoroughly bad one."

"It was not always the same with you. How have you become soured?"

"Thorough experience. Look here, Chaytor, it is only right you should

be able to read me. You have bared your heart to me, and it is unfair

that I should keep mine closed. There have been times when business of

your own has called you to Sydney. We were never rich enough to go

together, so you had to go alone, while I remained, in order not to

lose the particular luckless claim we happened to be working in, and

out of which we were always going to make our fortune. On the

occasions of your visits you have executed a small commission for me,

entailing but little trouble, but upon the successful result of which

I set great store. It was merely to call at the Post-Office, and ask

for letters for Basil Whittingham. The answer was always the same:

there were none. Every time you returned and said, 'No letters for

you, Basil,' I suffered more than I can express. There was less light

in the world, my heart grew old. I believe I did not betray myself; at

all events, I took pains not to do so."

"I never knew till now, Basil," said Chaytor falsely, and in a tone of

false pity, "that you thought anything at all of not receiving

letters. You certainly succeeded in making me believe that it did not

matter one way or another."

"That is what I have grown into, a living hypocrite, as I have said.

Why should I inflict my troubles upon you? You have enough of your

own, and I have never been free from the reproach that evil fortune

attends you because you persist in remaining attached to me. But the

honest truth is, I suffered much, and each time the answer was given

there was an added pang to make my sufferings greater. I'll tell you

how it is with me, or rather how it was, for were you torn from me,

were I pursuing my road of life alone, I should feel like a ghost

walking through the world, cut off from love, cut off from sympathy.

Not so many years ago--and yet it seems a lifetime--it was very

different. I know I loved my dear mother, and perhaps in a lesser

degree, but still with a full-hearted love, I loved my father. You

know the whole story of my life; I cannot recall an incident of any

importance in my career in the old country and in others through which

I travelled which I have omitted to tell you. Partly it was because

you took so deep an interest in me, partly because it gratified me to

dwell upon matters which gave me pleasure. Yes, although my shot was

pretty well expended when I left England for Australia, there is

nothing in my history there which causes me regret. Until the death of

my father everything looked fair for me. It was a good world, a bright

world, with joyous possibilities in it, some of which might in the

future be realised. I spent my fortune in paying my father's debts,

and though it alienated my uncle from me and ruined my prospects,

never for one moment did I regret it. There was no merit due to me in

doing what I did; any man of right feeling would have done the same;

you would have been one of the first to do it. Well, I came out to the

Colonies with a light heart and nearly empty pockets. I had my

hardships--what mattered? I was young, I was strong, I was hopeful, I

believed in human goodness. So I went on my way till I came to Anthony

Bidaud's plantation. There the sun burst forth in its most brilliant

colours, and all my petty trials melted away. Had my nature been

soured, it would have been the same, I think, for love is like the sun

shining upon ice. I met a man and a friend in Anthony Bidaud; we

understood and esteemed each other. I met a little maid to whom my

heart went out--you know whom I mean, little Annette. You never saw

her, Chaytor. When she came to Old Corrie's hut on the day we left Gum

Flat, after you snatched me from a cruel death and nursed me to

strength, you were wandering in the woods, and did not join us till

she had gone. If you had met her you might have some idea of the

feelings I entertained towards her, for although she was but a child

at the time, there was a peculiar attraction and sweetness about her

which could not have failed to make an impression upon you. You are

acquainted with all that passed between me and Annette's father, of

the project he entertained of making me guardian to his little

daughter, and of his strange and sudden death; and you are also

acquainted with the unexpected appearance of Gilbert Bidaud upon the

scene, and what afterwards transpired, to the day upon which he and

his sister and Annette left the colony for Europe. The little maid

promised faithfully to write to me from Europe, and I gave her

instructions, which she could scarcely have forgotten, how to

communicate with me. Her letters were to be directed to the Sydney

Post-office, and she was to let me know how to communicate with her.

Well, unreasonably or not, I fed upon the expectation of these

promised letters, but they never came. We must have some link of

affection to hold on to in this world if life is worth living, and

this was the link to which I clung. From old associations in England I

was absolutely cut away, not one friend was left to me; and when I

arrived at Anthony Bidaud's plantation and made Annette my friend, I

felt as if all the sweetness of life dwelt in her person. It was an

exaggerated view perhaps, but so it was. Since that time three years

have passed, and she is as one dead to me, and I suppose I am as one

dead to her. For some little while after she left I used to indulge in

hopes of wealth, in hopes of striking a golden claim and becoming

rich. Then I used to say to myself, I will go home and wait till

Annette is a woman, when I will take her from the hateful influence of

Gilbert Bidaud, and--and--but, upon my honour, my thoughts got no

farther than this; my dreams and hopes were unformed beyond the point

of proving myself her truest and best friend. But her silence has

changed my nature, and I no longer indulge in hopes and dreams, I no

longer desire riches. The future is a blank: there is no brightness in

it. If it happens that we are fortunate, that after all our ill luck

we should strike a rich claim, I will give you my share of the gold

freely, for I should have no use for it."

"I would not accept it, Basil," said Chaytor; "we will share and share

alike. Have you no desire, then, to return to England?"

"I shall never go back," replied Basil. "My days will be ended in

Australia."

"Where you will one day meet with a woman who will drive all thoughts

of Annette out of your head."

"That can never be."

"You think of her still, then?"

"As she was, not as she is. I live upon the spirit of the past."

He spoke not as a young man, but as one who had lived long years of

sad and bitter experiences. In this he was unconsciously doing himself

a great wrong, for his heart was as tender as ever, and in reality he

had intense faith in the goodness of human nature; but the theme upon

which he had been dilating always, when he reflected upon or spoke of

it, filled his soul with gloom, and so completely dominated him with

its melancholy as to make him unintentionally false to his true self.

"The question is," said Chaytor, "whether it is worth while to brood

upon such a little matter. The heart of a child--what is it? A pulse

with about as much meaning in it as the heart of an animal. There is

no sincerity in it. I have no doubt you would be amazed if you were to

know Annette as she is now, almost a woman, moulded after her uncle's

teaching, and therefore repulsive in nature as he was. You are wise in

your resolve to make no attempt to shatter an ideal. I have suffered

myself in love and friendship, and I know better than you how little

dependence is to be placed in woman. Let us get back to the claim.

We'll not give it up till we've proved it quite worthless."

CHAPTER XIX.

Had Basil been acquainted with the extent of Newman Chaytor's baseness

and villainy he would have been confounded by the revelation. But

unhappily for himself he was in entire ignorance of it, and it was out

of the chivalry of his nature that he placed Chaytor on an eminence,

in the way of human goodness, to which few persons can lay claim. But

Basil was a man who formed ideals; it was a necessity of his

existence, and it is such men who in their course through life are the

most deeply wounded.

Chaytor's visits to Sydney were not upon business of his own, he had

none to take him there; they were simply and solely made for the

purpose of obtaining the letters which arrived for Basil from England,

and any also which might arrive for himself; but these latter were of

secondary importance. In his enquiries at the Post-office he was

always furnished with an order signed, "Basil Whittingham" (of which

he was the forger) to deliver to bearer any letters in that name. Thus

he was armed to meet a possible difficulty, although it would have

been easy enough to obtain Basil's letters without such order. But as

he had frequently observed he was a man who never threw away a chance.

As a matter of fact, he received letters both for himself and Basil,

which he kept carefully concealed in an inner pocket. He had become a

man of method in the crooked paths he was pursuing, and these letters,

before being packed away, were placed in a wrapper, securely sealed,

with written directions outside to the effect that if anything

happened to him and they fell into the hands of another person they

should be immediately burnt. This insured their destruction in the

event of their falling into the hands of Basil, for Chaytor had

implicit faith in his comrade's quixotism and chivalry, at which he

laughed in his sleeve.

It has already been stated that Chaytor had made himself a master of

the peculiarities of Basil's handwriting. Having served his

apprenticeship in his disgraceful career in England he could now

produce an imitation of Basil's hand so perfect as to deceive the most

skilful of experts, who often in genuine writing make mistakes which

should, but do not, confound them. Shortly after Annette and her uncle

and aunt had taken their departure from Australia he wrote to Basil's

uncle in England. It is not necessary to reproduce the letter;

sufficient to say that it was chatty and agreeable, that it recalled

reminiscences which could not but be pleasant to the old gentleman,

that it abounded in affectionate allusions, and wound up with the

expression of a hope that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would live till

he was a hundred in health and happiness. There was not a word in the

letter which could be construed into the begging of a favour; it was

all gratitude and affection; and the writer asked whether there was

any special thing in Australia which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham would

like to have. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said the wily

correspondent, "than to obtain and send it to you in memory of dear old

times. I will hunt the emu for you; I will even send you home a

kangaroo. God bless you, my dear uncle! I have been a foolish fellow I

know, but what is done cannot be undone, and I have only myself to

blame. There, I did not intend to make the most distant allusion to

anything in the past that has offended you, but it slipped out, and I

can only ask your forgiveness." In a postscript the writer said that

his address was the Post Office, Sydney, not, he observed, that he

expected Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham to write to him or answer his

letter, but there was no harm in mentioning it. It was just such a

letter as would delight an old gentleman who had in his heart of

hearts a warm regard for the young fellow whose conduct had displeased

him. Chaytor had some real ability in him, which, developed in a

straight way, would have met with its reward; but there are men who

cannot walk the straight paths, and Chaytor was one of these.

Two months afterwards, before any answer could have reached him,

Chaytor wrote a second letter, as bright and chatty as the first,

brimful of anecdote and story, and this he despatched, curious as to

the result of his arrows. They hit the mark right in the bull's-eye,

but Chaytor was not quite aware of this. However, he was satisfied

some time afterwards at receiving a brief note from a firm of

lawyers--not from Messrs. Rivington, Sons and Rivington, to whom he

had been articled, but from another firm, and for this he was

thankful--which said that Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had received his

nephew's letter, and was glad to learn that he was in good health and

spirits. That was all, but it was enough for Chaytor. In the first

place it proved that his handwriting was perfect and the circumstances

he spoke of correct. In the second place it proved that Basil's uncle

had a soft spot left for him and that the writer had touched it. In

the third place it proved that his letters were welcome, and that

others would be acceptable.

"A good commencement," thought Chaytor. "I have but to play my cards

boldly, and the old fool's forty thousand pounds will be mine. What a

slice of luck for me that Rivington, Sons, and Rivington no longer

transact his business! At a distance I could deceive them. At close

quarters their suspicions might be excited, although I would chance

even that, if there were no other way. I wonder how long the old miser

will live. I am not anxious that he should die yet; things are not

ripe; there is Basil to get rid of." He was ready and resolved for any

desperate expedient to compass his ends, and he kept not only the

letters he received, but copies of the letters he sent, for future

guidance, if needed. Be sure that he continued to write, and that he

made not the slightest reference to any hope of becoming the old

gentleman's heir, or of being reinstated in his affection. It is

strange how a man's intellect and intelligence are sharpened when he

is following a congenial occupation. Machiavelli himself could not

have excelled Newman Chaytor in the execution of the villainous scheme

he was bent upon carrying out. He became even a fine judge of

character, and not a word he wrote was malapropos. Let it be stated

that, despite the risk he was running, he derived genuine pleasure

from the plot he had devised. He thought himself, with justice, a very

clever fellow; if all went on in England as he hoped it would he had

no fear as to being able to silence or get rid of Basil on the

Australian side of the world. He would be a dolt indeed if he could

not remove a man so weak and trustful as Basil from his path. He had

other letters from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham's lawyers, and he knew,

from a growing cordiality in their tone (a sentiment in which lawyers

never of their own prompting indulge in their business transactions)

that they were dictated by the old gentleman himself. His

interpretation of Basil's uncle not writing in his own person was that

he had made up his mind not to have any direct personal communication

with his nephew, and that being of an obstinate disposition, he was

not going to break his resolution. "For all that," thought Chaytor, "I

will have his money. I'll take an even bet that he has either not

destroyed his old will, or that he has made a new one, making Basil

his heir. Newman Chaytor, there are not many men who can beat you."

He received other letters as well from other persons--from his old

mother, addressed to himself, and from Annette, addressed to Basil.

Certainly when he went to Sydney his hands were full, and he had

enough to do. He did not grudge the labour. He saw in the distance the

pleasures of life awaiting him, and it is a fact that in time he came

to believe that they were his to enjoy, and that Basil had no rightful

claim to them. It was he, Newman Chaytor, who had schemed for them,

who was working for them. What was Basil doing? Nothing. Standing idly

by, without making an effort to come into his own. "This is the way

men get on," said Chaytor to himself, surveying with pride the letter

he had just finished to Basil's uncle, "and I mean to get on. Why, the

trouble of writing this letter alone is worth a thousand pounds. And

what is the risk worth, I should like to know? I am earning double the

money I shall get."

The letters of his old mother to himself were less frequent--not more

than one every nine or ten months. They always commenced, "My dearly

beloved son," and they plunged at once into a description of the

difficulties with which she and her poor husband were battling. Her

first letter gave him a piece of news which caused him great joy. It

informed him that a certain bill which Chaytor had left behind him,

dishonoured, had been bought by his father, at the sacrifice of some

of the doubtful securities which he had saved from the wreck of his

fortune. "You can come home with safety now, my dear son," wrote the

unhappy old woman. "Well, that is a good hearing," mused Newman

Chaytor; "I was always afraid of that bill; it might have turned up

against me at any moment, but now it is disposed of, and I am safe.

So, the old man still had something left worth money all the time he

was preaching poverty to me. Such duplicity is disgusting. He owes me

a lot for frightening me out of the country as he did. And here is the

old woman going on with the preaching about hard times and poverty.

Such selfishness is wicked, upon my soul it is." It was true that his

mother's letters ran principally on the same theme. They had not a

penny; they lived in one room; their rent was behindhand; her husband

was more feeble than ever; they often went without food, for both she

and he were determined to starve rather than appeal to the parish.

Could not her dear son send them a trifle, if it was only a few

shillings, to help them fight the battle which was drawing to its

close? She hoped he would forgive her for asking him, but times were

so hard, and the winter was very severe. They had had no fire for two

days, and the landlady said if they could not pay the last two weeks'

rent that they would have to turn out. "Try, my dear boy, try, for the

sake of the mother who bore you, and who would sell her heart's blood

for you, if there was a market for it."

These letters annoyed Chaytor, and he thought it horribly hard that

his mother should write them. "It is a try on," he thought; "the old

man has put her up to it. I ought to know the ins and outs of such

transparent tricks. 'Now, write this,' says the old man; 'Now write

that. We must manage to screw something out of him: work upon his

feelings, mother.' That's the way it goes. I'll bet anything they've

got a smoking dinner on the table all the time, but Newman's at a

distance, and can't see it. Oh, no, I can't see anything; a baby might

impose upon me." He never thought of the night he saw his mother

begging in the roadway with a box of matches in her hands. Some men

are gifted with the power of shutting out inconvenient memories, as

there are others who never lose sight of a kindness they have received

or of a debt that is justly due. Long before this the reader has

discovered to which class Chaytor belonged.

Nevertheless he replied to the letters, cantingly regretting that he

was unable to send his dear old mother the smallest remittance to help

her on in her struggles. "How is it possible," he wrote, "when I am

myself starving? It is months since I have had to work sixteen hours a

day breaking stones on the road for a piece of dry bread. The

hardships I have endured, and am still enduring, are frightful. This

is a horrible place for a gentleman to live in. I should not have been

here if father had not driven me away. It almost drives me mad to

think that if he had not been so hard to me, if he had allowed me to

stop at home and manage his affairs, I could have pulled them

straight, and that we should all of us be living now in comfort and

plenty in the only country in the world where a man can enjoy his

days. You have no idea what kind of place this colony is. Men die like

lambs in the snow, and the sufferings they endure are shocking to

contemplate. I do not suppose I shall live to write you another

letter, but if you can manage to send me a few pounds it may arrive

just in time to save me." And so on, and so on. He took a keen delight

in the duplicities he was practising, and he would read his letters

over with a feeling of pride and exultation in his cleverness. "How

many men are there in the world," he would ask himself, "who could

write such a letter as this? Not many. Upon my word I'm wasted in this

hole and corner. But there's by-and-by to come; when I get hold of

that forty thousand pounds I'll have my revenge. No galley slave ever

worked harder than I am working for a future I mean to enjoy." That

may have been true enough, but the work of a galley slave was honest

labour in comparison with that to which Newman Chaytor was bending all

his energies.

Lastly, there were the letters Annette wrote to Basil. They arrived at

intervals of about four months, so that Chaytor was in possession of

seven or eight of them. Proceeding as they did from a pure and

beautiful nature, these letters, had Basil received them, would have

been like wine to him, would have comforted and strengthened him

through the hardest misfortunes and troubles, would have kept the sun

shining upon him in the midst of the bitterest storms. He would have

continued to work with gladness and hope instead of with indifference.

It would have made the future a bright goal to which his eyes would

ever have been turned with joy. Evidences of kindness and sympathy,

still more, evidences of unselfish affection and love, are like the

dew to the flower. They keep the heart fresh, they keep its windows

ever open to the light. But of this blessing Basil was robbed by the

machinations of a scoundrel: hence there was no sweetness in his

labour, no hope for him in the future. So much to heart did Basil take

Annette's silence that, had his nature been inclined to evil instead

of good, mischief to others would probably have ensued, but as it was

he was the only sufferer. In his utterances, when he was drawn to

speak of the shock he had received, he was apt to exaggerate matters

and to present himself in the worst light, but there had fallen to his

share an inheritance of moral goodness which rendered it impossible

for him to become a backslider from the paths of rectitude and honour.

Except that he was unhappy in himself, and that Annette's silence took

the salt out of his days, he was as he ever was, straightforward in

his dealings and gentle and charitable towards his fellow-creatures.

"My dear, dear Basil" (thus ran Annette's first letter, written about

five months after their last meeting in the Australian woods), "I have

tried ever so hard to write to you before, but have not been able to

because of uncle and aunt. I was afraid if they found out I was

writing to you that they would take the letter away or do something to

prevent it reaching you, and I wanted, too, to tell you how you could

write to me, but have never been able till now. You will be glad to

hear that if you write and address your letters exactly as I tell you,

I am almost sure of receiving them. But first I must say something

about myself and how I am. Uncle and aunt are not unkind to me, but

they are not kind. They leave me to myself a good deal, but I know I

am being watched all the time. I don't mind that so much, but what I

do miss is my dear father's voice and yours, and the birds and flowers

and beautiful scenery I always lived among till I was taken away. I

would not mind if you were with me, for I love you truly, dear Basil,

and can never, never forget you. That last time we were together by

Mr. Corrie's hut, how often and often do I think of it! I go through

everything that passed except the unkind words spoken by Uncle

Gilbert, which I try not to remember. I must have a wonderful memory,

for everything you said to me is as fresh now as though you had just

spoken them. Yes, indeed. Perhaps it is because when we were on board

ship I used to sit on the deck, with my face turned to Australia--the

captain always pointed out the exact direction--and go through it all

in my mind over and over and over again, till I got letter perfect.

Shall I prove to you that it is really so? Well, then, when I told you

I was afraid I was turning hard and had since Uncle Gilbert came to

the plantation--the dear old plantation!--you chided me so gently and

beautifully, and I promised never to forget your words, knowing they

would keep me good. Then you said, 'Let them keep you brave as well,

my dear. I promise to remember you always, to love you always, and

perhaps when you are a woman--it will not be so long, Annette--we

shall meet again.' Well, Basil dear, I am waiting for that time. I

know it will not be yet, perhaps not for years, but I can wait

patiently, and I shall always bear your words in mind. 'The stars of

heaven are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can keep

shining in our hearts.' Do you remember, Basil? And then I asked you

to kiss me, and said that was the seal and that I should go away

happier. It comes to my mind sometimes that your words are like

flowers that never die, and that grow sweeter and more beautiful every

day. You could not have given me anything better to make me happy. But

I must not keep going on like this or I shall not have time to tell

you some things you ought to know.

"Well, then, Basil dear, we are not settled anywhere, and if you were

to come home now (you call it home, I know, and so will I) you would

not know where to find me unless you went to a place I will tell you

of presently. First we came to London and stopped there a little

while, then we went to Paris, then to Switzerland, and now we have

come back to London, where we shall remain two or three weeks, and

then go somewhere else, I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert never tells

me till the day before, when he says, 'We are going away to-morrow

morning; be ready.' So that by the time you receive this letter we

shall be I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert is very fond of theatres,

but he has not taken me to one because he says they are not proper

places for girls. I daresay he is right, and I don't know that I want

to go, but aunt has been very dissatisfied about it, as she is as fond

of theatres as Uncle Gilbert is. He used to go by himself, and aunt

would stop with me to take care of me, but a little while ago, a day

or two before we came back to London, they had a quarrel about it.

They did not notice that I was in the room when they begun, and when

they found it out they stopped. But I think it is because of the

quarrel that when we were in London a young woman was engaged to

travel with us and to look after me when uncle and aunt are away. I am

very glad for a good many reasons. I am not very happy when they are

with me, and I breath more freely--or perhaps I think I do--when they

are gone. The young woman they have engaged is kind and good-natured,

and I have grown fond of her already, and she has grown fond of me, so

we get along nicely together. Her name is Emily Crawford, and she has

a mother who lives in Bournemouth, a place by the sea somewhere in

England. Her mother is a poor woman, and that is why Emily is obliged

to go to service, but she is not a common person, not at all, and she

has a good heart. She can read and write very well, and she picks up

things quicker than I can. Of course you want to know why I speak so

much of Emily, when I might be writing about myself. Well, it is very,

very important, and it _is_ about myself I am speaking when I am

speaking of her.

"Basil, dear, it does one good to have some one to talk to quite

freely and to open one's heart to. All the time I have been away,

until this week, I have not had any person who would listen to me or

who cared to speak of the happy years I spent on our dear plantation.

Whenever I ventured to say a word about the past Uncle Gilbert put a

stop to it at once by saying, 'There is no occasion to speak of it,

you are living another life now. Forget it, and everybody connected

with it.' Forget it! As if I could! But I do not dare to disobey him.

He is my guardian, and I must be obedient to him. Aunt is just the

same, only she snaps me up when I say anything that displeases her,

while uncle speaks softly, but he is as determined as she is although

they do speak so differently. I do not know which way I dislike

most--I think both. So one night this week when uncle and aunt were

away, and I was reading, and Emily was sewing, she said to me, 'You

have come from Australia, haven't you, miss?' Oh, how pleased I was! I

answered yes, and then we got talking about Australia, and I told her

all about the plantation and the life we led there, and all sorts of

things came rushing into my mind, and when I had told her a great deal

I began to cry. It was then I found out Emily's goodness, for there

she was by my side wiping my tears away and almost crying with me, and

that is how we have become friends. After that I felt that I could

speak freely to her, and I spoke about you, of course. She promised

not to say a word to uncle or aunt, and I know I can trust her. Now,

Basil, dear, she has told me how you can write to me and how I can

obtain your letters without uncle or aunt knowing anything about it.

Emily writes home to her mother and receives letters from her. If you

will write and address your letters to the care of Mrs. Crawford, 14,

Lomax Road, Bournemouth, England, Mrs. Crawford will enclose them to

Emily, who will give them to me. Mrs. Crawford will always know where

Emily is while she remains with me, which will be as long as she is

allowed, Emily says, and I am sure to get your letters. I feel quite

happy when I think that you will write to me, telling all about

yourself. You said I was certain to make friends in the new country I

was going to, through whom we should be able to correspond, and

although I would sooner do it through uncle and aunt (but there is no

possibility of that because they do not like you), I feel there is

nothing very wrong in our writing to each other in the way Emily

proposes. So that is all, and you will know what to do. I can hardly

restrain my impatience, but it is something very sweet to look forward

to.

"I hope you found the locket with the portrait of my dear mother in

it. When we see each other I shall expect you to show it to me. If you

see Mr. Corrie tell him that the magpie is quite well, and that I can

teach him to say almost anything. Both uncle and aunt have grumbled a

good deal about the bird, and would like me to get rid of it, but that

is the one thing--the only thing--that I have gone against them in. 'I

will be obedient in everything else,' I said, 'but I must keep my

bird. You promised me.' So they have yielded, and I have my way in

this at all events. It means a great deal to me because I take care

it shall not forget your name. I keep it in my own room, where they

see very little of it, and it is only when we are travelling that it

is a trouble to them.

"Now I must leave off, Basil dear. With all my love, and hoping with

all my heart that we shall see each other when I am a little older,--I

remain; for ever and ever, your loving friend,

"Annette."

This letter interested and amused Newman Chaytor. "She is a clever

little puss," he thought, "and will not be hard to impose upon, for

all her cunning. I wonder, I wonder"--but what it was he wondered at

did not take instant shape; it required some time to think out. He

replied to the letter, addressing Annette as she directed. Although he

knew it was not likely that Annette could be very familiar with

Basil's handwriting, he was as careful in imitating it as he was in

his letters to Basil's uncle; and as in the case of his letters to

that old gentleman, he kept a copy of the letters he wrote to Annette.

He was very careful in the composition of his correspondence with the

young girl. He fell into the sentimental mood, and smiled to think

that the sentiments he expressed to Annette were just those which

would occur to Basil if he sat down to write to her. "Basil would be

proud of me," he said, "if he read this letter. It is really saving

him a world of trouble, and he ought to be grateful to me if it ever

come to his knowledge--which it never shall. I will see to that."

During the first year of the progress of the vile plot the full sense

of the dangerous net he was weaving for himself did not occur to him,

and indeed it was only by degrees that he became keenly conscious of

the peril attending its discovery. It made him serious at first, but

at the same time more fixed in his resolve to carry it out to the

bitter end. Whatever it was necessary to do he would do ruthlessly.

Everything must give way to secure his own safety, to insure the life

of ease and luxury he hoped to enjoy, if all went well.

If all went well! What kind of sophistry must that man use who, to

compass his ends, deems all means justifiable, without considering the

misery he is ready to inflict upon others in the pursuit upon which he

is engaged? There lies upon some men's natures a crust of selfishness

so cruel that it becomes in their eyes a light matter to transgress

all laws human and divine. They are blinded by a moral obliquity, and

think not of the hour when the veil shall be torn from their eyes, and

when the punishment which surely waits upon crime is meted out to

them.

Annette's first letter to Basil is a fair example of those which

followed, except that the progress of time seemed to deepen the

attachment she bore for him. In one letter she sent a photograph of

herself, and Newman Chaytor's heart beat high as he gazed upon it.

Annette was growing into a very lovely womanhood; beautiful, sweet,

and gracious was her face; an angelic tenderness dwelt in her eyes.

"And this is meant for Basil," said Chaytor, in his solitude: and then

exclaimed, as he contemplated the enchanting picture, "No! For me--for

me!"

CHAPTER XX.

The claim they were working proved very little richer than others they

had taken up. They made certainly a few shillings a week more than was

absolutely necessary to keep them in food and tobacco, and these few

shillings were carefully husbanded by Chaytor, who was treasurer of

the partnership. Their departure was hastened by a meeting which did

not afford Chaytor unalloyed pleasure. As he and Basil sat at the door

of their canvas tent one summer night, who should stroll up to them

but old Corrie.

"Here you are, then," cried the honest fellow.

"Why, Corrie!" exclaimed Basil, jumping to his feet, and holding out

his hands.

"Master Basil," said Old Corrie, grasping them cordially, "I am more

than glad to see you. I was passing through, and hearing your tent was

somewhere in this direction, I made up my mind to hunt you up. Well,

well, well!"

"Here's my mate," said Basil, motioning to Chaytor, "you remember

him."

"Oh yes," said Old Corrie, nodding at Chaytor. "So you've been

together all this time. What luck have you had?"

"Bad luck," answered Chaytor.

"Sorry to hear it. Never struck a rich patch, eh?"

"Never," said Chaytor. "And you?"

"I can't complain. To tell you the truth, I've made my pile."

"You have!" cried Chaytor, with a furious envy in his voice.

"I have. You made a mistake when you refused to go mates with me; I

could have shown you a trick or two. However, that's past: what's

ended can't be mended."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Haven't quite made up my mind. Think of going to Sydney for a spree;

perhaps to Melbourne for another; perhaps shall give up that idea, and

make tracks for old England. I've got enough to live upon if I like to

take care of it. Well, Master Basil, I wish you had better news to

give me. Have you heard from the old country? No?" This was in

response to Basil's shake of the head. "Why, I thought the little lady

promised to write to you."

"She did promise, but I have not heard for all that."

"Out of sight, out of mind," observed Chaytor, inwardly discomposed at

the turn the conversation had taken.

Old Corrie gave him a sour look. "I'll not believe that of the little

lady. The most likely reason is that she has been prevented by that

old fox her uncle. Her silence must have grieved you, Master Basil."

Basil nodded. "I know how your heart was set upon her."

"Don't let's talk about it," said Basil, "it is the way of the world."

"That may be," said Old Corrie, regarding Basil attentively, "but I'd

have staked my life that it wasn't the way of the little lady. What

has come over you? You're changed. You were always brimming over with

life and spirits, and now you're as melancholy as a black crow."

"I'm falling into the sere and yellow," said Basil, with a melancholy

smile.

"I can only guess at what you mean. You're getting old. Why, man

alive, there's a good five-and-twenty year between you and me, and I

don't consider myself falling into the what-do-you-call-'em! Pluck up,

Master Basil. Here, let's have a little chat aside."

Chaytor gave Basil a look which meant, as plain as words could speak

it, "Are you going to have secret conversations away from me after all

the years we have been together, after all I've done for you?"

"Corrie," said Basil, laying one hand on Old Corrie's arm and the

other on Chaytor's, "if you've anything to say to me I should like you

to say it before Chaytor. There's nothing I would wish to hide from

him. He's been the truest friend to me a man ever had, and I owe him

more than I can ever repay."

"Nonsense, Basil," said Chaytor with magnanimous humility; "don't say

anything about it."

"But it ought to be said, and I should be the ungratefullest fellow

living if I ever missed an opportunity of acknowledging it. I owe you

something too, Corrie. There's that mare of yours I borrowed and

lost."

"Shut up," growled Old Corrie, "if you want us to part friends. I've

never given the mare a thought, and as for paying me for it, well, you

can't, and there's an end of it. I'll say before your mate what is in

my mind. You're a gentleman, Master Basil, and here you are wasting

your time and your years to no purpose. England is the proper place

for you." Chaytor caught his breath, and neither Basil nor Old Corrie

could have interpreted this exhibition of emotion aright; but Basil,

who thought he understood it, smiled gently at Chaytor, as much as to

say, "Don't fear, I am not going to desert you." Old Corrie, who had

paused, took up his words: "England is the proper place for you. Say

the word, and we'll go together to Sydney and take two passages for

home. There you can hunt up your old friends, and you'll be a man once

more. Come now, say, 'Yes, Corrie,' and put me under an obligation to

you for life."

"I can't say yes, Corrie, but I'm truly obliged to you for your kind

offer. Even if I wished to break my connection with Chaytor--which I

don't--it's for him to put an end to our partnership, not for

me--don't you see that it would be impossible for me to lay myself

under an obligation to you?"

"No, I don't see it,' growled Old Corrie.

"Then, again, Corrie, what inducement have I to return to England?"

"There's little lady," interrupted Old Corrie.

"She has forgotten me," said Basil, sadly. "What business have I to

thrust myself upon her? If she desired to continue a friendship which

was as precious to me as my heart's blood--yes, I don't mind

confessing it; there may be weakness, but there is no shame in

it--would she not have written to me? She would, if it was only one

line. It is true that her uncle may be jealously guarding and watching

her--there was love lost between us--but in these three years that

have passed since the last day we saw each other, it is not possible

to think that she could not have contrived once to have put in the

post a bit of paper with only the words, 'I have not forgotten you,

Basil.' Who and what am I that I should cross the road she is

traversing for the purpose of bringing a reminiscence to her mind that

she chooses not to remember? There would not be much manliness in

that. Besides, it's a hundred chances to one that she's not in England

at all. It is my belief she is living in her father's native country,

Switzerland, where, surrounded by new scenes and new companions, I

hope she is happy. Thank you again, Corrie; I cannot accept your

offer."

"All right," said Corrie, with disappointment in his face and voice;

"you ought to know your own mind, though I make bold to say I don't

believe you've said what's in your heart. Well, there's an end to it.

I'm off early in the morning. Good-bye, Master Basil."

"Good-bye, Corrie, and good luck to you."

"Good luck to _you_, better than you've had in more ways than one."

"Good-bye, Mr. Corrie," said Chaytor.

Old Corrie could scarcely refuse the hand that Chaytor held out to

him, but the grasp he gave it was very different from the grasp he

gave Basil's. Before he turned to leave the ill-assorted comrades he

did something which escaped the eyes of Basil, but not those of

Chaytor. He furtively dropped, quite close to Basil's feet, a round

wooden matchbox, which, emptied of matches, gold-diggers frequently

used to fill with loose gold. Unobserved by old Corrie, Chaytor put

his foot on the box and slipped it to the rear of himself. This was

done while Old Corrie was turning to go. Basil was genuinely sorry to

See the last of his friend. Both the unexpected meeting and the

leave-taking had a touch of sadness in them which deeply affected him,

and he gazed with regret after the vanishing form of the man who had

offered to serve him. This gave Chaytor an opportunity of slyly

picking up the matchbox; it was weighty, and Chaytor knew that it was

filled with gold. "A bit of luck," he thought, as he put the box into

his pocket, "and a narrow escape as well." He felt like a man sitting

on a mine which a stray match might fire at any moment.

"Basil," he said, when Old Corrie was out of sight, "we will strike

our tent to-morrow, and go prospecting. I have a likely spot in my

mind."

"Very well," said Basil listlessly. "How about money? Can we manage to

get along?"

"Oh, yes, we can manage."

Early in the morning the pegs which fastened the tent were dug out of

the ground, the tent was rolled up and tied, and with heavy swags of

canvas, blankets, tools, and utensils conveniently disposed about

their persons, Basil and Chaytor set their faces to the south. They

walked for two days, camping out at night, and halted at length on the

banks of a river, the waters of which were low. In the winter the

floods rolling down from the adjacent ranges made the river a torrent,

covering banks which were now bare. These banks were of fine sand, and

rising on each side for a distance of some thousands of yards were

shelving mountains studded with quartz. Some eighteen months ago Basil

and Chaytor had passed the place on their way to a new rush, and

Chaytor thought it a likely place in which to find gold. They were now

quite alone, not a living soul was within a dozen miles of them. They

had reached the spot secretly, and their movements were unknown to any

but themselves. Their nearest neighbours were on a cattle station some

twelve or thirteen miles away.

"I have had an idea," said Chaytor, throwing the swag off his

shoulders, an example which Basil followed, "for a long time past that

somewhere about here gold was to be found. My plan is to prospect the

place well, without any one being the wiser. Who knows? We may

discover a new goldfield, and make our fortunes before we are

tracked. Let us camp here, and try. We can't do much worse than we've

done already."

"I'm agreeable to anything you propose," said Basil. "Let us camp here

by all means."

"The great thing is, that nobody must be let into the secret. If we

are discovered, 'Rush, O!' will be the cry, and we shall be overrun

before we can say Jack Robinson."

"You have only to say what you wish, Chaytor. You have the cleverer

head of the two. I hope for your sake we shall be successful."

"You don't much care for your own."

"Not much."

"You'll sing to another tune when we do succeed. It's wonderful how

the possession of a lot of money alters one's views."

"I'll wait till I get it," said Basil, sagely.

"The river runs low at this season and there's no reason in the world

why the sand banks shouldn't hold gold."

"They will hold it if its there," said Basil, with a smile.

"We'll try the banks first because they are the easiest, and if we

don't get gold in sufficient quantities there we'll try higher up the

range. It's studded with quartz, and it looks the right sort. We'll

put our tent up now, and in the morning we'll commence work--or rather

you will commence while I am away."

"Where are you going to?"

"There's grub to look after. We can't do without meat and flour. All

we've got to live on at present is a tin of sardines, about half a

pint of brandy, a little tea, and a couple of handfuls of biscuits.

Now, I call that a coincidence."

"In what respect?"

"Do you forget," said Chaytor reproachfully, "the first night you come

to Gum Flat? I gave you then pretty well all I had in the world in the

shape of provisions, some biscuits, some sardines, and a flask of

brandy."

"You did, old fellow, and that is the sum total of our provisions this

evening." He shook Chaytor's hand warmly. "Don't think me ungrateful,

Chaytor, because I don't profess much. Old Corrie said I was changed,

and I suppose I must be; but I shall never be so changed as to be

unmindful of the way you've stuck to me. Yes, it is a coincidence. But

go on. What do you mean to do about grub, for I see you've something

in your mind?"

"There's only one thing to do," said Chaytor. "I must go to the cattle

station to-night, get there early in the morning, and buy mutton and

flour. I shall have to look out sharp that I'm not followed when I

make my way back again, but I think I can manage it. I've done more

difficult jobs than that."

"And you will be tramping the bush," said Basil, "while I remain at my

ease here. Why can't I go instead of you?"

"Because," replied Chaytor, in a tone of affectionate insistance, "as

you have already confessed, I am the cleverer of the two, and because

I have an idea, if we lose this chance, that we shall never get

another. I don't want you to be seen, Basil, that's the plain truth of

the matter. You're not up to the men we meet. Now, I am sly and

cunning----"

"You?" interrupted Basil. "You are the soul of candour and honesty,

Chaytor. No one else should say that of you while I stood by."

"I don't mean exactly what I said, Basil, but I am sure I can do the

job more neatly than you could. As to the tramp through the bush, I

think nothing of it, so let it be as I say."

Basil making no further objection, the tent was put up and a trench

dug around to carry the rain away. Then a camp fire was made, and the

water for tea boiled in a tin billy, after which they finished the

biscuits and sardines.

"You will have to hold out till I come back," said Chaytor. "As I need

not start till past midnight, I'll turn in for an hour or two."