Basil and Annette

If Basil had known, he had not far to go to find Newman Chaytor, for that worthy was quite close to him. Being of an inquiring mind Chaytor had resolved to hear all that passed between Basil and Old Corrie, and had found a secure hiding-place in the rear, and well within earshot, of the two friends. He stored it all up, being blessed with an exceptionally retentive memory. Old Corrie went one way, and Basil went another, and Chaytor emerged from his hiding-place. "I am quite curious about little Annette," he said to himself, as he followed Basil at a safe distance. "Quite a sentimental little body-and an heiress, too! Well, we shall see. Say that my friend Basil's future is a nut-I'll crack it; I may find a sweet kernel inside."

He came up to Basil, and greeted him with a frank smile. "We've been talking about the plantation," said Basil, "and poor Anthony Bidaud's daughter, Annette. She is coming this afternoon to see me. I'll tell you everything by-and-by."

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

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

Then they talked of other matters, Chaytor with animation, Basil with a mind occupied by thoughts of Annette. "I see," said Chaytor, patting Basil's shoulder with false kindness, "that you are thinking of the little maid. Now I'm not going to play the churl. Don't mind me for the rest of the day."

"You're a good fellow," said Basil, as Chaytor walked away; but he did not walk far. Unobserved by Basil, he kept secret watch upon him, determined to see Annette, determined to hear what she and Basil had to say to each other. As Old Corrie had said, "there are cases in which honesty is no match for roguery." Basil posted himself in such a position that he could see any person who came towards the wood from Bidaud's plantation. He heard the thud of Old Corrie's axe in the forest; the honest woodman could have remained idle had he chosen, but he was unhappy unless he was at work, and though he desired no profit from it he felled and split trees for the pleasure of the thing. Now and again there came to Basil's ears the piping and chattering of gorgeous-coloured birds as they fluttered hither and thither, busy on their own concerns, love-making, nest-mending, and the like; in their commonwealth many touches of human passion and sentiment found a reflex. Vanity was there, jealousy was there, hectoring and bullying of the weak was there, and much sly pilfering went on; entertainments, too, were being given, for at some distance from the three men in the woods, one swinging his axe with a will and wiping his cheerful brows, another with his heart in his eyes watching for a little figure in the distance, and the third, stirred by none but evil thoughts, watching with cunning eyes the watcher-at some distance from these two honest men and one rogue were assembled some couple of dozen feathered songsters in green and yellow coats. They perched upon convenient boughs and branches, forming a circle, with invisible music books before them, and at a given signal from their leader they began to pipe their songs without words, and filled space with melody. Their music may be likened to the faintly sweet echoes of skilled bell-ringers, each tiny bird the master of a note which was never piped unless in harmony. It was while these fairy bells were pealing their sweetest chord that Basil saw Annette approaching. He ran towards her eagerly, and called her name; and she with a sudden flush in her face and with her heart palpitating with joy, cried, "Basil! Basil!" and fell into his arms.

CHAPTER XVI

He led her to a secluded spot, followed secretly by fox Chaytor. They passed close to where Old Corrie was working, and he, hearing footsteps-be sure, however, that Chaytor's were noiseless-laid down his axe, and went towards them.

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

"What did I tell you?" said Old Corrie. "All you've got to do in this world, little lady, is to have patience."

She was so overjoyed, having tight hold of Basil's hand, that she would have accepted the wildest theories without question.

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

"Surely," he replied, "it is quite ready for you, and you will be able to teach it anything you please. But why so soon? Aren't you coming again?"

Her face became sad, and she clutched Basil's fingers convulsively: "I am afraid not this is the last, last time! I have heard something, Mr. Corrie, and if it is true my uncle and aunt are going to take me away to-morrow morning."

"In that case," said Old Corrie, "I will have the bird ready for you. Now you and Master Basil can talk; I'll not interrupt you." He went away at once, and left them together. For a little while they had nothing of a coherent nature to say to each other; but then Basil, recognising the necessity of introducing some kind of system into their conversation, related to Annette all that had happened within his knowledge since the sad morning of her father's death, and heard from her lips all that she had to relate. Much of it he had already heard from Old Corrie. The refrain she harped upon was, "And must we, must we part, Basil? And shall we never, never see each other again?"

"Part we must, dear Annette," he said; "I have no control over you, and no authority that can in any way be established. When I first came to the plantation I was a stranger to you and your father, and the law would acknowledge me as no better now."

"Next to my dear father and mother," said Annette, "I love you best in all the world. They cannot take that away from me; what I feel is my own, my very own. Oh, Basil, I sometimes have wicked thoughts, and feel myself turning bad; I never felt so before my uncle came."

"Annette, listen to me. You must struggle against these thoughts and must say to yourself, 'They will make my dear father and mother sorrowful. They have shown me kindness and love and I will show the same to them.' You cannot see them, Annette, but their spirits are watching over you; and there is a just and merciful God in heaven who is watching over you, too, and whom you must not offend."

"I will do as you say, Basil, dear; I will never, never forget your words. They will keep me good."

"Let them keep you brave as well, my dear. I promise to remember you always, to love you always, and perhaps when you are a woman-it will not be so long, Annette-we shall meet again."

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

"Time flies quickly, Annette. It seems but yesterday since I was a boy myself, and when I look back and think of my own dear parents, I am happy in the belief that I never did anything to cause them sorrow.

"You could not, Basil."

"Ah, my dear, I don't know that; but I had a good mother and so had you, and my father and yours were both noble men. They are not with us, and that makes the duty we owe them all the stronger. To do what is right because we feel that it is right to do it, not because it is done in the sight of others-that is what makes us good, Annette. My mother taught me that lesson as she lay on her death bed, and it has brought me great happiness; it has supported me in adversity. You must not mind my speaking so seriously, Annette-"

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

"Much better, I hope. You see, my dear, this is the last time we shall be together for a long time; but not so long after all, if we look at it in the right light, and I should like you to remember me as you would remember a brother, who, being older than you, is perhaps a little wiser."

"I will, Basil. All my wicked thoughts are gone; they shall never come again; but I shall still feel a little unhappy sometimes."

"Of course you will, dear, and so shall I. But faith in God's goodness and the performance of our duty will always lighten that unhappiness. The stars of heaven are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can keep shining in our hearts."

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

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

"They are neither kind nor unkind. They talk a great deal to each other, but very seldom to me, unless it is to order me to do something. Aunt says, 'Go to bed,' and I go to bed; 'It is time to get up,' and I get up? 'Come to dinner,' and I come to dinner. It is all like that; they never speak to me as my father and mother did, and they have never kissed me."

"You must be obedient to them, Annette."

"I will be, Basil."

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

"Yes, I know that; but I don't think they like me, and, Basil, I don't think uncle is a good man."

"It will be better," said Basil gravely, "not to fancy that. It may be only that he is a little different from other men, and that you are not accustomed to his ways."

"I will try," said Annette piteously, "to obey you in everything, but I can't help my thoughts, and I can't help seeing and hearing. He speaks in a hard voice to everybody; he is unkind to animals; he has never put a flower on my dear father's grave."

"There, there, Annette-don't cry. I only want you to make the best, and not the worst, of things."

"I will, Basil-indeed, indeed I will. When I am far away from you, you will think, will you not, that I am trying hard to do everything to please you?"

"I promise to think so, and I have every faith in you. It is all for your good, you know, Annette. When you are out of this country where are your aunt and uncle going to live."

"In Europe."

"But in what part of Europe?"

"I don't know. All that uncle and aunt say is, 'We are going to Europe.' 'But in what country?' I asked. 'Don't be inquisitive,' they answered; 'we are going to Europe;' and they will say nothing more. I am sometimes afraid to speak when they are near me."

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

"Yes, Basil, yes. And may I? Oh, how good you are! Oh, if ever I should get a letter from you! It will be the next best thing to having you with me."

"Remember what I am saying, Annette. I want you to write to me, wherever you are, and I want to answer your letters. This is the way it can be done. When you are settled write me your first letter-I shall not mind how long it is-"

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

"And address it to 'Mr. Basil Whittingham, Post-office, Sydney, New South Wales.' I shall be sure to get it. Now for my answer. If you are happy in your uncle's house, and tell me so, I will send my answer there; but if you think it will be best for me not to send it to his house, I will address it to the post-office in whatever town or city you may be living. Some friend in the new country (you are sure to make friends, my dear) will tell you how you may get my letters. This looks a little like deceit, but it will be pardonable deceit if you are unhappy-not otherwise. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Basil. I shall have something to think of now; you have given me something to do. And will you ever come to me?"

"It is my hope; I intend to work hard here to get money, and if I am fortunate, in a few years, when you are a beautiful woman-"

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

"I will come to wherever you may be."

"I do not wish for anything more, Basil. I shall pray night and morning for your good fortune. How happy you have made me-how happy-how happy! I shall keep the stars of love and hope shining in my heart-for you. How beautifully the bellbirds are singing. I shall hear them when I am thousands of miles away. But, Basil, you will want something to remember me by."

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

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

"But Annette-"

"Have I said 'No' to anything you have told me-and will you say 'No' to this little thing? I think it will not be right if you do; so, dear Brother Basil, you must not refuse me. I wish I had something better to give you, but you will be satisfied with this, will you not? I have worn it always round my neck, since I was a little, little girl, and you must wear it round yours. Promise me."

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

"I will not, indeed I will not-and your promise is made. See, Basil, here it lies open in my hand; take it. The picture is a portrait of my dear mother; father had it painted for me by a gentleman who came once to the plantation. Then when you come to me in the country across the sea, you will show it to me and tell me that you have worn it always and always, because you love me, and because I love you."

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

"You have given me a star of hope, Basil. How sorry I am that you are poor! But my nurse, who has been sent away-"

"Have they done that, Annette?"

"Yes, and she cried so at leaving me. She told me that one day I should be very, very rich. So what does it matter if you are poor? Let me fasten it round your neck. Now you have me and my dear mother next your heart."

He took the innocent child in his arms, and she lay nestling there a few moments with bright thoughts of the happy future in her mind. Suddenly a loud "Coo-ey" was heard and the sound of hurried footsteps. It was Old Corrie's voice that gave the alarm. It was intended as such, for when Basil started to his feet and stood with his arm round Annette, holding her close to him, he looked up, and saw Gilbert Bidaud standing before him.

CHAPTER XVII

A malicious smile played about the old man's lips as he glanced at Basil and Annette. For a few moments he did not speak, but stood enjoying the situation, feeling himself master of it; and when he broke the silence his voice was smooth and suave. The malignancy of his feelings was to be found in his words, not in the tone in which he uttered them.

"Ah, Mr. Basil Whittingham once more? Mr. Basil Whittingham, the English gentleman, ready at a moment's notice to give lessons in manners, conduct, and good breeding. But then it is to proclaim oneself a fool to take a man at his own estimate of himself. I find you here in the company of my niece. Favour me with an explanation, Mr. Basil Whittingham."

"There is nothing to explain," said Basil, still with his arm round Annette. "I have been absent some time, and happening, fortunately, to return before Miss Bidaud left the country, have met her here, and was exchanging a few words of farewell."

"Of course, of course. Who would venture to dispute with so reproachless a gentleman? Who would venture to whisper that in these last few words of farewell there was any attempt to work upon a child's feelings, and to make the spurious metal of self-interest shine like purest gold? On one side a young girl, as yet a mere child, whose feelings are easily worked upon; on the other side a grown man versed in the cunning of the world, and using it with a keen eye to profitable use in the future. Not quite an equal match, it appears to me, but I may be no judge. If I were to hint that this meeting between you and my dear niece and ward has anything of a clandestine nature in it, you would probably treat me to a display of indignant fireworks. If I were to hint that, instead of so advising this child that she should hold out her arms gladly to the new life into which she is about to enter, you were instilling into her a feeling of repugnance against it, and of mistrust against those whose duty it will be to guide her aright and teach her-principles" – his eyes twinkled with malignant humour as he spoke this word-"you, English gentleman that you are, would repudiate the insinuation with lofty scorn. But when you exchange confidences with me you are in the presence of a man who has also seen something of the world, and who, although it has dealt him hard buffets, retains some old-fashioned notions of honour and manliness. I apply the test to you, adventurer, and you become instantly exposed. Ah! here is my sister, this sweet young child's aunt, who will relieve you of your burden."

He took the hand of the unresisting girl and led her to her aunt, whose arm glided round Annette's waist, holding it as in a vice.

"I will not answer you," said Basil, with an encouraging smile at Annette, whose face instantly brightened. "Annette knows I have spoken the truth, and that is enough."

"Yes, Basil," said Annette, boldly, "you have spoken the truth, and I will never, never forget what you have said to me to-day."

"Take her away," said Gilbert Bidaud to his sister; "the farce is played out. In a week it will be forgotten."

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

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

"How touching, how touching!" murmured Gilbert Bidaud. "It is surely a scene from an old comedy. Take her away."

"Just one moment, please," said Old Corrie, joining the group. "Here is something that belongs to the little lady, that she would like to take with her to the new world. It will remind her of the old, and of friends she leaves in it."

It was the magpie in its wicker cage, whose tongue being loosened by company, or perhaps by a desire to show off its accomplishments to an appreciative audience, became volubly communicative.

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

In his heart Gilbert Bidaud was disposed to strangle the bird, but his smile was amiability itself as he said to Annette, "Yours, my child?"

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

"But Mr. Corrie is not rich," said Gilbert Bidaud, pulling out his purse; "you are. Shall we not pay him for it?"

"No," said Annette, before Old Corrie could speak. "I would not care for it if he took money for it."

"Well said, little lady," said Old Corrie; "the bird is friendship's offering, and for that will be valued and well cared for, I don't doubt. It is your property, mind, and no one has a right to meddle with it."

"Friendship's offering!" said Gilbert Bidaud, with a long, quiet laugh. "We came out to the bush to learn something, did we not, sister? Why, here we find the finest of human virtues and sentiments, the smuggest of moralities, the essence of refined feeling. It is really refreshing. Do not be afraid, Mr. Corrie. Although I would not take your word about that wood-splitting contract, I have some respect for you, as a rough specimen of bush life and manners. We part friends, I hope."

"Not a bit of it," said Old Corrie. "If ladies were not present I'd open my mind to you."

"Thank heaven," said Gilbert Bidaud, raising his eyes with mock devotion, "for the restraining influence of the gentler sex. You do not diminish my esteem for you. I know rough honesty when I meet with it."

"You shift about," interrupted Old Corrie, "like a treacherous wind. I'm rough honesty now, am I? You're the kind of man that can turn white into black. Let us make things equal by another sort of bargain. I've given little lady the bird. You'll not take it from her?"

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

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

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

"Do you hear, little lady? Let us be thankful for small mercies. Shake hands, my dear. When you're a woman grown, don't forget Old Corrie."

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

"And don't forget," said Old Corrie, laying his hand on Basil's shoulder, "that Master Basil here is a gentleman to be honoured and loved, a man to be proud of, a man to treasure in your heart."

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

"And this, I think," said Gilbert Bidaud, with genial smiles all round, "is the end of an act. Let the curtain fall to slow music."

But it was not destined so to fall. As Annette's aunt turned to leave with her niece, her eyes, dwelling scornfully on Basil for a moment, caught sight of the chain attached to the locket which Annette had put round his neck. Quick as lightning she put her hand to the child's neck, and discovered the loss.

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

As quick in his movements as his sister, Gilbert Bidaud stretched forth his hand and tore the locket and chain from Basil's neck. It was done so swiftly and suddenly that Basil was unable to prevent it; but the hot blood rushed into his face as he said:

"Were you a younger man I would give you cause to remember your violence. Annette, speak the truth."

"I gave it to you, Basil," said Annette, slipping from her aunt's grasp, and putting her hand on Gilbert Bidaud's. "It is false to say he stole it. It belonged to me, and I could do what I pleased with it. I gave it to Basil, and he did not want to take it at first, but I made him."

She strove to wrench it from her uncle's hand, but it was easy for him to keep it from her.

"I will have it!" cried Annette. "I will, I will! It is Basil's, and you have no right to it."

"A storm in a teapot," said Gilbert Bidaud, who seldom lost his self-possession for longer than a moment, "Sister, you should apologise to the young gentleman. Take the precious gift."

But instead of handing it to Basil he threw it over the young man's head, and Newman Chaytor, who during the whole of this scene had been skulking, unseen, in the rear, and had heard every word of the conversation, caught it before it fell, and slunk off with it.

"I shall find it, Annette," said Basil. "Good-bye, once more. May your life be bright and happy!"

Those were the last words, and being uttered at the moment Newman Chaytor caught the locket and was slinking off, were heard and treasured by him.

The whole of that day Basil, assisted by Old Corrie and Chaytor, searched for the locket, of course unsuccessfully. He was in great distress at the loss; it seemed to be ominous of misfortune.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The story of the lives of Basil and Chaytor during the ensuing three years may be briefly summarised. So far as obtaining more than sufficient gold for the bare necessaries of life were concerned, ill-luck pursued them. They went from goldfield to goldfield, and followed every new rush they heard of, and were never successful in striking a rich claim. It was all the more tantalising because they were within a few feet of great fortune at least half-a-dozen times. On one goldfield they marked out ground, close to a claim of fabulous richness, every bucket of wash-dirt that was hauled from the gutter being heavily weighted with gold. This was the prospectors' claim, and the shaft next to it struck the gutter to the tune of twelve ounces a day per man. The same with the second, and Basil and Chaytor had every reason, therefore, to congratulate themselves, especially when the men working in the claim beyond them also struck the lead, and struck it rich. But when at length the two gold diggers in whom we are chiefly interested came upon the gutter, they were dismayed to find that instead of ten ounces to the tub, it was as much as they could do to wash out ten grains. It was the only poor claim along the whole of the gutter; on each side of them the diggers were coining money, and they were literally beggars. It is frequently so on the goldfields, the life on which very much resembles a lottery, riches next door to poverty; but the hope of turning up a lucky number seldom dies out in the heart of the miner. He growls a bit, apostrophises his hard luck in strong language, is despondent for a day, and the next shakes off his despondent fit, and buckles to again with a will, going perhaps to another new rush, jubilant and full of hope, to meet again with the same bad fortune. The romance of the goldfield is a rich vein for novelists, some few of whom have tapped it successfully; but the theme is far from being worn out, and presents as tempting material to-day as it did years ago, when gold was first discovered in Australia.

"It is maddening, Basil," said Chaytor, as he gazed gloomily at the "prospect" in his tin dish-two or three specks which would not have covered a pin's head. "Here we are upon the gutter again, and the stuff will wash about half a pennyweight to the tub."

"It's jolly hard," said Basil, proceeding to fill his pipe with cut cavendish, "but what can we do? Grin and bear it."