Newman Chaytor first met Annette in Paris. She wrote to him to London, saying that her uncle intended to make a stay there of a few weeks, and telling him the name of the hotel they stopped at. Chaytor's business in London was by that time transacted and he was nervous to get away with his spoil. Bold as he had been, and little as he believed he had to fear, there were moments when he was seized with panic. What if Basil should not be dead? What if, recovering, and being rescued from the tomb into which Chaytor had plunged him, some suspicion should cross his mind of the treachery which had been practised towards him? What if, after that, bent upon revenge, he should find his way home, and there discover how he had been wronged and robbed? Newman Chaytor was bathed in cold sweat, and his limbs shook as he contemplated this contingency. In his calmer moments he strove to laugh himself out of his fears, but he never entirely got rid of them, and he deemed it safer to live most of his time out of England. For reasons of safety, also, he converted Basil's fortune into cash, and carried a large portion of it upon his person in Bank of England notes. He had clothes made after his own design, and in his waistcoats and trousers were inner pockets in which he concealed his treasure. There were five bank notes of a thousand pounds each, twenty of five hundred each, and the rest in hundreds and fifties. They occupied but little space, and during the first month or two of his coming into possession of the money, he was continually counting it in the secresy of his room, with doors locked and windows shaded. The passing of a cloud, the fluttering of a bird's wings across his window, the sound of breathing or footstep outside his door, drove him into agonies of apprehension as he was thus engaged. He would stop suddenly and listen, and creep to door or window, and wait there till the fancied cause for fear was gone; then he would resume his operations and pack the money away in the lining of his clothes. The dread of losing it, of his being robbed, of its being wrested from him, was never absent. When he entered a new hotel he examined the doors of his rooms, tried the locks and fastenings, and peered about in every nook and corner, until he was satisfied that there was no chink or loophole of danger. But as fast as his fears were allayed in one direction they sprang up in another. The hydra-headed monster he had created for himself left him no rest by day or night. He slept with his clothes under his bolster, and waking up, would grope in the dark with his hands to assure himself that they had not been taken away. There were nights which were nothing less than one long terror to him. The occupants of the apartments to the right and left of him were talkative; he could not catch the sense of their words, but they were, of course, talking of him. They were quiet; of course they were so to put him off his guard. He would jump from his bed and stand, listening, and whether he heard sounds or heard none, every existent and non-existent sign became a menace and a terror. As time wore on it could not be but that these fears became less strong and vivid, but they were never entirely obliterated, and were occasionally revived in all their original force. There was, however, one new habit which he practised mechanically, and of which he never got rid. This was a movement of the left hand towards those parts of his clothing in which the money was concealed. He was quite unconscious of the frequency of this peculiar motion, and took as little notice of it as any man takes of the natural movements of his limbs.
When he received Annette's letter informing him that they were in Paris he immediately resolved to go there. "I am wondering," wrote Annette, "whether we shall see you here, or whether we shall have to wait because your business is not finished. You must forget all that I have said about Uncle Gilbert; we did not understand each other, but we do now, and he is very very kind to me; and although he cannot be as anxious to see you as I am, he is ready to give you a warm and hearty welcome."
"She is an affectionate little puss," thought Chaytor, "and does not seem to conceal anything from her dear Basil, but if she thinks I am going to tie myself to her apron strings she is mistaken. I will feel my way with her, and--yes, a good idea! will have a peep at her somehow without her seeing me, before I introduce myself. Judging from the photograph she sent me in Australia"--he was so accustomed to think of himself as Basil that he often forgot he was Newman Chaytor--"she is as pretty as a picture; but then portraits are deceitful--like the originals. They are so touched up by the photographers, that a very ordinary-looking woman is transformed into an angel. If that is the case with Annette she will see very little of me. Give me beauty, bright eyes, white teeth, a good figure, a pretty, kissable mouth, and I am satisfied. So, my little Annette, it all depends upon yourself. As for Uncle Gilbert, it is a good job that he is changed; it will make things easier for me. I don't want to quarrel, not I, and if I take a fancy to Annette, and he can help to smooth the way for me, why, all the better."
From the day he set foot on the vessel which brought him to England, Chaytor had been most painstaking and careful about his appearance. He spent hours before the glass arranging his hair after the fashion of Basil's hair, as our hero had worn it in England; and, being a bit of an artist, he succeeded perfectly. The resemblance was marvellous, and Chaytor congratulated himself and chuckled at his cleverness. "Upon my soul," he said, "we must have been changed at our birth. I am Basil, and he----" He paused. No shudder passed through him, he was visited by no pang of remorse at the thought of Basil lying dead at the bottom of the shaft. It must have been very quick and sudden! Death must have ensued instantaneously. Had he not listened and lingered, without a sound of suffering, without even a sigh reaching him? "No man could do more than that," he thought. "There's no telling what I should have done if he had groaned or cried for help. But as he was dead and done for, what was the use of my loitering there?" Across the many thousands of miles of sea and land, his mental vision travelled with more than lightning swiftness, and he saw at the bottom of a dark shaft the form of his victim huddled up and still. And as he gazed, the form unfolded itself, and rising to its feet, glided towards him. The vision had presented itself once before, and he acted now as he had acted then. Almost frenzied he dashed the phantom aside, with as much force as if Basil had stood bodily before him, and, finding that this was of no avail, threw himself upon the ground, and grovelled there with closed eyes until reason re-assumed its sway and whispered that he was but the fool of fevered fancies. "I shall go mad if I don't mind," he muttered. "I know what's the matter with me; I am keeping myself too solitary. I want friends, companionship." It is a fact that he would not make friends with any one; the fewer questions that were asked of him the better. He was in constant dread of meeting with some person of whom Basil had not spoken who would begin to speak of old times. Out of England this was not so likely to occur. Man of pleasure as he was he had never been a heavy drinker, but now he flew to brandy to deaden his fears. Altogether, despite his success, he was not greatly to be envied. The lot of the poorest and most unfortunate of men is to be preferred to that of a man of evil heart, whose Nemesis is ever by his side throwing its black shadow over every conscious hour.
On the Continent Chaytor experienced some relief. He had always been fond of Paris, and now he threw himself with zest into the pleasures of that gay city. "This is life," he said enthusiastically; "it is for this I have worked. Eureka! I have found the philosopher's stone--freedom, light, enjoyment." He was in no hurry to go to Annette; he would have his fling first--but, that, he said to himself, he would always have, Annette or no Annette. His misfortune was that he could not rule circumstance. Gilbert Bidaud set eyes on him as he was driving with some gay companions, for here in Paris Chaytor was not so bent upon avoiding society as in England. "Surely," mused the elder fox, as he slipped into a carriage and gave the driver instructions to follow Chaytor and his companions, "that is my old friend Basil, for whom my foolish niece is looking and longing. He presented himself to me in the Australian wilderness as a model of perfection, a knight without a stain upon his shield, but in Paris he appears to be very human. Very human indeed," he repeated with a laugh, as he noted the wild gaiety of the man he was following. Be sure that he did not lose sight of his quarry until he learnt as many particulars concerning it as he could gain. So fox watched fox, and the game went on, Annette waiting and dreaming of the Bayard without flaw and without reproach who reigned in her heart of hearts.
"Have you heard from our friend Basil?" asked Gilbert Bidaud.
"Not for ten days," replied Annette. "He said he feared he would not have time to write again till he came to Paris, he was so beset with lawyers and business men."
"Yes, yes," said Gilbert; "he must have much to do. He will come to us, I hope, the moment he reaches Paris."
"Oh, yes, uncle; he will not wait a day, an hour; he will come straight here."
Gilbert Bidaud nodded cheerfully, and said no more, but his cunning mind was busy revolving pros and cons.
Chaytor, after awhile, carried out his resolution of seeing Annette before he presented himself to her. Ascertaining the rooms she and her people occupied, he engaged apartments for a couple of days in an hotel from the windows of which he could observe her movements. He used opera glasses, and so arranged his post of observation that he could not himself be seen. In the petty minutiæ of small schemes, he was a master.
The first time he saw Annette he almost let his glasses fall from his hand. Her radiant countenance, her sparkling eyes, the beauty of her face, the grace of her movements, were a revelation to him. Never had he seen a creature so lovely and perfect. So fascinated was he that he dreaded it might not be Annette--but yes, there was her uncle, Gilbert Bidaud, standing now by her side, and apparently talking pleasantly to her. Chaytor, though he had seen the old man but once in the Australian woods, when he was a concealed witness of the interview between Gilbert, Basil and Annette, recognised him immediately. Gilbert Bidaud was not changed in the least, and Chaytor decided within himself that neither Basil or Annette knew how to manage the old fellow. He, Newman Chaytor, would be able to do so; he would be the master of the situation, and would pull the strings of his puppets according to his moods and wishes. He did not dream that Gilbert Bidaud was aware that he was in their vicinity, that he even knew the number of the rooms he had engaged in the hotel, and the name he had assumed for the purposes of his secret watch. From the moment that Gilbert had set eyes upon him, every step he took, every movement he made, was noted down by agents employed by the old man, who kept a written record for possible use in the future. These two forces were well matched, but the odds were in favour of the elder animal. "It is clear," said Newman Chaytor, "that Basil was mistaken in his estimate of Gilbert Bidaud, and that he poisoned Annette's mind against her uncle. The old man is harmless enough, and he and I will be great friends." Presently Gilbert kissed his niece and left the room, laughing to himself at the comedy scene he had played. His thoughts may also be put into words.
"He is in that room, watching Annette. He has arranged the curtains and the furniture in the manner most convenient for his watch. What is his object, and what do his movements prove? He wishes to convince himself that Annette is a bird attractive enough to follow, to woo, to win. If I knew what has passed between them in the letters they wrote to each other, I should be more certain of my conclusions, but as it is I shall not be far out. He wishes also to observe me secretly, and to make up his mind about me before we come together. Well, he shall have opportunity--he shall see what a kind pleasant uncle I am. We were not the best of friends across the ocean--in good truth, we were as bitter enemies as men could possibly be; and he remembers that we exchanged hard and bitter words. Do I bear animosity? No; here, my dear friend, is my hand: take it." He held it out, and the cunning of his nature was exposed in the expression of his thin lips and his cold blue eyes. "But what do his movements prove? That, setting himself up as a gentleman, above doing a sly action, profuse in his scorn of others and in glorification of himself, he is the personification of low cunning and meanness. He deceived me when we clashed in the forest; expressing scorn of him, and flinging mud upon his motives, I yet believed him to be a gentleman, and was in my soul angry because the belief was forced upon me. Bah! my friend Basil, my self-elected gentleman of honour unblemished and untarnished, you are unmasked. You play your game; I will play mine. We shall see who will win."
While these communings were going on Chaytor continued his watch. His greedy eyes dwelt upon Annette's sweet face--heavens, he thought, how beautiful she is!--his sinful soul gloated upon her grace of form and feature. Would she know him when her eyes fell upon him? Would she see at once that he was Basil, or was there anything in his appearance that would inspire a doubt? That afternoon he examined himself narrowly in the glass; he practised Basil's little tricks of motion, one of the most conspicuous of which was the caressing of his moustache between finger and thumb, and any doubts he may have had disappeared. "I am more like Basil Whittingham than he ever was," he said. "Even in a court of law the chances would be all on my side." When he was in a confident mood nothing more improbable could be conceived than that Basil would ever cross his path. It was not improbable, it was impossible. Basil was dead, and there was an end of the matter; he had all the field to himself.
He continued to observe Annette from his window, and the more he saw of her the more constantly did his thoughts dwell upon her. During these days he went through many rehearsals of the part he was playing, recalling all that Basil had told him of his association with Annette, the scenes they had walked through, the conversations they had indulged in. He was letter perfect in what had passed between Basil and Annette's father, and his retentive memory had preserved all the incidents in the scene in the Australian woods, when Gilbert Bidaud and his sister had surprised them near Old Corrie's hut. "Old Corrie," thought Chaytor, "had a down on me, and came near to spoiling my game, but I've been more than a match for the lot of them. What has become of the old busy-body? Dead, most likely. Everybody's as good as dead who could touch or interfere with me. And Annette, the pretty Annette, is ready to fall into my arms the moment I make my appearance." It will be remembered that on the last meeting between Basil and Annette, she gave him a locket containing her mother's portrait, and that, when Gilbert Bidaud flung it away into the bush, Newman Chaytor picked it up and kept it close. From that day to this he had never parted with it, and now, being about to present himself to Annette, he put it round his neck, conscious that it would be a good card to play under any circumstances.
Annette was at lunch with her uncle and aunt in the public room of the hotel when a gentleman entered, and took his seat at another table close by. Annette, looking up from her plate, flushed rosy red, and in uncontrollable excitement, started to her feet, then sank back into her chair with her eyes fixed upon the newcomer. Gilbert Bidaud had also noted the entrance of the gentleman, although his eyes seemed to be directed to another part of the room; he took no outward notice, but inwardly said, "Ah, ah, friend Basil, you have decided at last to appear. Now for a few clever lies."
"Uncle!" whispered Annette.
"Yes, my niece," said Gilbert, "what do you wish?"
"Look there uncle; look there."
Gilbert looked in the desired direction and said, "I see a gentleman."
"Do you not know who it is, uncle? Do you not recognise him?"
"As I live," said Gilbert, "I believe him to be our Australian friend, Basil. But no--I may be deceived."
"It is he, uncle; it is he. Oh, why will he not look this way?"
At that precise moment, Chaytor, who was speaking to a waiter, turned towards Annette, and their eyes met. He rose and walked towards her, with a certain air of irresolution, but with an expression of eager delight in his face.
"Basil!" she cried, advancing to him.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Chaytor, hugging himself with satisfaction at this unhesitating recognition. It was not only that there were no obstacles to remove, no awkward explanations to make, but it was a tribute to his powers of duplicity, almost the crowning stone in the monument of deception he had erected with so much skill. "Annette!"
"Oh, Basil, Basil!" cried Annette, holding out her hands, which he clasped in his. "How happy I am to see you--how happy, how happy!"
Gilbert Bidaud, who had watched in silence the progress of this comedy, now stepped forward.
"You must allow me to interfere," he said. "We are not alone. There are other ladies and gentlemen in the room, and their eyes are on you. We will adjourn to our apartments."
He took Annette's hand and led the way, and in a few moments they were able to converse without drawing upon themselves the attention of strangers.
"You will excuse me," said Gilbert to Chaytor with grave courtesy, pointing to a chair, "but I think this is better."
"Infinitely better, M. Bidaud," said Chaytor, "and I thank you for recalling me to myself. May I hope that you will shake hands with me?"
"Willingly. Let bygones be bygones. We did not understand each other at the other end of the world; we will manage better at this end. When did you arrive in Paris?"
"This morning. I travelled by the night mail."
"Lie the first," thought Gilbert Bidaud as he smiled and nodded.
"A weary journey, and I wanted to get rid of the stains of travel before I presented myself. I was afraid, Annette--or I should rather now say Miss Bidaud--might not recognise me."
"I should have known you anywhere," said Annette softly.
"And you, M. Bidaud?" asked Chaytor, turning laughingly to the old man.
"Anywhere, anywhere!" cried Gilbert, enthusiastically. "You have the distinguished appearance, the grand air, which made me mistrust you on my lamented brother's plantation. But we mistrusted each other, eh, friend Basil?"
"Well, we did; but as you say, 'let bygones be bygones.'"
"They shall be. If we speak of them it shall be to teach us lessons. I will leave you and my niece together for, say, half-an-hour, and then we will drive out. The day is fine--this re-union is fine--everything is fine. My dear niece, I salute you."
Annette's cup of happiness was full. She had experienced a momentary pang when she heard herself called Miss Bidaud, but she knew that it was right. She was no longer a child, and although she had always commenced her letters with "My dear Basil," she would have hesitated, now that they were together, had she sat down to write to him. They had so much to talk about! All the old days were recalled, and if once or twice Chaytor tripped, his natural cleverness and Annette's assistance soon put him right. In such a matter as the last meeting in the forest between Basil and Annette, of which he was a secret witness, he was very exact, his faithful memory reproducing the smallest detail.
"Do you remember this?" he asked, showing her the locket.
She gazed at her mother's portrait with tears in her eyes.
"I was afraid it was lost," she said, "when uncle threw it away."
"What a hunt I had for it," said Chaytor. "For hours and hours did I look about, and almost despaired of finding it. I'll tell you what came into my mind. If I don't find the locket I shall never see Annette again; if I do, I shall. And when it was in my hands I looked upon it as a good omen. I believe it has brought me straight to you. It has never left me; day and night I have worn it round my neck."
"Old Corrie helped you to find it," said Annette. "Oh, yes, of course, but it was I, not he, who first saw it. Lying among the leaves. By-the-by, is that magpie still in the land of the living?"
"Yes, I have it in my room." Annette blushed as she spoke, thinking of the endearing words of Basil she had taught the bird to speak. "It is all the dearer to me now that its poor master has gone." Then Chaytor began to speak of his trials and troubles in Australia, and of his fear that he would never be able to return to England.
"I used to fret rarely over it," he said. "I would not tell you so in my letters, because I did not want to make you sad. But all that is over now; I am rich, and there is nothing but happiness before us."
"Nothing but happiness before us!" Annette's heart beat tumultuously as she heard those words. New hopes, new joys, were gathering, of which she scarcely knew the meaning. She did not seek for it; it was sufficient that Basil was with her, unchanged, the same dear friend he had ever been. They had so much to say to each other that Gilbert Bidaud's entrance at the end of half an hour was an unwelcome interruption.
"Come, come, young people," he said merrily, "the bright sun invites us. You can talk as we ride."
His voice was benignant, his manner paternal, and during the ride he did not intrude upon them. That night Annette went to bed a perfectly happy woman. No doubts or fears beset her. She was conscious of a certain undefinable change in Basil which she could not exactly explain to herself. His voice appeared to be in some way altered; it was scarcely so gentle as it used to be, and there was a difference also in his manner of speech. But she did not dwell upon these impressions; the change was more likely in her than in him; she had grown, she had ripened, childhood's days were over. Then Basil had passed through much suffering, and had been for years in association with rough men. What wonder if his manners were less refined than she remembered them to be? But his heart was unchanged; he was the same Basil as of old--tender, devoted, and as deeply attached to her as she had dared to hope. Emily, assisting her young mistress to undress, found her less conversational than usual. She divined the cause, and was sympathetically quiet, asking but few questions, and listening with unaffected interest to what Annette had to say. Emily had not yet seen Basil, but her views with respect to him were fixed; she was quite ready to subscribe to Annette's belief that he was above the standard of the ordinary mortal, and she had set her heart upon its being a match between them; and when, while she was assisting her mistress, she saw her, in the glass, smile happily to herself, as one might do who was under the influence of a happy dream, she was satisfied that some progress had already been made towards the desired end.
As for Newman Chaytor, he left Annette that night in a very contented, not to say ecstatic, frame of mind. There had not been a hitch; he had passed through the examination with flying colours. He approved not only of himself, he approved of Annette. She was beautiful from a distance, but far more than beautiful did she prove to be when he came into association with her; her winning voice, her tenderness, her charm of manner, made as deep an impression upon him as a nature so entirely selfish as his was capable of receiving. It was not possible that he could entertain true and sincere love for any human being, but Annette inspired within him those feelings which took the place of such a love. "She has bewitched me," he said. "I can't drive her out of my thoughts, and don't want to, the little darling! Basil, my double, had a good eye for the future. He saw what she would grow into, and intended to save her for himself; and so he has, for I am he. My other self, I drink to you!" It was in the solitude of his chamber that he communed thus with himself. Brandy and water were before him; he mixed a stiff glass in which to drink the toast, and raised it to his lips as he uttered the last words. Scarcely had the glass touched his lips when it fell to the ground and was shattered to pieces. There before him was the vision of the shaft with the dead body of his other self lying at the bottom. It rose and moved towards him. "Curse you!" he cried. "Can I never get rid of you?" A silent voice answered him: "Never, while you live. I am the shadow of your crime. I shall be with you--dogging you, haunting you--to the last hour of your sinful life!"
Gilbert Bidaud was puzzled. As well as any man in the world did he know the true metal when he saw it, and when he was in doubt and had the opportunity of applying tests he did so, and thus resolved his doubts. He had done so in the case of Newman Chaytor, with the result that he proved the metal to be spurious; and still he was not satisfied with the proof. There was something behind the scenes which was hidden from him, and with all his cleverness he could not obtain sight of it.
His acquaintance with Basil in Australia had been brief, but he had learnt in that short time to hate him most cordially. This hatred was intensified by the conviction that forced itself upon him that Basil was a straightforward, honourable gentleman. Gilbert Bidaud never allowed his prejudices to blind him and obscure his judgment. When he found himself in a difficult position he was careful that his view of the circumstances with which he had to contend was a clear one, and whatever discomfort he might bring upon himself by this course it was invariably of assistance to him in the end he desired to attain. Recognising in Basil the gentleman and the man of honourable impulse he knew exactly where to sting him and how to cope with him. Looking forward to association with Basil in Europe he had schooled himself beforehand as to the methods to pursue with respect to him. But these methods were not necessary. The Basil between whom and himself there was now regular intercourse, was a different Basil from the man he had known across the seas, easier to manage and grapple with. So far, so good, but it did not content Gilbert Bidaud. By no process of reasoning could he reconcile the opposing characteristics of the man he had to fear. Where Basil was straight Chaytor was crooked, where he was manly and independent Chaytor was shy and cringing. The physical likeness was sufficiently striking to deceive the world; the moral likeness could deceive very few, and certainly not for long an intellect like Gilbert Bidaud's. They had been intimate now many months, and Chaytor was regarded as one of the the family. Beneath the tests which Gilbert employed his character had gradually unfolded itself. He drank, he gambled, he dissipated, and in all his vices Gilbert led him on and fooled him to the top of his bent, the elder man becoming every day more convinced that there was here a mystery which it would be useful to himself to unfold. All he wanted was a starting point, and it was long before it presented itself; but it came at last.
The rift of light shone on a day when Gilbert Bidaud had taken it into his head to direct the conversation to the first time he and Basil had met. Chaytor and Gilbert were alone, and had just finished a match at piquet, which left the more experienced gamester of the two a winner of a couple of hundred pounds. Chaytor was in a vile temper; he was a bad loser, and Gilbert had won a considerable sum of him within the last few weeks. Had his brain been as evenly balanced as that of his antagonist he would have recognised in him a superior player, and would have declined to play longer with him for heavy stakes, but, unluckily for himself, he believed he was the equal of any man in games of skill, and the worst qualities of pride were aroused by his defeats.
"Curse your luck!" he cried.
"It will turn, it will turn," said Gilbert, complacently; "it cannot last with so good a player as yourself. If we had even cards I should have a poor chance with you."
He poured out brandy for Chaytor and claret for himself. Liquor was always handy when these two were together, and Gilbert never drank spirits. Chaytor emptied his glass, and Gilbert sipped at his and then directed the conversation to their first meeting on the plantation.
"You must remember it well," said Gilbert.
"Of course I do," said Chaytor, ungraciously, helping himself to more brandy. "One doesn't soon forget his dealings with Mr. Gilbert Bidaud."
"Yes, yes, I make myself remembered," said Gilbert, laughing with an affectation of good-humour. "For me, I have never forgotten that alligator. I can see it now, lying without motion among the reeds."
"What are you driving at?" exclaimed Chaytor, to whom, as it happened, Basil had never given any account of the details of this first meeting with Gilbert Bidaud. "If you want to humbug me you will have to get up earlier in the morning, my friend."
"Why, that is certain," said Gilbert, continuing to laugh, but with a strange thoughtfulness in his observance of Chaytor. "I was only recalling an incident that occurred on the morning I arrived on the plantation. We had tramped through the bush, my sister and I, my poor brother having urged us to hasten, and we arrived early in the morning, tired and dusty. Before us stretched a river, and, leaving my sister to rest beneath the wide-spread branches of a tree, I sought a secluded spot where I could bathe. I undressed and was about to plunge into the water, when I beheld lurking among the reeds a monstrous alligator. A workman on the plantation chancing to pass that way, ran down the bank and seized my arm, and pointing to the alligator, said, with reference to a remark I made about being ready for my breakfast, that instead of eating I might be eaten. It was kind of that workman to make the attempt to save me. If it had been you, friend Basil, you might not just then have been so anxious to deprive the monster of a savoury meal."
"It is pretty certain," acquiesced Chaytor, with a sneer, "that I should have left you to your fate."
"Now that is frank and honest," said Gilbert, "and what I like in you. Not for you the trouble of meaning one thing and saying another. It was not unlikely, however, that this kind workman, one of the labourers on the plantation, might have mentioned this incident of the alligator to you."
"Whether it was or wasn't, he didn't mention it. This is the first time I have heard the interesting story."
"Ah, itisinteresting, is it not? It was from this same obliging workman that I learnt many particulars of my brother's domestic affairs, of which I was ignorant, having been so long separated from him."
And then Gilbert Bidaud, with something more than a suspicion that he had his fingers on the pulse of the mystery which was perplexing him, recapitulated, as nearly as he could recall them, all the particulars of the conversation between Basil and himself on this occasion of their first meeting, with not one of which was Chaytor familiar. Chaytor, continuing to drink, listened contemptuously to this "small talk," as he termed it, and wanted to know why Gilbert Bidaud bored him with such stuff; but the old man continued, and finally wound up with an invented account of a meeting with Basil on the plantation, to which Chaytor, ignorant of what was true and what was false, willingly subscribed, and thus materially assisted in the deception that was being practised upon him. At length Gilbert Bidaud rose with the intention of taking his leave.
"And how goes matters," he asked, "with you and my niece? Does the course of true love still run smooth?"
"Never you mind," retorted Chaytor, "whether it does or doesn't. It isn't your affair."
"Perhaps not. You are not in a gracious humour, friend Basil. We will speak of it another time. Do not forget that I am Annette's guardian."
"Oh, no, I'll not forget. When she and I settle things I shall want some information from you."
"About----?" asked Gilbert, and paused.
"About her fortune. You see, up till now, my friend, you have had it all your own way."
"True, true. We will speak of it. Oh, yes, we will speak of it," adding inly, "and of other things as well, my mysterious friend."
The remaining portion of that day Gilbert Bidaud devoted himself to thought, the subject being the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. This, with him, was a distinct process; he had cultivated the art of marshalling facts and evidence, of weighing their relative value and their direct and indirect bearing upon the problem he was endeavouring to solve, and of imparting into it all the arguments which would naturally suggest themselves to an intellect so subtle and astute as his own. "Outside," thought Gilbert, "he is Basil, the man I knew; inside he is not Basil, the man I knew. The outside of a man may change, but it is against nature that his character should be twisted inside out--that it should turn from white to black, from black to white. In my estimate of Basil on my brother's plantation I was not mistaken; and that being so, this man and that man are not the same inwardly. How stands my niece in regard to him? She was all joy when he first joined us; it was nothing but Basil, Basil, Basil, like the magpie that the old woodcutter gave her. But her joy and gladness have not stood the test of time; my niece has grown sad. I have seen her watch Basil's face with grief in her own; I have seen her listen to his conversation with sadness and surprise in her eyes. She says nothing, she nurses her grief, and is the kind of woman that will sacrifice herself to an idea, to a passion she regards as sacred. Yes, this Basil is not the Basil she knew--and she knew him well and intimately, far better than I. That one was capable of noble deeds--though I hated him I will do him justice; this one is sordid, mean, debased, depraved. Fruit ripens and rots; not so men's hearts. Where there is sweetness it is never wholly lost; some trace of it remains, and so with frankness, generosity, and nobility. Has this Basil shown the least moral indication that he is the man we knew? Not one. All the better for me, perhaps. He will want some information from me respecting Annette's fortune, will he? I may want some information from him. He will dictate to me, will he? Take care, my friend, I may dictate to you."
The result of his cogitations was that he made a little experiment. For some time past a celebrated case of personation, in which the fortunes of an old family and estate were involved, had been the theme of conversation and speculation all the world over; and, curiously enough, the man who caused this excitement hailed from Australia. The trial had just commenced, and the newspapers were full of it. Armed with a bundle of papers, Gilbert Bidaud presented himself to Chaytor. Throwing them on the table, he said:
"Never have I been so interested, never has there been such a case before the public. How will it end? that is the question--how will it end? You and I, who are students of human nature, who can read character as we read books, even we must be puzzled and perplexed. Why, what have you there? As I live, you have been purchasing the same papers as myself."
It was true that there were English newspapers scattered about the room of the same dates as those Gilbert Bidaud had brought in with him, and that their appearance indicated that Chaytor had perused them.
"An Englishman may buy an English newspapers I suppose," said Chaytor, a little uneasily, "without its being considered in any way remarkable. What particular case are you referring to?"
"An Englishman, my dear friend," replied Gilbert, with exceeding urbanity, "may purchase every English newspaper there is for sale in the city if he is so inclined. This is the particular case to which I refer." He pointed to the columns upon columns of the reports of the case, taking up one paper after another and laying them all down carefully a-top of each other with the case in question uppermost, till he had gathered together every newspaper in the room, and had arranged them in one pile. While he was thus employed he did not fail to note that Chaytor's face had grown white, and that he was also watching Gilbert Bidaud in fear and secresy. Gilbert Bidaud laughed softly, as he said:
"Study this case, my dear friend. Watch its progress--consider it well. But perhaps it is not necessary for one so deep, so clever as yourself. You have already made up your mind how it will end. Make me as wise as yourself, friend of my soul."
He laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm, and gazed steadily into the traitor's eyes, which wavered in the observance.
"How should I know," exclaimed Chaytor, shaking off Gilbert's hand, "how it will end?"
"Nay, my dear friend," said Gilbert, and once more he laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm, "do not shake me off so rudely. You and I are friends, are we not? We can serve each other; I may be useful to you--yes, yes, very, very useful."
He was one who placed a high value upon small tests, and he had laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm the second time with a deliberate and distinct purpose. If the man before him was really and truly Basil, he could not possibly misunderstand the covert threat which the action and the tone in which he spoke conveyed. Having nothing to fear, he would show resentment, indignation, and would release himself immediately from Gilbert's grasp. Newman Chaytor did nothing of the kind; inwardly shaking with mortal dread, he allowed Gilbert's hand to remain, and for a few moments neither of the men spoke. During this brief silence Gilbert knew that the game was his, and that he had nothing to fear from Chaytor's threat concerning the management of Annette's fortune. He was too wise to push his advantage. With a light laugh, he threw the pile of newspapers into a corner of the room, and said:
"What matter to us how the case ends? If it is against him, he is a fool; if it is for him, he deserves to win; in either case whether he be or be not the man, we will not discuss it. Our own affairs are for us sufficient. Is it not so?"
"Yes," replied Chaytor sullenly. He would not have answered had not Gilbert looked up at him and compelled him to speak.
"I love the daring deed," continued Gilbert; "my soul responds to him who conceives and carries it out, and if there is danger in the execution it is to me all the grander. I have myself been daring in my time, and had I not been successful rue would have been my portion. You and I, my dear friend, have in our nature some resemblance; we view life and human matters with the eye of a philosopher. Life is short--ah! I envy you; your feet have scarcely passed the threshold; I am far on the way. For you the summer, for me the winter. Well, well, there are some years before me yet, and I will exercise our philosophy by enjoying them. I look to myself; let other men do the same. Nature says aloud, 'Enjoy the sunshine.' I obey nature. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy--that is the true teaching; and you, dear friend, are of my opinion. Let this proclaim that we are comrades." He held out his hand, which Chaytor felt restrained to take. "That is well; it is safer so. And attend. I pry not into your secrets, and you will not pry into mine. Of our cupboards with their skeletons we will each keep our key. What I choose to reveal I reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step."
He had not uttered a compromising word, but Chaytor understood him thoroughly. How much, or how little, he knew, Chaytor could not say, but that he could be a most dangerous enemy was clear. He was not a man from whom one could escape easily, and, even if he were, Chaytor was not in the humour to make the attempt. The impression which Annette's grace and beauty had made upon him was so strong that he could not endure the idea of leaving her. The relations between them had not been those of lovers: they had been of an affectionate nature, but no words binding them to each other had passed between them. Gilbert Bidaud was correct in his observation of her. Joyous and bright at first, she had grown sad and quiet. A shadow had fallen upon the ideal she had worshipped; and yet she did not dare to blame the Basil who had reigned in her heart pure and undefiled. Was he still so? She would not answer the question; when it presented itself she refused to listen. With a sad shake of her head she strove to deaden her senses against the still small voice which ever and again intruded the torturing doubt, but she could not dismiss it entirely. Basil she loved, Basil she would always love; was it not treason to love to admit the whispered doubt that he was changed? She argued sometimes that the change was in her, and wondered whether he observed in her what she observed in him. She asked him once:
"Am I changed, Basil!"
"You are more beautiful and charming than ever, Annette."
They had had a little conversation, in which Gilbert Bidaud took part, as to calling each other by their Christian names, and Gilbert had settled the question.
"It is too cold," he said, "this Miss Bidaud, this Mr. Whittingham. You proclaim yourself strangers. Let it be as it was, as it always shall be, Basil and Annette. Always, always, Basil and Annette. Children, be happy."
It was as though he had given them a fatherly benediction. From the day of the last recorded interview between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor, the intimacy between them grew still closer. Gilbert managed that, and also so contrived matters that, without any open declaration being made, no one could doubt that Chaytor and Annette were unavowed lovers. Gilbert had decided that it would be best and safest for him that they should marry. He had Chaytor in his power, and could make a bargain with him which would ensure him ease and comfort for his remaining years. With another man it would not be so easy; he would have to render an account of his stewardship, and in this there was distinct danger. He was very curious to arrive at the real truth respecting Chaytor, and despite his assurance that he would not pry into Chaytor's secret, he was continually on the watch for something that would help to reveal it to him. Chaytor, however, was on his guard, and Gilbert learnt nothing further.
"Next week," he said to Chaytor, "we go to Villa Bidaud. The summer is waning, and the climate there is warm and agreeable. You accompany us?"
"Where Annette goes I go," said Chaytor.
"Yet," said Gilbert, with a certain wary thoughtfulness, "matters should be more definitely arranged before you become absolutely one of our family circle. I have spoken of this before. You are neither brother nor cousin--what really would you be to her?"
"You know what I would really be."
"I know, but at present it is locked in a box. If you tarry too long you will lose her. I perceive that that would be a blow; and well it might be, for she is a prize a king would be proud to win. Shall we decide it this evening?" Chaytor nodded. "Join us at nine o'clock, and we will settle the matter. It may be advisable that I speak first to Annette. She may need management. I will give you a word of warning. If it goes according to your wish, be more careful in your behaviour. Think a little less of yourself, a little more of her. Be tender, considerate, thoughtful, for a time at least, until you are secure of her. Then it is your affair and hers, and I shall have nought to do with either of you."
"I will take care of that," thought Chaytor, and said aloud, "You think I need your warning?"
"I know you need it. You have either small regard for women, or you are clumsy in your management of them. Before I leave you now, I wish you to sign this paper."
It was a document, carefully worded, which Gilbert Bidaud had drawn out, by which Chaytor bound himself to make no demand upon Annette's guardian for any money or property, which had fallen to Annette upon her father's death. It was in fact, a renunciation of all claims in the present or the future.
"Why should I sign this?" asked Chaytor rebelliously.
"Because it is my wish," replied Gilbert.
"If I refuse?"
"In the first place, you will lose Annette. In the second place, something worse than that will happen to you."
"Through you?"
"Through me. I have a touch of the bloodhound in me. Take heed. Only in alliance with me are you safe."
It was a bold hazard, but it succeeded. Without another word, Chaytor signed the paper.
"Basil Whittingham," said Gilbert Bidaud, examining the signature, and uttering the name with significant emphasis. "Good."
That evening the engagement between Annette and Chaytor was ratified in the presence of Gilbert Bidaud and his sister. The old man had a long conversation with his niece before Chaytor made his appearance. He told her that Basil had formally proposed for her hand, and that knowing her heart was already given to the young man, he had accorded his consent to their union. He spoke in great praise of Basil's character, and skilfully alluded to certain matters which he knew Annette was grieving over.
"You have observed a change in Basil," he said, "so have I; but you, my dear niece, are partly responsible for it. The truth is, Basil was fearful of the manner in which you would receive his declaration. He loves you with so deep and profound a love, and he sets so high a value upon you, that he hardly dared to hope. The uncertainty of his position has made him forget himself; he has committed excesses; he has behaved as if he were not Basil, but another man. You, my dear child, with your simple heart, are ignorant of the vagaries which love's fever, and the fear of disappointment, play in a man's nature. They transform him, and only when his heart is at ease, and he is satisfied that his love is returned, does his better, his higher self return. But for this fear Basil would perhaps have unfolded his heart to you without any intervention, though he has behaved like an honourable man in speaking first to me. You will be very, very happy, my child. I bless you."
Only too ready was Annette to accept this explanation. Implicitly believing in it, and not for one moment suspecting guile or duplicity, she felt her faith and her best hopes restored. When Chaytor came to her, he was for awhile humbled by her sweetness and modesty, and what deficiencies there were in him Annette supplied them out of her faith and trust.
"There is a little formality," said Gilbert Bidaud, intruding upon the lovers. "It is a custom in our family to sign a preliminary marriage contract. Affix your signatures here--you, Basil Whittingham, you, Annette Bidaud. It is well. Before the year is out, we will have a wedding."
Within a week they were in Switzerland, settled in the Villa Bidaud.