So many conflicting emotions had been pressed into the last few minutes that Basil was utterly bewildered. The cold, sardonic face before him, wreathed into mocking smiles even in the presence of death, added to his bewilderment. He passed his hand across his eyes, wondering whether he was dreaming, but removing his hand from his forehead he saw the dead form of Anthony Bidaud on the sofa, and heard the light laugh of the man who called himself Anthony's brother. This laugh recalled him to himself; he was in full possession of his senses, and understood what had occurred, and to some extent what it portended.
Gilbert Bidaud! And the woman with him was not his wife, but his sister, to whom Annette's father had written six months ago, imploring her to come to him, and promising to provide for her and her family. That being so, she was here by authority. She was but an instrument in the hands of Gilbert Bidaud, whose lightest word she was constrained to obey.
Gilbert Bidaud!
"It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, but it is the truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in not placing her affections upon him. He would have broken her heart. He was a spendthrift and a libertine, and would stop at little for the gratification of his selfish pleasures."
It was but last evening that these words were spoken by lips that would never speak again, and now this spendthrift and libertine was within touch of him, was standing with a smiling face by the dead body of the brother he would have wronged. There came to Basil's mind the image of Annette, the sweet confiding girl, who was to have been given into his care to guard and protect. All that was over now. Inexorable death had stopped the fulfilment of the fond father's wish. And Annette herself, how would it fare with her? She was ignorant as yet of the crushing, terrible blow which had so suddenly fallen upon her. Who would impart the cruel news to her? Who would comfort her in her bereavement? Even as these reflections crossed his mind he heard the young girl's voice singing outside as she tripped downstairs from her bedroom. He glided to the door, and softly turned the key. Just in time. Annette lingered at the door, tried the handle gently with the intention of kissing her father good-morning, and, finding the door fast, passed on gaily and continued her song.
"That is Annette?" questioned Gilbert Bidaud. Basil nodded. "A sweet voice, the voice of a child, whose nature is not yet moulded. We will mould it, my sister and I. We will instil into her virgin soul, principles. She will be grateful that we have come, being of her blood. I have a number of your English sayings at my fingers' ends. Blood is thicker than water. I represent the one, you the other. She is not a woman--yet. The mind of a child is like a slate! fancies, likings, are easily rubbed off. It is more serious when we grow older. The child forgets, the woman remembers. Do you catch my meaning?"
"I should be sorry to say I did," replied Basil.
"Ah, you would pay me a compliment, gilding me with virtues to which I do not aspire, to which I have never aspired. I am a plain man, I; honest to the backbone; with my heart on my sieve, transparent. It has not paid up to this time, but my hour has come. Why did you lock the door?"
"Does not that answer you?" pointing to the dead body of Annette's father.
"Ah, she does not know. You are considerate, you." A strange smile came to his lips as he added, "No one knows but you and I."
Basil stepped to the table. Perhaps the letter which Anthony Bidaud intended to write to his lawyer was there; it might contain something by which he could be guided at this dread crisis. But the sheet of paper which Anthony Bidaud had taken from the open desk displayed only the mark of a scrawl at the top. The pen, with the ink scarcely dried in it, lay upon the table. Evidently at the very moment that Anthony Bidaud had put pen to paper he was visited by the death-stroke. The pen had dropped from his fingers, and he had fallen back lifeless in his chair. There was, however, an addressed envelope, and Basil noted the name and the direction, which were those of the lawyer whom Anthony Bidaud intended to summon to the plantation.
Gilbert Bidaud had followed his movements attentively, and now, when Basil looked up from the table, he repeated the last words he had uttered.
"No one knows but you and I."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Basil.
"What I mean," said Bidaud, touching his forehead with a finger, "I keep here for the present. It is sometimes dangerous to explain meanings too soon. Take heed. When I came to this colony--but a short time since--I was inwardly warned that I might meet with men from whom it would be necessary to protect myself. Therefore I purchased this"--producing a revolver--"and this"--producing a knife--"only to be used in self-defence, against you, against any man."
There was nothing menacing in his tone. He spoke, indeed, rather playfully than otherwise, and handled the revolver and knife as though they were toys instead of dangerous weapons. A wild thought crossed Basil's mind, and he acted upon it instantly.
"You say you are Gilbert Bidaud, brother of this unfortunate gentleman, but I have only your word for it."
"Ah, ah," said Gilbert Bidaud, with an air of great amusement, "you have only my word for it. But what kind of authority do you hold here that you should demand answers to questions upon this or any other subject?"
Basil could not answer this direct challenge; he inwardly recognised the weakness of his position; Anthony Bidaud dead, he was but a cipher on his estate.
"You are as a feather to a rock," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a gesture of contempt, "and I am but amusing myself with you. I stand quietly here for a reason I may presently explain. This house has lost a master." He glanced at his dead brother. "This house has gained a master." He touched his breast triumphantly. "It is but a change, a law of nature. My brother and I have not met for twenty years. He had a good motive for avoiding me; he fled from Switzerland with money of mine, and now, through death, he is compelled to make restitution."
"It is false," cried Basil, chivalrously defending the friend he had lost. "If you are Gilbert Bidaud it was you who attempted to rob him of his inheritance."
"Ah, ah. Did my estimable brother open his heart entirely to you?"
"Sufficiently to reveal your true character--even to the last words you spoke to him before he left Switzerland."
"Favour me with them. It may be excused if I do not faithfully recall them at this distance of time."
"'One day,' you said to him 'I will be even with you. Remember my words--dead or alive, I will be even with you."
"I remember. My words were prophetic. Fate was on my side, justice was on my side. They whispered to me, 'Wait.' I waited. And now--look there! So, so, my ingenious young friend; you know the whole story."
"It was related to me by your brother."
"By this lump of clay! It would be the act of a fool to deal tenderly by you; and I, as you may have already learned, am no fool. How came my brother by his death?"
"How came he by his death?" stammered Basil, puzzled by the question, and not seeing the drift of it.
"Ay, how came he by his death? I am not so ignorant as you suppose. I have made inquiries about you; there are men on this estate who bear you no good will. You are here, not as a guest, but an interloper. You and my brother were strangers a few short weeks ago, and you forced yourself upon him and lived here, a beggar, eating his food, drinking his wine, and paying for them neither in service nor money. That is a creditable part to be played by one who calls himself an English gentleman. Summoned here by M. Anthony Bidaud--I have in my pocket the letter he wrote to our sister--I hasten on the wings of love, tarrying not on the road, but wearing myself near to death in order that I may satisfy his longing desire to embrace me. I meet you by accident on the river's bank, and I perceive that you regard yourself as master here. The river is yours, the land is yours, my brother is yours, his daughter Annette is yours--ah, you wince at that. All this you proclaim in your lordly way, and patronise me--me, whose rightful place you would have usurped. Before meeting you pass my sister, resting in her labour of love, and you offer her charity--you, a beggar, pass this insult upon a lady who, under my direction, will educate my dear brother's little daughter, and teach her--principles. You leave me by the river; I, guileless, unsuspicious, a child in innocence, calmly take my bath, and reflect with delight upon the joy of my brother when he takes me to his arms. Walking to this house, I meet a labourer, whose name is Rocke. He tells me something of you; he directs me to my brother's private room. I open the door; I see you standing by my brother's side. You are in a state of fear and agitation; your face is white, your limbs tremble. I hear you ask the question, 'Can this be death?' To whom or to what do you address this enquiry? To your conscience, for you believe yourself to be alone; you are unconscious that I am present 'Can this be death?' I convince myself, and you. Itisdeath. I am deprived of the opportunity of saying to my brother that I forgive him for the wrong he did me in the past. It is most cruel, and you have robbed me of the opportunity; but, before I forget it, I will chance the efficacy of my forgiveness, though he be dead." With a mock humility shocking to witness, he extended his hands, and, looking upwards, said, "Brother, I forgive you. I return to my argument. What passed between you and my brother before I entered this room? Again I ask, how came he by his death! If it is not a natural end, who is the murderer?"
In hot indignation Basil started forward, but by a great effort of will restrained himself. He had been appalled by the careless mocking tone in which Gilbert Bidaud had spoken, by his false assumption of a grief he did not feel, by the evident enjoyment he derived from the glaring insincerity of his professions. For no two things could be more distinctly at variance than Gilbert Bidaud's words and the tone in which he uttered them. It exhibited a refinement of malice, and, what rendered it more revolting, of malice in which the intellectual quality was conspicuous.
"It is well," continued Gilbert Bidaud, "that you exercise self-control. I might call aloud for help; I might, in less time than it takes me to speak it, create in this room the evidences of a struggle, in the course of which I might fire my revolver, produced for self-defence; I might inform those who would break the door down--it is locked by you, remember--that you attempted to murder me, even as you-- Ah, I perceive you understand. Yes, all this I might do, and you would be in the toils. Do not move until I have done with you, or you will be in deadly danger. In such parts of the world as this, exasperated men often proceed hastily to summary justice, and it might be executed upon you. I am teaching you lessons, as I shall teach my dear niece Annette, principles. You are young; I, alas, am old. I have nothing to learn; you have much. Tell me, you hanger-on in this house, you beggar of my brother's hospitality, what passed between you and him before I entered this room?"
"Nothing," replied Basil, confounded by the possibilities of a ruthless malice with which Gilbert Bidaud had threatened him. "I have already informed you that when I entered the room he was dead."
"What brought you here?"
"I came by appointment," said Basil. He no longer doubted that the man before him was Anthony Bidaud's brother; and he was surprised that he had not detected the resemblance upon his first meeting with Gilbert.
"What was the nature of the appointment?"
"He wished me to read a letter he intended to write to his lawyer."
"Ah, ah! He intended to write to his lawyer. May I ask this lawyer's name?"
"It is there upon an envelope."
"His place of residence?"
"Sydney, I believe."
"A long way off. The letter was to have been written this morning?"
"Yes. He at first intended to write it last night, but he put it off till to-day. The postponement was most unfortunate."
"To you?"
"To me."
"I should have urged him to carry out his intention last night, as he designed."
"Ah!Aprés dommage chacun est sage--except the dead. Why should you have urged him?"
"It would have been to my interests--and his, I fear."
"Leave his out of the question; he has done with the world. Yours is another matter. How could a simple letter to a lawyer have been in your interests? A letter is not a legal document." His preternatural sharpness as he made this remark was a revelation to an honest nature like Basil's. There seemed to be no limit to Gilbert Bidaud's cunning.
"At least it would have explained matters, and cleared me from your suspicions."
"Words are easily spoken, and weigh no more than air. To what effect was to have been this letter?"
"He desired to make his will."
Gilbert Bidaud drew a deep breath of satisfaction; he had elicited something tangible, something which had wonderfully strengthened his position. "Then there is no will, and the letter, which would have been valueless, was not written. Your expression of regret leads me to infer that the will was to have been in your favour."
"To a certain extent."
"False. He intended to repair the injustice from which I have so long suffered; his property would have been divided between me and the little Annette. It is too late for him to do that now; but I stand as natural guardian to my niece. I am truly the master here; the law will declare me so. Console yourself. You shall depart from this house a free man. You are not in danger. Bear witness to my magnanimity; my brother died a natural death. I will testify it, to save you."
"That will not do," said Basil. "From what cause he died shall be proved by proper evidence."
"It shall. I, a doctor, will supply it."
"I reject your proof; you are an interested party. It shall be independent evidence that shall establish the cause of death."
"So be it, young Daniel," said Gilbert Bidaud, briskly. "Meanwhile, I release you from suspicion; I, the gentleman you have insulted, believe you to be innocent. I go to seek my niece, to introduce myself to her, and to break to her the sad, the melancholy news. But before I go I give you notice of your discharge. For one week from this day you shall enjoy my hospitality, but for no longer, for not an hour longer. Accept it, beggar, or leave at once."
He paused at the door, opened it, removed the key to the outside, and with a contemptuous motion, ordered Basil to quit the room. The young man had no choice but to obey. Whatever might be Gilbert Bidaud's character, he stood in the house as legal representative of the dead. Annette was but a child, and her uncle was her lawful guardian. Grieved, sorrow-stricken, and humiliated, Basil left the room, and heard Gilbert Bidaud turn the key.
What should he do now, how should he act? To accept Gilbert Bidaud's hospitality was impossible. The old man was his bitter enemy, and would show him no consideration. Indeed, what consideration could he expect? There was no denying that he had no right to remain on the estate, but he felt he could not leave it for ever without seeing Annette once more, without speaking to her perhaps for the last time. Nor could be well take his final departure without making an attempt to clear himself from the foul suspicions which, in his absence, he felt convinced Gilbert Bidaud would set in circulation against him. He had led a spotless life, and the thought that a stain should now be cast upon it was unbearable. But what means could he take to clear himself from the breath of slander? He could think of no way at present, and he walked into the open with a heavy weight of melancholy at his heart.
He wandered into the woods and gathered some fruit; he had a vigorous appetite, and it would be a folly to starve himself. But the food of which he partook had never tasted less sweet than on this sad morning. His hunger appeased, he returned to the vicinity of the house.
He heard a cry of distress in the distance, and saw men and women hurrying to the spot from which the cry proceeded. The voice was Annette's.
Presently he saw the men and women coming towards the house. They were headed by Gilbert Bidaud and his sister, and one of the men--before the group came close to him he saw that it was Rocke--was carrying in his arms the insensible form of Annette. Impelled by love and infinite compassion for the child, he started forward, but was haughtily waved off by Gilbert Bidaud.
"That man," said Gilbert to those in his rear, "has my permission to remain on this estate for one week. When that time has expired he will be a trespasser."
As he finished speaking Annette opened her eyes--they fell upon Basil.
"Basil, Basil!" she cried, extending her arms to him.
"Annette!"
Once more he attempted to go to her; once more Gilbert Bidaud waved him off, and stepped before him.
"If he touches her, if he follows her, arrest him. I give you authority."
Basil fell back. Annette's mournful eyes were fixed upon his face in dumb despair.
"Hurry in--hurry in," said Gilbert Bidaud in a harsh tone.
They passed into the house, and Basil was left alone. It was a favourite trick of his to put his thoughts into unspoken words; he had encouraged the habit, finding it led to clearness and generally, when he was in doubt, to some definite issue. In his disturbed mood he found this a suitable time for this mental indulgence. Something should be done, clearly; but what?
"Poor Annette!" he thought. "Poor child! What will now become of her? What will be her future? That brute--he is no less--who boasts so sardonically that he intends to teach her principles, will poison her mind against me. If I do not see her again she will grow to hate me. It is dreadful to think of. She has none but kind thoughts of me now; and though in a short time we may be parted for ever, and all chance of ever seeing her again will be lost, I should dearly like to feel that if she thinks of me in the future it will be with gentleness and affection. I have done nothing to forfeit her affection, except that I am unfortunate.
"My bright dreams are suddenly snapped. A few short hours have changed happiness to woe. Still--still I have committed no wrong. Of that I am sure, and it is a comfort--but poor Annette! If I could assure her that I am not to blame, I could bear it. She would believe me, and I could go on my way with a less sorrowful heart.
"That brute will try his hardest to prevent my seeing her. The blow that has fallen upon her may prostrate her. She may die--it is horrible, horrible! If that should happen, Gilbert Bidaud will come into possession of everything. Is that the end to which he will work? He is capable of it, capable of any villainy. Can I do nothing to save her?
"I am powerless. I have no claim upon her; I have no right to be here. But I will not go away without seeing, without speaking to her. If he takes her from this place, which is likely enough, I will follow them. She must not, she must not be left to the tender mercies of that jackal.
"All very fine to talk, Basil. You will follow them? Why, man, you must live. It is a necessity. And to live you must work. How much money have you in your pocket to commence the fight of existence with?--to say nothing of the grand things you are going to do for sweet Annette.
"She has got hold of my heart-strings. I shall never, never forget her. Certain words spoken by my dear friend, Anthony Bidaud, last night, come to my mind. Let me recall them, exactly as he spoke them.
"'We are drawn to each other,' he said. And before that: 'By accident you enter into our lives. I use the term accident, but I believe it to be a providence.' How if it should be so? The shadow of death was hanging over him, and at such times some men have been gifted with prophetic insight. If it were so with Anthony Bidaud, this is not the end. The thought I have expressed, the very word 'insight' I have used, were his. 'I have observed you closely,' he said, 'and am satisfied to deliver into your hands a sacred charge, the charge of a young girl's future. At such moments as these there comes to some men a subtle, unfathomable insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe that there is a link between you and my child, which, if you do not recognise it now, you will be bound to recognise in the future. It may be broken in the present, but the threads will be joined as surely as we stand here side by side.'"
"With all my heart I hope so, but it is the wildest, the most unreasonable of hopes.
"Can nothing, nothing be done?
"He said he had made no will; but he may have left papers expressing his wishes. How to get a sight of them? If I had sufficient means to take me to Sydney I would hasten there, to Anthony Bidaud's lawyer, and lay the case before him. But my purse is empty. I have, however, something about me of value. My gold watch and chain, given to me by my dear father. That is worth a certain sum, but it would not carry me to Sydney. It would carry me, however, to Gum Flat, where perhaps I can find a lawyer who will advise her. In the saddle I could reach there to-night, and be back to-morrow. Where can I obtain a horse? I dare not take one from the plantation. Gilbert Bidaud would accuse me of theft, and he would be within his right. Ah! Old Corrie!"
Here he stopped. His unspoken thoughts had led him to a definite issue.
Gum Flat was the name of the nearest township, if township it could be called. In the Australian colonies they delight in singular names for places. Old Corrie was a man who, by permission of Anthony Bidaud, occupied a hut which he had built with his own hands on the plantation, some two miles from the spot upon which Basil at that moment stood. He was not employed on the estate, but did odd jobs in wood splitting and the felling of trees for the master of the plantation. The man had "taken" to Basil, as the saying is, and in his odd way had shown a liking for the young man, who always had a pleasant word for any agreeable person he chanced to fall across.
Old Corrie was not an old man, his age being about forty, but he was dubbed Old Corrie because he was angular, because he was crooked, because he had a mouth all awry, because he chose to keep himself from his fellows. He owned a horse, and it occurred to Basil that he might lend it to him for the journey to Gum Flat, which was distant some forty-five miles. To Old Corrie's hut, therefore, Basil betook himself, stepping out with a will.
In less than half-an-hour he reached the old fellow's dwelling. Old Corrie was not at home, but Basil heard the sound of his axe in the woods. It was not very near, but men's ears get trained to fine sounds in the bush. Guided by the thud of the axe Basil in a short time found himself face to face with the woodman.
Old Corrie went on with his work, merely glancing up and giving Basil a friendly nod. From another living creature Basil received a more boisterous greeting, a laughing jackass which Old Corrie had tamed bursting into an outrageous fit of laughter without the least apparent cause. This bird, which is sometimes called the bushman's clock, was an uncouth-looking object, as big as a crow, of a rich chestnut-brown colour with light-blue wings; its beak was long and pointed, and its mouth inordinately large. These characteristics, in alliance with a formidable crest, invested it with a ferocious air; but this particular specimen was exceedingly gentle despite the extravagant sounds it emitted, which might have been excruciatingly prolonged had not its sharp eye caught sight of a carpet snake wriggling through the underwood. Down darted the laughing jackass, and commenced a battle with the snake which terminated in the bird throwing the dead body of the reptile into the air, with a series of triumphant chuckles; after which it sat silent on a branch, contemplating the dead snake with an air partly comical, partly profound, and waiting in grim patience for a movement on the part of its victim which would furnish an excuse for a renewal of hostilities.
Basil had time to note all this, for Old Corrie did not speak, and the young man was debating how to commence.
"Well, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, presently, throwing down his axe and taking out his pipe, a common short clay which he would not have exchanged for thrice its weight in gold, "what brings you this way? Any message from Mr. Bidaud?"
"No, Corrie," replied Basil sadly, "you will receive no more messages from him."
"I was thinking myself," said Corrie, glancing at Basil; and not immediately recognising the gravity of the reply, "that there mightn't be any more."
"What made you think that?" asked Basil, in doubt whether the man knew of Anthony Bidaud's death.
"I'm down with the fever, Master Basil."
"I am sorry to hear that, Corrie," said Basil in surprise, for Old Corrie was the picture of health and strength. "Can I do anything for you?"
"No, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, with a smile and a kindly look at Basil. "The fever I'm down with ain't the kind of fever that's in your mind. It's the gold fever I'm down with."
"Oh," said Basil, "I understand."
"The wonder is that I've never been down with it before. If I don't strike a rich claim or find a big nugget or two, I can always come back to this."
"Have you heard any news, then?"
"Well, two men camped out here last night, and we had a talk. I gave 'em some tea, and their tongues got loosened a bit. There's a new goldfield discovered somewhere in the north, and they're after it. A regular Tom Tiddler's ground, Mr. Basil, only it's all gold and no silver. Twenty ounces to the tub."
"And you're off?"
"When I've finished this job for Mr. Bidaud."
"How long will that take you?"
"About three weeks."
"Is it a contract job?"
"Yes."
"Signed on paper?"
"No, we never had need of that. Mr. Bidaud's word is as good as his bond; so's mine."
"I would not go on with it, Corrie, if I were you, till I made sure."
"Why?"
"Because the gentleman who made the contract with you by word of mouth is dead."
"Dead!"
"Died this morning, suddenly, I grieve to say."
Old Corrie took his pipe from his mouth, and sent a look of reproach in the direction of the laughing jackass, from whose throat proceeded a faint gurgle of laughter. At this look the quaint bird--as odd a specimen of the feathered tribes as Old Corrie was of the human race--checked--its mirth, and cocking its head knowingly on one side, inquired with its speaking eye what was the matter.
"That's bad news, Master Basil."
"The worst of news, Corrie."
"Died suddenly?"
"Quite suddenly. It is a great shock."
"What's to become of the little lady?" asked Old Corrie, in a sympathising tone. The inquiry was addressed as much to himself as to Basil.
"That is one of the things that are troubling me, Corrie. You are a favourite of hers."
"I've seen her grow up, and remember her mother well. I've cause. Once when I was down with the colonial fever--almost as bad as the gold fever, Master Basil--Mrs. Bidaud as good as nursed me through it, coming or sending every day for two months and more, till I got strong. When I was well I went up to the house to thank her. The little lady was just toddling about, and made friends with me. I shall never forget Mrs. Bidaud; I went to her funeral. You stopped at my hut before you came here, I expect."
"Yes; I thought you might be there."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Only the sound of your axe in the woods."
"I mean inside the hut. There's a magpie there that's got the sense of a human being and a voice like a flute. I only got it a fortnight ago, and I've tamed it already, surprising. Back as white as snow, Master Basil, and breast and wings shining like black satin. A handsome bird, and quite young. It says 'Little lady; Little lady!' and 'Miss Annette!' in a way that'll astonish you. I'm doing it for the little lady herself, and I'm glad I began it because I'm going away."
"It will please her greatly, Corrie, if she is allowed to accept it."
"What's to prevent her? Poor little lady! First her mother, then her father. I thought there was trouble in your face when I saw it. Would you mind explaining, Master Basil, about this wood-splitting contract of mine? Why shouldn't I finish it till I made sure."
Then Basil told of the arrival of the dead man's brother and sister, and was not delicate in expressing his opinion of Gilbert Bidaud.
"You're not the sort of man," said Old Corrie thoughtfully, "to speak, ill behind another's back without good reason. Little lady's uncle must be a bad lot. A man and a woman, you say, foreign looking. They must be the pair that passed my hut early this morning when I was getting up. They didn't stop; she wanted to, I think, but he wouldn't let her. 'Curse you!' I heard him say, 'What are you lagging for? Put life into your miserable limbs; we haven't got far to go.' It seemed to me as if he laid hands on her to drag her along. I came out of the hut, and saw them ahead, the woman walking as if she was dead beat, and the man lugging her on. They never turned to look behind, and I watched till they were out of sight. I'm sorry for the little lady. I'll go up to the house to-day, and judge for myself."
"You may hear something against me, Corrie. Don't believe it."
"I won't, without reason. I make up my mind slow, Master Basil. Perhaps you've got something more to tell me. It won't be thrown away."
Wishing to stand well with Old Corrie, Basil became more communicative, and put the woodman in possession, of the particulars of what had passed between himself and Anthony Bidaud on the previous evening, and also of his interviews with Anthony's brother.
"It looks black," said Old Corrie. "It's a pity you didn't leave him to the alligator. And now, Master Basil, you've something else in your mind. Out with it."
"I came to ask you to do me a great service."
"Give it mouth."
"It may be that poor Annette's father has left some papers with respect to her future which the law might declare valid. If that is so, and her uncle finds them, he will destroy them; it may be to his interest to do so, and in that case he will allow no considerations of right and wrong to stand in his way. The presence of a lawyer may prevent this. Then there is the slanderous talk he is sure to set going against me; I want to clear myself of it. The precise cause of Anthony Bidaud's death should be ascertained and declared by a competent and disinterested person, and I thought of going to Gum Flat and enlisting the services of a lawyer and a doctor, whom I would bring back with me."
"It would be a proper thing to do," said Corrie.
"But I am in a difficulty. I could walk the distance, but I could not get there till to-morrow. Coming and going, four days at least would be wasted, and in that time Annette's uncle could work his own ends without interruption. Now, if I had a horse I could get there this evening, and back to-morrow."
"You want me to lend you my mare?"
"That is what I came to ask you."
"You can have her; she's a willing creature, and 'll go till she drops."
"It is kind of you, Corrie."
"Not at all. I do it a little bit for your sake, but a good deal more for the sake of the little lady."
"You run a risk, Corrie. My story may not be true; I may never come back."
"I'll take security, then."
"I have no money. The only thing I possess of value is this watch and chain."
"I won't take that; you may need it to pay the lawyer and the doctor with. Besides that isn't the security I mean. I'll take your word."
"You're a real good fellow, Corrie. Some day I may be able to repay you."
"If I had any idea of looking out for that day I shouldn't do what I'm doing. Look here, Master Basil. I know a gentleman when I see one; and you're a gentleman. I believe every word you've told me. This fellow that's turned up, the little lady's uncle, is a scoundrel, or he wouldn't have spoken the words I heard to a woman nearly dead with fatigue--his own sister, too. Come along; let's saddle the mare."
Before that was done, however, Old Corrie insisted that Basil should eat a hearty meal and see the magpie he was training for Annette. Then Basil mounted the willing mare, and with a grip of the hand and a hearty "Good luck, mate," from Old Corrie, the young man started for Gum Flat.
It was three months since Basil had passed through the conglomeration of canvas tents and stores which rejoiced in a title which certainly could not be called euphonious, and then, although those were its most prosperous days, it struck him as being a wretched hole. Rumours of rich finds of gold had originally attracted a population to Gum Flat township, but the glowing anticipations of the gold diggers who flocked to the false El Dorado were doomed to disappointment. It was not a gold-diggers' but a storekeepers' rush, and the result was a foregone conclusion; after a time the miners who had flocked thither began to desert the place. Not, however, before they gave it a fair trial. They marked out claims, they prospected the hills and gullies, they turned the waters of a large creek, they sank shafts in many a likely-looking spot, they followed spurs of stones on the ranges in the hope that they would lead them to a rich quartz reef, but their labours were unrewarded. A couple of specks to the dish and the faintest traces of gold in the quartz were not sufficient to pay for powder and tobacco, and the men gradually began to leave the uninviting locality. A few remained, but not to dig for gold; these were chiefly loafers, and lived on each other, playing billiards during the day on the one billiard table that had been left behind, and cards during the nights, for fabulous and visionary sums of money which, really lost and won, would have transformed beggars into millionaires and millionaires into beggars. The poorer they grew the larger the stakes they played for, and their delusions created for their delectation the most delicious paroxysms of infinite joy and overwhelming despair. These they enjoyed to the full, reckoning up their losses and gains with wild eyes and radiant countenances. One beggarly loafer, who for the last five years had not had five pounds to bless himself with, went to the creek one dark night after a visionary loss of a hundred thousand pounds or so, and insisted upon drowning himself. It required a vast amount of insistence on his part, for the creek just then was not more than three feet deep. Anyway, he was found dead the next morning, with a letter in his pocket to the effect that he was financially ruined and could not survive the disgrace; whereupon his principal creditor, who, in the matter of finances, was no better off than the drowned man, perambulated High Street in a state of fury, fiercely denouncing his debtor who had not the courage to live and pay his debts of honour.
Some means of subsistence, however inadequate, Gum Flat must have had; these were found in the persons of a half-a-dozen drivers of bullock drays, who every two weeks brought their earnings there and spent them royally. This process lasted on each occasion exactly three days, during which time the population, numbering in all not more than thirty souls, were in clover. When the bullock drivers returned to their avocations the loafers declared that the colonies were going to the dogs, and resumed the routine of their dismal days, gambling, drinking, quarrelling, until the six solvent men returned again to gladden their hearts.
Even this miserable state of affairs came to an end after a time, and reached a more deplorable stage. The bullock drivers discovered more agreeable quarters, and in their turn deserted the township. Driven by sheer necessity the loafers, one by one, followed their example, and slunk from the place, until only four remained. Such was the condition of Gum Flat as Basil rode towards the township on a day eventful enough in the story of his life, but scarcely less eventful than the night which followed it was destined to be. Had he been aware of this he would have thought twice before he made up his mind to proceed thither in search of lawyer and doctor; but such is the irony of circumstances that, had he not set forth on his present journey, the entire course of his future life would have drifted into channels which would, almost to a certainty, have separated him from Annette for ever. Accident or fate, which you will; but the course of many lives is thus determined.
He rode all day through the tracks he remembered, and concerning which he had been refreshed by Old Corrie, who was as ignorant as himself of the deplorable change that had taken place. The road for a few miles lay along great plains of rich black soil, dotted here and there with masses of blue and barley grass, among which might be found the native leek and wild cucumber; then followed a tract of country somewhat lightly timbered but heavily grassed, where he came across a nasty bit of "devil devil" land, fortunately of not great extent, for he had to ride with a loose rein and leave it to his horse to pick the safest way. On his left were large lagoons in which a wondrous variety of wild fowl abounded; on his right was a belt of impenetrable scrub; but the track was well defined, and after riding twenty miles he entered a thickly wooded forest, for the shade of which he was grateful, the sun now being high in the heavens. Emerging from this forest he halted near a vast sheet of water, in which tall reeds grew, and where he found the wild banana. Off this fruit and some cold meat and bread which Old Corrie had forced upon him, he made a sufficient meal, and then resumed his journey. In the afternoon the road lay through a more even country, and he reckoned upon reaching Gum Flat before sundown. But he reckoned without his host, for the distance was longer than he calculated, and at sunset he was still, according to the information given to him by the driver of a bullock dray, eight or ten miles from the township. This man was the only human being he had met in his lonely ride. Many a time in the course of the day had he fallen into contemplation of the pregnant events of the last twenty-four hours, thinking, "This time yesterday I was walking with Annette in the woods, gathering wildflowers for her mother's grave. She slipped, and I caught her in my arms." And again: "This time yesterday Anthony Bidaud, Annette, and I, were sitting in the verandah, watching the sunset; and a moment afterwards white stars were glittering in the clouds of faded gold. How peaceful, how happy we were! And now?" he shuddered as he thought of the dead form of Anthony Bidaud lying in his room and of the sense of desolation which must have fallen upon Annette. He strove to direct his thoughts into more cheerful grooves, but he was not successful.
The gorgeous colours in the heavens melted away; the sun dipped beneath the horizon; it was night. Fortunately it was light, and he could see the road he was riding over. The willing animal he bestrode plodded on, more slowly now, and Basil did not attempt to quicken the pace. It was ten o'clock when he reached the township of Gum Flat.
He recognised it by the outlines of the tents. He had expected to see lights in the dwellings, arguing that Gum Flat must have increased in importance since his last visit, but all was dark on the outskirts. He was surprised at the darkness, but grateful that his journey was over. He rode along the High Street, and with still deeper surprise observed that on some of the stores the canvas lay loose, and that the calico over the frame was torn and rent. "Can I have mistaken the road?" he thought. In the middle of the High Street he paused. The door of a store was thrown suddenly open, and three men, whose movements had been inspired by the sound of the horse's hoofs, emerged therefrom, and stood looking up at Basil. Each had cards in his hand, denoting that when they were disturbed they had been gambling. The picture at that moment was Rembrandtesque. The street was in darkness; not a light was visible. One of the men standing at the door held above his head a lighted candle stuck in a whiskey bottle, and this dim light enabled the three-gamblers and Basil not exactly to see each other but to define outlines. Through the open door Basil saw a table upon which was another candle, and sitting at which was another man, also with cards in his hand. This man, leaning forward, was striving to pierce the gloom in which his companions and Basil stood. He rose and joined them, and going close to Basil, laid his hand upon the horse's neck. Thus, Basil and he confronted each other. And at that moment was commenced the weaving of a strand which was to connect the lives of these two men, for weal or woe.