"It is a strange story," said Basil, "but less strange than the story I have to relate. We have both experienced the pangs of hunger and solitude, with wealth and luxury all around us. What chiefly interests me is your adventure in Bournemouth. Emily, you said, is the name of Annette's maid?"
"So her mother said."
"And the mother's name?"
"I ascertained that--Crawford."
"Do you know the name of the street in which she lives?"
"Lomax Road. I put it down on paper."
"If we were in Bournemouth, you could take me to the house?"
"Straight."
"We will go there to-morrow; there will be little sleep for us to-night, Corrie. As regards Annette do you draw any conclusions about her character--for the Child and the woman are frequently at odds with one another--from the incident of the bird?"
"I do; Master Basil. I draw the sign of constancy. None but a constant nature would have kept the bird so long, would have valued it so long, would have taught it new words.
"New words!"
"Yes, Master Basil. If it said 'dear Basil' once, it said it twenty times while the woman and I were talking. When I gave the bird to little lady it couldn't say 'dear,' so she must have taught the lesson with her own pretty lips. A straw will tell which way the wind blows."
"Thank you, Corrie. When you have heard me out you will understand what all this means to me." The recital of his adventures occupied him over an hour, and Corrie listened with bent brows and without a single word of interruption. His pipe went out, and he made no attempt to relight it; the only movement he made was to turn his head occasionally, as though something Basil had just said had inspired a new thought. Basil brought his narrative down to this very night, and paused only when he came to where Old Corrie accosted him at the street door. "What do you think of it, Corrie?" he asked, when he had finished. "It is wonderful," said Corrie. "My story is but a molehill by the side of your mountain. There's no time to lose, Master Basil; a day, an hour, may be precious, if little lady is to be saved."
"No time shall be lost," said Basil; "an hour's rest in our clothes after we've done talking, and at daybreak we are off to see how soon and how quickly we can get to Bournemouth. There is a question I haven't asked you. How long is it since you were in Bournemouth?"
"It must be six months, quite; but I kept no account of time. What a fool I was not to go back and see Emily Crawford!"
"We'll waste no time in lamenting. What is past is past, and no man can foresee what is in the future. Do you see, now, how important your evidence is likely to be to me? Without it I might be compelled to pass through life bearing the shameful name of the villain who betrayed me. Corrie, there are anxious and dreaded possibilities in the future to which I dare not give utterance. I can only hope and work. Now let us rest."
He wanted Corrie to take his bed, but Corrie refused, and, throwing himself on the floor, was soon asleep. Not so Basil; the events of the night had been too exciting for forgetfulness, and though he dozed off now and then, his brain did not rest a moment. He was none the worse for it in the morning; despite the trials he had undergone his naturally strong constitution asserted itself and enabled him to bear more than an ordinary amount of fatigue. The moment he arose from his bed Old Corrie jumped to his feet as brisk as a lark.
"I'm a new man, Master Basil," he said; "the prospect of something to do is as good as wine to me. There's no curse like the curse of idleness."
They washed and breakfasted, and then went out. It was early morning, and there were not many people astir.
"We are going first," said Basil, "to see Mr. Philpott, of whom I told you last night. I have an impression that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is not in England. If we are fortunate enough in striking the trail, and he is in a foreign country, the task we are set upon may be long and difficult. I am debating whether it would be advisable to ask Philpott to accompany us."
"From your opinion of him," said Corrie, "he is a man to be trusted."
"Thoroughly."
"In a foreign country I should be next door to useless, except to prove that you are yourself. Mr. Philpott is accustomed to such jobs as this, and knows the tricks of hunting men down. I should say take him."
"I will, if he is agreeable. He doesn't know who I really am, though he has perhaps a suspicion of the truth, and it will be necessary that I should tell him my story. If he can come with us I shall have no hesitation in confiding in him."
They found the Philpott family at breakfast.
"I thought we were early birds, sir," said Mr. Philpott, while his wife dusted two chairs for the visitors, "but there are other birds, I see, more wide-awake than we are. Why, it's barely seven o'clock! Breakfast done when the clock strikes--that's my notion of bringing up a family."
"I've something of importance to say to you," said Basil, "when you've finished."
"Finished now, sir," said Philpott; "always ready for business. We'll talk outside if you don't mind. Mother hasn't had time to do the rooms yet." They walked up and down the quiet street, and after Basil had ascertained that Philpott was able and willing to accompany him, and that the next train for Bournemouth did not start for a couple of hours, he communicated to Philpott all he considered it necessary that worthy man should know of his history.
"A singular story, sir," said Philpott, "about as good as anything that's come my way up to now. I always told mother there was something out of the common about you. That Mr. Chaytor must be an out-and-outer--as cunning as they make 'em now-a-days. It's as well you should have a man like me with you. I know the ropes; you don't. Let's get to the office, sir. I must give 'em notice I'm going away on an important job. Luckily there's nothing very particular on hand just now." This preliminary was soon accomplished, and Basil and his companions arrived at Waterloo Station a few minutes before the train started for Bournemouth. On the road it was arranged that Basil should go alone to Mrs. Crawford's house.
"The woman might be frightened," said Philpott, "at three men coming to make inquiries. To a gentleman like you she will be open and frank."
Leaving Old Corrie and Philpott on the beach, Basil walked to Lomax Road, the number of the house in which Mrs. Crawford lived being 14, as he was informed by an obliging resident. He lingered outside, and looked up at the windows for signs of the magpie, but no sound reached his ears, and with somewhat of a despondent feeling he knocked at the door. So much depended upon the next few minutes! If he should have to leave Mrs. Crawford unsatisfied, without a clue to guide him, he would be no further advanced than on the day he first set foot in London. All he wanted was a starting point, and he vowed to leave no stone unturned to obtain it, and that once he gained it, he would follow it up till it led him to the end. The door was opened, and a decent-looking woman stood before him.
"Mrs. Crawford?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to speak to you upon a subject very dear to me; I can offer no other excuse for intruding upon you."
"There was an unconscious wistfulness in his voice, which interested Mrs. Crawford. There is no surer way of winning a woman's sympathies than by appealing to them in some such way as this, and making them understand it is in their power to assist you.
"Are you a Bournemouth gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford.
"No, I have never been in Bournemouth before to-day. I have travelled a long distance to see you."
"Will you walk in, sir?"
He followed her to the sitting-room. A little girl some seven or eight years old was sitting there, turning over the pages of a child's picture-book.
"Run and play, Genie," said the mother.
"Your little girl?" asked Basil, drawing the child to his knee.
"Yes, sir." Basil took half-a-crown from his pocket. "Ask mamma, by-and-by, to buy you a toy with this."
"What do you say, Genie?" cried the gratified mother.
"Thank you, sir," said the child, holding her bashful head down.
Basil gave her a kiss, and she ran to her mother with the half-crown, and afterwards left the room, shyly glancing at Basil, whose kind manners, no less than the half-crown, had won her heart. And the mother's also, it is almost needless to say.
Basil looked around the walls. No sign of a bird. Then he turned to the mantel-shelf and saw there the portrait of a young woman, bearing in her face a strong resemblance to Mrs. Crawford.
"Another daughter of yours," he observed. "I can see the likeness."
"Yes, sir, and a good girl, and a good daughter."
"I am sure she is. Might I inquire her name?"
"Emily, sir."
"Is she at home?"
"No, sir; she is abroad with her mistress."
Basil's heart beat high with hope already there was something gained.
"Am I mistaken in my belief," he asked, "that her mistress is Miss Annette Bidaud?"
"That is the young lady's name, sir. I hope you will excuse my asking why you keep on looking round the room, and why you looked up at the windows of the house in the same way before you knocked at the street-door? I saw you, sir."
"I was looking for an old friend I had an idea was here."
"An old friend, sir?"
"Yes, a magpie that Miss Bidaud brought with her from Australia."
Mrs. Crawford's face flushed up, and she said in a tone of vexation:
"It was here a little while, sir, and it got me into trouble. But it was nobody's fault but my own. Excuse me again, sir--you speak as if you knew Miss Bidaud."
"I knew her intimately; she and I were, and I hope are, very dear friends. Her father and I had a great esteem for each other."
"That was in Australia, sir?"
"That was in Australia. Miss Bidaud was but a child at the time."
"You have seen her since, I suppose, sir?"
"I have not. To be frank with you, that is the object of my visit to you. I earnestly desire to know where she is."
"She is a beautiful young lady now, sir," said Mrs. Crawford; diverging a little; from the expression on her face she seemed to be considering something as she gazed attentively at Basil. "Perhaps you can recognise her."
She handed Basil an album, and he turned over its pages till he came to a portrait which rivetted his attention. It was the portrait of Annette; he recognised it instantly, but how beautiful she had grown! An artist had coloured the picture, and the attractive subject must have interested him deeply, so well and skilfully was the colouring done. The gracefully-shaped head, the long, golden-brown hair, the lovely hazel eyes, magnetised Basil, as it were. There was a pensive look in the eyes, and something of wistfulness in the expression of the mouth, which Basil construed into a kind of appeal. It may be forgiven him if he thought that it was to him the mute face was appealing. Long and earnestly did he gaze: reminiscences of the happy hours they had passed together floated through his mind; her confidence, her trust in him, and her father's last words on the evening on which he had accepted the guardianship of his child, were never less powerful and, sacred in the sense they conveyed of a duty yet to be performed than they were at this moment. When, at length, he raised his eyes from the portrait, Mrs. Crawford saw tears in them. Had she had any doubts of her visitor, these tears would have dispelled them.
"Is she not lovely, sir?"
"She has the face of an angel."
"That is what my Emily says, sir; she dotes on my young lady, sir, and would work her fingers to the bone to serve her."
"Miss Miss Bidaud, then, has one faithful friend by her side."
"You may say that, sir. There have been mistresses and servants but there never was mistress and servant so bound to each other as my Emily and my young lady."
"They are in Europe?"
"Oh, yes, sir, they are in Europe. I'll tell you presently where, but I must finish what I was saying at first. It was about the magpie--the bird you were looking for--as sensible a feathered thing as ever piped a note. Emily wanted badly to come and see me, and some other of her relations in England, and it happened that her uncle and guardian Mr. Gilbert Bidaud--you know the gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford, breaking off suddenly; she had noticed a dark flash in Basil's eyes at the mention of the name.
"I had a brief acquaintance with him in Australia," replied Basil.
"Do you like him, sir? Is he a friend of yours?"
Before he replied he looked attentively at her, and a tacit understanding seemed to pass between them. Without further hesitation he answered:
"I do not like him. He is no friend of mine."
Mrs. Crawford nodded her head in a satisfied manner, and said:
"The more likely you are to be a friend of Miss Bidaud's. Well, sir, it happened that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud was going to pay a flying visit to several foreign places, and, of course, was going to take my young lady with him. He never lets her out of his sight if he can help it, but Emily is very nearly a match for him. I don't say quite, but very nearly, Emilyisclever. Mr. Bidaud made a great fuss about taking the bird and the cage with them on this journey, and wanted my young lady to leave it behind, but she wouldn't, and proposed instead that Emily should have her holiday while they were away and should take care of the bird and take it back when her holiday was over. That is how the bird came to be here. Eight months ago it was, and Emily was away on a visit, when a man with a great ugly bear came to the house and began to ask questions about the bird. He said just what you said, that it was an old friend of his, and that he'd trained it for my young lady in Australia. He knew my young lady's name, and he wanted me to tell him where she was to be found. Well, sir, I don't know how it was, but I got suspicious of him. What business could a common-looking man like him have with a young lady like Miss Bidaud? As like as not he wanted to impose upon her, and it wasn't for me to help him to do that. It didn't look well, did it, sir, that a man going about the country with a bear should be trapesing after my young lady? So I was very short with him, and I refused to tell him anything, but said if he liked to come in a day or two Emily would be home, and then he could speak to her about my young lady. He went away, after leaving his name--Corrie, it was--and I never set eyes on him again. That seemed to prove I'd done right, but I hadn't, for Emily said, when she came home, that my young lady thought a good deal of this Mr. Corrie, and had often spoken of him, and that he did train and give her the bird, just as he said he had. Emily said my young lady would be very sorry when she heard I'd turned Mr. Corrie away, and that she would give a good deal if she could see the poor man. Every letter I get from my daughter she asks me if I've seen anything more of Mr. Corrie, and to be sure if I do to tell him where my young lady is stopping. I could beat myself with vexation when I think of it. Perhaps you could tell me something of him, as you were all in Australia at the same time."
"I can. He is here with me in Bournemouth."
"Here in Bournemouth, sir! Oh, what a relief you have given me!"
"He told you a true story, Mrs. Crawford, every word of it, and is a sterling, honest fellow. You see how wrong it is to judge people by their appearance."
"Perhaps it is, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, a little doubtfully, and added, with excusable flattery, "I judged you by yours, sir. I hope you will bring Mr. Corrie here, but not his bear, sir, and I'll beg his pardon."
"No need to do that; Corrie is the last man to blame you for doing what you believed to be right. As for the poor bear, it is dead. I will go and fetch Corrie presently, and you can make it up with him; but tell me now where Miss Bidaud is to be found."
"She is in Switzerland, with her uncle and aunt, sir."
"I want the exact address, Mrs. Crawford, if you please."
"Here it is, sir, on a piece of paper. It is my Emily's writing, sir."
Basil wrote down the address: "Villa Bidaud, Fernex, near Geneva, Switzerland." His hand trembled as he wrote. At last he was fairly on the track of the traitor. His heart beat tumultuously, and for a moment he was overcome with dizziness; but he immediately recovered himself, and continued the conversation. "Do you write to your daughter to this address?"
"Yes, sir."
"Villa Bidaud. That sounds as if it were a long-established residence."
"They live there on and off, sir, for a few weeks or a few months at a time. I think when they go travelling the house is shut up."
"Your daughter has doubtless given you a description of the house. Is it small or large?"
"Large, I should say, and very old. There must be a good many rooms in it, and it stands in the middle of a very large garden."
"Mrs. Crawford, look at me."
Somewhat surprised at the request, Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil, and saw a face quivering with earnestness, and eyes in which truth and honour shone.
"Yes, sir," she said, and waited. "I want you to be certain that I am a man who is to be trusted."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"That I am a man who would do no woman wrong, and that in my present visit to you I am animated by an honest, earnest desire to serve the young lady your daughter serves and loves."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"Being certain of it," said Basil, "is there nothing more you can tell me that might aid me in my desire to be of service to Miss Bidaud? I gather from what you have said that your daughter is sincerely attached to her young mistress, and she will know whether Miss Bidaud is happy or not."
"I'm not sure, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, speaking slowly, "whether I've a right to tell everything, you being a stranger to me."
"But not a stranger to Miss Bidaud," said Basil, eagerly, "remember that, Mrs. Crawford. Next to her father, I was in Australia her dearest friend----"
"Are you sure of that, sir?" interrupted Mrs. Crawford. "We sometimes deceive ourselves. My young lady, to my knowledge had a friend in Australia--a young gentleman like yourself--she thought all the world of. Emily says she was never tired of speaking about him and of his kindness to her. His name is Mr. Basil Whittingham. Perhaps you are acquainted with him?"
"I know something of him," said Basil. He had been on the point of disclosing himself, but remembrance of the part Newman Chaytor was playing checked him in time.
"Of course, there may be others," continued Mrs. Crawford, "and it isn't for me to dispute with you; but if there's one thing that is more positive than another, it is that my young lady thought all the world of Mr. Whittingham. You are Miss Bidaud's friend, and you don't seem to think much of her uncle. That's the way with us. My Emily hates the very sight of him--though she doesn't let him see it, you may be sure, sir--because of the way he behaves to Miss Bidaud. How I come to know so much about Mr. Whittingham is, because all the letters he wrote to Miss Bidaud from Australia were addressed to my care. If they hadn't been, my young lady's uncle or aunt would have got hold of them and she would never have seen them. When they arrived I used to put them in an envelope and address them to my Emily--not to Villa Bidaud, but to different post-offices, according to the directions she gave me."
"Were there many of these letters?" asked Basil, keeping guard upon his feelings.
"About one every six or seven months, sir."
"Are you aware whether they afforded pleasure to Miss Bidaud?"
"Yes, sir, they gave her the greatest possible pleasure. She was always happy after she got one, so my Emily wrote to me. That makes it all the stranger."
"Makes what all the stranger?" Again Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil with a possible doubt of the wisdom of her loquacity; but she was naturally a gossip, and the sluice being open the waters continued to flow.
"Well, sir, my young lady had set her heart upon Mr. Whittingham coming home--that much my daughter knew from what she said; and, although she said nothing about it to Emily, there was something else she set her heart upon. There are some things, you know, sir, a delicate-minded young lady doesn't tell her best friend till they're settled; and perhaps Miss Bidaud herself didn't quite know what her feelings for Mr. Whittingham were. She was very young when she left Australia, and her uncle hadn't been anxious to introduce her to society, so since she's been home she has seen very little of young men. But lookers on can see most of the game, sir, and my Emily said to me, 'When Mr. Whittingham comes home there'll be a match made up, you see if there won't, mother.' 'But how about the uncle?' I asked, for it was pretty clear to me, from what I heard, that there was no love lost between Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Whittingham. Then my Emily tells me that, for all my young lady's gentle ways and manners, she sometimes showed a will of her own when anything very dear to her was in question. That is how she has been able to keep the bird Mr. Corrie gave her; if it hadn't been that she was determined, her uncle would have made away with it long ago. I didn't quite agree with Emily. I argued like this, sir. Supposing, when Mr. Whittingham came home, he and my young lady found they loved each other, and made a match of it. So far, all well and good; but the moment Mr. Bidaud discovered it, he would take steps. He is Miss Bidaud's natural guardian, and my young lady is not yet of age. What would her uncle do? Whip her away, and take her where Mr. Whittingham couldn't get at her. Perhaps discharge Emily, and so deprive Miss Bidaud of every friend she has, and of every opportunity of acting contrary to him. He's artful enough to carry that out. I don't quite know the rights of it, but Emily says he has control of all my young lady's fortune, and she don't believe he has any of his own. Well, then, does it stand to reason that he would let the money he lives upon slip through his fingers through any carelessness of his own, or that he would hand it quietly over to a man he hates like poison? That's the way I urged, sir, but it's all turned out different. Of course you know, sir, that Mr. Basil Whittingham's come home."
"I have heard so," said Basil, quietly.
"And has come into a great fortune!"
"I have heard that, also."
"Miss Bidaud was overjoyed when she saw him, and her uncle was the other way. But if Emily's last two letters mean anything they mean that things have got topsy turvy like. Mr. Whittingham and Mr. Bidaud are great friends now, and as for my young lady being happy, that's more than I can say. There's no understanding young people now; it was different in my time; but there, they say the course of true love never runs smooth. One thing seems pretty plain--there's a screw loose somewhere in Villa Bidaud. And now, sir, I've told you everything, and likely as, not I've been too free, and done what I shouldn't. If I have done wrong I shall never hear the last of it from Emily."
"You will live to acknowledge," said Basil, "that you have done right, and that your confidence is not misplaced. I thank you from my heart, and am grateful for the good fortune that led me to you. Mrs. Crawford, I don't like to offer you money for the service you have rendered me, though I hope I shall be in the humour to insist, before long, upon your allowing me to make a fitting acknowledgment. But there is something I should wish to purchase of you."
"I have nothing to sell, sir, that you would care to have."
"I would give more than its weight in gold," said Basil, laying his hand upon the album, "for the portrait of Miss Bidaud. You can have no idea of the value it would be to me, and how much I should esteem your kindness. Let me have it, I entreat you."
"I don't like to part with it," said Mrs. Crawford, looking admiringly at Basil, "but I can't refuse you. Take it, sir."
Basil quickly availed himself of the permission, and put a sovereign on the table, saying, "For little Genie. Buy her a pretty frock with it." Then wishing her good day, and thanking her again he left her to rejoin Old Corrie and Mr. Philpott on the beach, and communicate the good news to them. Half-an-hour later Old Corrie paid a visit to Mrs. Crawford, and received her profuse excuses for the abrupt manner in which he had behaved to him.
"Nobody can blame you, ma'am," said Corrie, "for fighting shy of a bear. It's a wonder to me now how I came to be mates with the creature. But he was a worthy comrade, ma'am, rough as his outside was--a deal worthier than some men I've met with. And I shall never forget it, ma'am, because in the first place it brought me straight to you, and in the second place it's taking me straight to a little lady."
We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had established his position as Basil Whittingham, he had obtained possession of Basil's fortune, he was on a familiar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings respecting the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, no difficulty whatever. The evidence in his possession, proving himself to be the man he represented himself to be, was complete; and there being no grounds for suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, and on the high road.
He went to London, and remained there only a few days. He made no attempt to see his parents, and was careful to avoid the neighbourhood in which they lived. With a large fortune at his disposal, and being fertile in methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself; but his character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is supposed he ever allowed himself to yield to the dictates of humanity. He knew that his parents were in direst poverty--his mother's last letter to him made this very clear--but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion for the mother who idolised him or the father he had brought to ruin. Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled every action of his life. His own ease, his own pleasures, his own safety--these were paramount, and pioneered him through the crooked paths he had trod since boyhood. The correspondence he had kept up with Annette rendered it an easy matter for him to find her. He had apprised her that he was starting for home, and had directed her not to write to him again to Australia. In this last letter he informed her that he had come into a great fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by business matters for a few weeks that he would not be able to see her immediately he arrived in England. He gave her instructions how to communicate with him at home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her heart for him. It is hard to say how many times Annette read this letter. Basil was on his way home--coming home, coming home, coming home--she kept on repeating the magic words; and there was a light in her eyes, music in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last he was coming, the friend whom she could trust, the man her dear father had loved and honoured. She would see him soon, for he would not linger over the business he had to transact; her hand would be in his, his eyes on her face--and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had she changed since he last saw her? Would he know her again, or would she have to say, "Basil, I am Annette?" No! that would not be necessary; she had sent him her portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would pick her out of a thousand women. She had changed--yes, she was aware of that, and aware, too, that she was very beautiful. What woman is not who has grace and beauty for her dower; and is there a woman in the world who is not proud of the possession, and who does not smile and greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon the bright reflection of a brighter reality? Annette was innocently glad that she was fair, and all through her gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked her for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The quality of vanity there was in this thought was human and natural. The name of Basil represented to her all that there was of nobility, goodness, and generosity. In Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in life. She worshipped an ideal. He had asked her to keep a corner in her heart for him. Was not her whole heart his? And he was coming home--home! The word assumed a new meaning. It would be truly home when Basil was with her.
"You are excited, Annette," said Gilbert Bidaud, who, although he seldom indulged in long conversations with his niece, noted every sign and change in her. Only in one respect had he been baffled; he had not succeeded in discovering how the correspondence between Basil and Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, Emily, but that shrewd young person was so extraordinarily careful and astute that he could not lure her, for all the traps he set, into betraying herself. He hinted once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no farther.
"Emily is my maid," said Annette, "and no one but I have a right to discharge her."
"And you do not mean to do so?" said Gilbert Bidaud.
"No, uncle, I do not mean to do so."
"Even though I expressed a wish that she should go."
"Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving me. I am fond of her. If she goes, I go too."
"You go! where?"
"Where you would not find me, uncle."
Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She might fall into other hands, and herself and fortune be lost to him. He was not quite sure of his position in respect to Annette, and his best safety lay in not disturbing the waters. His brother's affairs in Australia had been administered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here in Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for him. He had Annette's fortune absolutely in his control; he had used her money for his own purposes, for he had none of his own; he had kept no accounts; in worldly matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become wiser so long as she was in his charge. She was obedient and docile in most ways, the only exceptions being her feeling for Emily, and the secret correspondence she was carrying on with Basil. These matters were not important; they did not trench upon his authority or position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, sentimental girl would write, and Basil's letters were probably harmless enough. Besides, he was at a safe distance. Time enough to fight when the enemy was in view. "He will marry," thought Gilbert Bidaud, "he will forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is safest." So time went on, outwardly calm, till Annette received Basil's letter announcing his intended return to England. It was then that Gilbert noted the change in her. They were on the continent at the time; of late years Gilbert seldom visited England; there was more enjoyment and greater security for him in his own country and in others more congenial to him. He purchased, with Annette's money, a villa in Fernex, which he called Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his own name; he had come to regard Annette's fortune as his; if troublesome thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to his own cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might present themselves.
"You are excited, Annette," he said.
She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was impossible; her restless movements, her sparkling eyes, her joyous face, were sufficient confirmation of her uncle's statements. But to admit it would lead to questions which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was silent.
"My dear niece," said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth voice, "there is not that confidence between us which I should wish to exist. Why? Have I oppressed you? Have I treated you harshly? You can scarcely so accuse me. Have I not allowed you to have your own way in all things? You have had perfect liberty, have you not? Be frank with me. I have at heart only your interests. I wish only to secure your happiness. When your poor father--my dear brother--died, you were almost a baby, a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. I said to my heart--it is my habit, my dear niece, to commune with myself--I said to my heart, 'Annette is a child, an infant, with strong affections and attachments. You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. She will not regard you with favour; she will not understand you.' And so it was. It was my unhappy duty to be stern and hard with some you regarded as friends; it was my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we commenced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you are, stood aloof from you and exercised the duties of guardian and uncle without showing that my heart was filled with love for you. Thus have we lived, with a spiritual gulf dividing us. My dear niece, you are no longer a child, you are a woman who can think for herself, who is open to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you the hand of amity, of love. Take it, and tell me how I can minister to your happiness."
It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he had ever made to her, and she was deceived by his specious frankness. She could not refuse the hand he held out to her, and as she placed hers within it, she reflected, "When Basil arrives they must meet. They were not friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing accomplished if they can be made friends here, through me. Then Basil can come freely, with uncle's consent, and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke to me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as well as he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great love for me, but may it not have been partly my own fault. If they have wounded me, may I not have wounded them?"
Gilbert Bidaud saw that she was reflecting upon the new view he had presented to her, and he did not disturb her meditations. Presently she said:
"Uncle, I have had some good news." "It delights me," said Gilbert Bidaud. "In your own good time you shall confide it to me."
"I will confide it to you now. Basil is coming home."
"See now," said Gilbert, in a tone of great good-humour, "how you have misjudged me. Here have you, my ward, over whom I have the right to exercise some authority, been corresponding with a young gentleman between whom and myself there are differences of opinion. Candidly I admit that I did not look upon him with love. Know now for the first time that on the plantation I was warned against him, that he had enemies who spoke of him as an adventurer. How was I to know that those who spoke thus spoke falsely? You may answer, being a woman who has cherished in her heart a regard for her Australian friend, 'You should have asked me; I would have told you the truth about him.' Ah, but consider. What were you? A mere infant, innocent, guileless, unsuspecting. I venerate childhood, and venerate it the more because it has no worldly wisdom. Happy, happy state! Would that we could live all our lives in ignorance so blissful! Then there would be no more duplicity, no more cheating and roguery. But it is otherwise, and we must accept the world. Therefore the young gentleman and I crossed swords on the first day we met, and from that time have misunderstood each other. In my thoughts, perhaps, I have done him wrong; in his thoughts, perhaps, he has done me wrong. And my niece, the only child of my dear brother, sided with the stranger against me. I was wounded, sorely wounded; and when I discovered that you and he were writing to each other secretly, I spoke harshly to you; I may even have uttered some foolish threats. What man, my child, can be ever wise, can ever say the right words, can ever do the right things? None, not one, and I perhaps, who have peculiar moods and temper, less than many. But see, now, what came of those harsh words, those foolish threats? You still correspond with your friend Basil, and I stood quietly aside and interfered not. Could I not have stopped the correspondence, if I had been seriously determined to do so? Doubt it not, my child. At any moment I could have done so. But I said, 'No, I will not spoil Annette's pleasure; it is an innocent pleasure; let it go on; I will not interfere. One day my niece will do me justice. And it may be, that one day her friend Basil and I will better understand each other.' Is it not so?"
"Indeed, uncle," said Annette, timidly, "it is I who have been in the wrong."
"No, no," said Gilbert, interrupting her, "I will not have you say so. The fault was mine. What say the English? You cannot put an old head on young shoulders. I expected too much. From to-day we commence afresh. Eh, my dear child?"
"Yes, uncle."
"So be it," he said, kissing her. "We misunderstand each other never again. It is agreed. Our friend Basil--I will make him my friend if he will let me; you shall see--is coming home. He shall be welcome."
"Uncle, you remove a weight from my heart."
"It is what I would do, always. A weight is also removed from mine. How long will our friend Basil be before he appears."
"I do not know exactly. He will write."
"He will write," echoed Gilbert merrily, pinching Annette's cheek. "We have our secret post-office--ah, ah! Tell him it must be secret no longer. Write openly to him; he shall write openly to you. He has been many years in Australia. Has he grown rich on the goldfields? Did he find what they call a golden claim?"
"He does not say; but I think he did not get rich there."
"Not get rich there. Did he get rich anywhere, or does he come poor?"
The picture of a needy adventurer rose before him, and had he not been a master in cunning he would have betrayed himself.
"He writes," said Annette, "that his uncle has left him a large fortune."
Gilbert drew a long breath of relief. Easier to cope with Basil rich than poor. If Basil wanted Annette, and Annette wanted him, why, he would make a bargain with the young man, who, being wealthy, would not be greedy for Annette's money. Gilbert Bidaud was a keen judge of character, and he knew Basil to be a manly, generous-hearted honourable fellow, who would be more likely to despise than to covet money with the girl he loved. If that were so, Gilbert saw a road to immunity for the past and a life of independence in the future. There was a striking resemblance in certain features of his character and that of Newman Chaytor, as there is in the natures of all purely selfish men.
"That is a pleasant thing to hear," he said. "I congratulate him from my heart." He would have added, "And I congratulate you," but he restrained himself; it was delicate ground, and it would be better to wait. Subsequently, in a conversation with his sister, he expressed himself more freely. Basil would be received and welcomed--yes, but he would be carefully sounded and observed, and she was to play her part both with Annette and her lover. It pleased Gilbert to call him so, but it did not please the girl's aunt.
"You have foolish ideas," she said. "Annette was thirteen years when we took her from the plantation. What kind of love could a man have for such a child?"
"You will see, you will see," said Gilbert. "This Basil is what we call an eccentric, and it is because he is so that I have settled upon the plan of bringing them together under our noses. Remember, my idiot of a brother left me not a coin. We have our future to look to, and gentleman Basil is the man to make it sure for us. Would you wish to have to slave for your bread as you used to do--and often not get it?"
"No; but if I have an enemy I like him at a distance."
"Foolish woman! If I have an enemy I like him here, close to me, where my hand can reach him. I will have him--if I have the choice--as I have now--in the light, not in the dark."
Annette also had a conversation with her trusty maid Emily concerning this new revelation in Gilbert Bidaud's character. Annette was very enthusiastic about it, and very self-reproachful concerning the past, but Emily looked grave and shook her head.
"I'd rather agree with you than not, miss," she said, "but I don't think I can about your uncle."
"You must not be obstinate and prejudiced, Emily," said Annette, with mild severity.
"I'll try not to be, miss, but if an animal is born a donkey, a donkey he remains all the days of his life."
Annette laughed, and said, of course, but whatdidEmily mean?
"It's a roundabout way of explaining myself," said Emily. "And there's different kinds of donkeys, some mild, and that'll take the whip as patient as a wooden dummy; others that'll kick out and let fly at you with their heels. The same with horses, the same with dogs, the same with cats."
"Whatdoyou mean, Emily?"
"Only when vice is in an animal you can't wheedle it out of him. No more you can out of a man or a woman. I don't say they can help it, but what's born in 'emmustcome out. If I'm born sly I keep sly, and the chances are I grow slyer as I grow older. I don't believe in sudden changes, miss, and if you'll excuse me I'll wait a little before I make up my mind about your uncle."