Basil and Annette

Lastly, there were the letters Annette wrote to Basil. They arrived at intervals of about four months, so that Chaytor was in possession of seven or eight of them. Proceeding as they did from a pure and beautiful nature, these letters, had Basil received them, would have been like wine to him, would have comforted and strengthened him through the hardest misfortunes and troubles, would have kept the sun shining upon him in the midst of the bitterest storms. He would have continued to work with gladness and hope instead of with indifference. It would have made the future a bright goal to which his eyes would ever have been turned with joy. Evidences of kindness and sympathy, still more, evidences of unselfish affection and love, are like the dew to the flower. They keep the heart fresh, they keep its windows ever open to the light. But of this blessing Basil was robbed by the machinations of a scoundrel: hence there was no sweetness in his labour, no hope for him in the future. So much to heart did Basil take Annette's silence that, had his nature been inclined to evil instead of good, mischief to others would probably have ensued, but as it was he was the only sufferer. In his utterances, when he was drawn to speak of the shock he had received, he was apt to exaggerate matters and to present himself in the worst light, but there had fallen to his share an inheritance of moral goodness which rendered it impossible for him to become a backslider from the paths of rectitude and honour. Except that he was unhappy in himself, and that Annette's silence took the salt out of his days, he was as he ever was, straightforward in his dealings and gentle and charitable towards his fellow-creatures.

"My dear, dear Basil" (thus ran Annette's first letter, written about five months after their last meeting in the Australian woods), "I have tried ever so hard to write to you before, but have not been able to because of uncle and aunt. I was afraid if they found out I was writing to you that they would take the letter away or do something to prevent it reaching you, and I wanted, too, to tell you how you could write to me, but have never been able till now. You will be glad to hear that if you write and address your letters exactly as I tell you, I am almost sure of receiving them. But first I must say something about myself and how I am. Uncle and aunt are not unkind to me, but they are not kind. They leave me to myself a good deal, but I know I am being watched all the time. I don't mind that so much, but what I do miss is my dear father's voice and yours, and the birds and flowers and beautiful scenery I always lived among till I was taken away. I would not mind if you were with me, for I love you truly, dear Basil, and can never, never forget you. That last time we were together by Mr. Corrie's hut, how often and often do I think of it! I go through everything that passed except the unkind words spoken by Uncle Gilbert, which I try not to remember. I must have a wonderful memory, for everything you said to me is as fresh now as though you had just spoken them. Yes, indeed. Perhaps it is because when we were on board ship I used to sit on the deck, with my face turned to Australia-the captain always pointed out the exact direction-and go through it all in my mind over and over and over again, till I got letter perfect. Shall I prove to you that it is really so? Well, then, when I told you I was afraid I was turning hard and had since Uncle Gilbert came to the plantation-the dear old plantation! – you chided me so gently and beautifully, and I promised never to forget your words, knowing they would keep me good. Then you said, 'Let them keep you brave as well, my dear. I promise to remember you always, to love you always, and perhaps when you are a woman-it will not be so long, Annette-we shall meet again.' Well, Basil dear, I am waiting for that time. I know it will not be yet, perhaps not for years, but I can wait patiently, and I shall always bear your words in mind. 'The stars of heaven are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can keep shining in our hearts.' Do you remember, Basil? And then I asked you to kiss me, and said that was the seal and that I should go away happier. It comes to my mind sometimes that your words are like flowers that never die, and that grow sweeter and more beautiful every day. You could not have given me anything better to make me happy. But I must not keep going on like this or I shall not have time to tell you some things you ought to know.

"Well, then, Basil dear, we are not settled anywhere, and if you were to come home now (you call it home, I know, and so will I) you would not know where to find me unless you went to a place I will tell you of presently. First we came to London and stopped there a little while, then we went to Paris, then to Switzerland, and now we have come back to London, where we shall remain two or three weeks, and then go somewhere else, I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert never tells me till the day before, when he says, 'We are going away to-morrow morning; be ready.' So that by the time you receive this letter we shall be I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert is very fond of theatres, but he has not taken me to one because he says they are not proper places for girls. I daresay he is right, and I don't know that I want to go, but aunt has been very dissatisfied about it, as she is as fond of theatres as Uncle Gilbert is. He used to go by himself, and aunt would stop with me to take care of me, but a little while ago, a day or two before we came back to London, they had a quarrel about it. They did not notice that I was in the room when they begun, and when they found it out they stopped. But I think it is because of the quarrel that when we were in London a young woman was engaged to travel with us and to look after me when uncle and aunt are away. I am very glad for a good many reasons. I am not very happy when they are with me, and I breath more freely-or perhaps I think I do-when they are gone. The young woman they have engaged is kind and good-natured, and I have grown fond of her already, and she has grown fond of me, so we get along nicely together. Her name is Emily Crawford, and she has a mother who lives in Bournemouth, a place by the sea somewhere in England. Her mother is a poor woman, and that is why Emily is obliged to go to service, but she is not a common person, not at all, and she has a good heart. She can read and write very well, and she picks up things quicker than I can. Of course you want to know why I speak so much of Emily, when I might be writing about myself. Well, it is very, very important, and it is about myself I am speaking when I am speaking of her.

"Basil, dear, it does one good to have some one to talk to quite freely and to open one's heart to. All the time I have been away, until this week, I have not had any person who would listen to me or who cared to speak of the happy years I spent on our dear plantation. Whenever I ventured to say a word about the past Uncle Gilbert put a stop to it at once by saying, 'There is no occasion to speak of it, you are living another life now. Forget it, and everybody connected with it.' Forget it! As if I could! But I do not dare to disobey him. He is my guardian, and I must be obedient to him. Aunt is just the same, only she snaps me up when I say anything that displeases her, while uncle speaks softly, but he is as determined as she is although they do speak so differently. I do not know which way I dislike most-I think both. So one night this week when uncle and aunt were away, and I was reading, and Emily was sewing, she said to me, 'You have come from Australia, haven't you, miss?' Oh, how pleased I was! I answered yes, and then we got talking about Australia, and I told her all about the plantation and the life we led there, and all sorts of things came rushing into my mind, and when I had told her a great deal I began to cry. It was then I found out Emily's goodness, for there she was by my side wiping my tears away and almost crying with me, and that is how we have become friends. After that I felt that I could speak freely to her, and I spoke about you, of course. She promised not to say a word to uncle or aunt, and I know I can trust her. Now, Basil, dear, she has told me how you can write to me and how I can obtain your letters without uncle or aunt knowing anything about it. Emily writes home to her mother and receives letters from her. If you will write and address your letters to the care of Mrs. Crawford, 14, Lomax Road, Bournemouth, England, Mrs. Crawford will enclose them to Emily, who will give them to me. Mrs. Crawford will always know where Emily is while she remains with me, which will be as long as she is allowed, Emily says, and I am sure to get your letters. I feel quite happy when I think that you will write to me, telling all about yourself. You said I was certain to make friends in the new country I was going to, through whom we should be able to correspond, and although I would sooner do it through uncle and aunt (but there is no possibility of that because they do not like you), I feel there is nothing very wrong in our writing to each other in the way Emily proposes. So that is all, and you will know what to do. I can hardly restrain my impatience, but it is something very sweet to look forward to.

"I hope you found the locket with the portrait of my dear mother in it. When we see each other I shall expect you to show it to me. If you see Mr. Corrie tell him that the magpie is quite well, and that I can teach him to say almost anything. Both uncle and aunt have grumbled a good deal about the bird, and would like me to get rid of it, but that is the one thing-the only thing-that I have gone against them in. 'I will be obedient in everything else,' I said, 'but I must keep my bird. You promised me.' So they have yielded, and I have my way in this at all events. It means a great deal to me because I take care it shall not forget your name. I keep it in my own room, where they see very little of it, and it is only when we are travelling that it is a trouble to them.

"Now I must leave off, Basil dear. With all my love, and hoping with all my heart that we shall see each other when I am a little older, – I remain; for ever and ever, your loving friend,

"Annette."

This letter interested and amused Newman Chaytor. "She is a clever little puss," he thought, "and will not be hard to impose upon, for all her cunning. I wonder, I wonder" – but what it was he wondered at did not take instant shape; it required some time to think out. He replied to the letter, addressing Annette as she directed. Although he knew it was not likely that Annette could be very familiar with Basil's handwriting, he was as careful in imitating it as he was in his letters to Basil's uncle; and as in the case of his letters to that old gentleman, he kept a copy of the letters he wrote to Annette. He was very careful in the composition of his correspondence with the young girl. He fell into the sentimental mood, and smiled to think that the sentiments he expressed to Annette were just those which would occur to Basil if he sat down to write to her. "Basil would be proud of me," he said, "if he read this letter. It is really saving him a world of trouble, and he ought to be grateful to me if it ever come to his knowledge-which it never shall. I will see to that." During the first year of the progress of the vile plot the full sense of the dangerous net he was weaving for himself did not occur to him, and indeed it was only by degrees that he became keenly conscious of the peril attending its discovery. It made him serious at first, but at the same time more fixed in his resolve to carry it out to the bitter end. Whatever it was necessary to do he would do ruthlessly. Everything must give way to secure his own safety, to insure the life of ease and luxury he hoped to enjoy, if all went well.

If all went well! What kind of sophistry must that man use who, to compass his ends, deems all means justifiable, without considering the misery he is ready to inflict upon others in the pursuit upon which he is engaged? There lies upon some men's natures a crust of selfishness so cruel that it becomes in their eyes a light matter to transgress all laws human and divine. They are blinded by a moral obliquity, and think not of the hour when the veil shall be torn from their eyes, and when the punishment which surely waits upon crime is meted out to them.

Annette's first letter to Basil is a fair example of those which followed, except that the progress of time seemed to deepen the attachment she bore for him. In one letter she sent a photograph of herself, and Newman Chaytor's heart beat high as he gazed upon it. Annette was growing into a very lovely womanhood; beautiful, sweet, and gracious was her face; an angelic tenderness dwelt in her eyes.

"And this is meant for Basil," said Chaytor, in his solitude: and then exclaimed, as he contemplated the enchanting picture, "No! For me-for me!"

CHAPTER XX

The claim they were working proved very little richer than others they had taken up. They made certainly a few shillings a week more than was absolutely necessary to keep them in food and tobacco, and these few shillings were carefully husbanded by Chaytor, who was treasurer of the partnership. Their departure was hastened by a meeting which did not afford Chaytor unalloyed pleasure. As he and Basil sat at the door of their canvas tent one summer night, who should stroll up to them but old Corrie.

"Here you are, then," cried the honest fellow.

"Why, Corrie!" exclaimed Basil, jumping to his feet, and holding out his hands.

"Master Basil," said Old Corrie, grasping them cordially, "I am more than glad to see you. I was passing through, and hearing your tent was somewhere in this direction, I made up my mind to hunt you up. Well, well, well!"

"Here's my mate," said Basil, motioning to Chaytor, "you remember him."

"Oh yes," said Old Corrie, nodding at Chaytor. "So you've been together all this time. What luck have you had?"

"Bad luck," answered Chaytor.

"Sorry to hear it. Never struck a rich patch, eh?"

"Never," said Chaytor. "And you?"

"I can't complain. To tell you the truth, I've made my pile."

"You have!" cried Chaytor, with a furious envy in his voice.

"I have. You made a mistake when you refused to go mates with me; I could have shown you a trick or two. However, that's past: what's ended can't be mended."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Haven't quite made up my mind. Think of going to Sydney for a spree; perhaps to Melbourne for another; perhaps shall give up that idea, and make tracks for old England. I've got enough to live upon if I like to take care of it. Well, Master Basil, I wish you had better news to give me. Have you heard from the old country? No?" This was in response to Basil's shake of the head. "Why, I thought the little lady promised to write to you."

"She did promise, but I have not heard for all that."

"Out of sight, out of mind," observed Chaytor, inwardly discomposed at the turn the conversation had taken.

Old Corrie gave him a sour look. "I'll not believe that of the little lady. The most likely reason is that she has been prevented by that old fox her uncle. Her silence must have grieved you, Master Basil." Basil nodded. "I know how your heart was set upon her."

"Don't let's talk about it," said Basil, "it is the way of the world."

"That may be," said Old Corrie, regarding Basil attentively, "but I'd have staked my life that it wasn't the way of the little lady. What has come over you? You're changed. You were always brimming over with life and spirits, and now you're as melancholy as a black crow."

"I'm falling into the sere and yellow," said Basil, with a melancholy smile.

"I can only guess at what you mean. You're getting old. Why, man alive, there's a good five-and-twenty year between you and me, and I don't consider myself falling into the what-do-you-call-'em! Pluck up, Master Basil. Here, let's have a little chat aside."

Chaytor gave Basil a look which meant, as plain as words could speak it, "Are you going to have secret conversations away from me after all the years we have been together, after all I've done for you?"

"Corrie," said Basil, laying one hand on Old Corrie's arm and the other on Chaytor's, "if you've anything to say to me I should like you to say it before Chaytor. There's nothing I would wish to hide from him. He's been the truest friend to me a man ever had, and I owe him more than I can ever repay."

"Nonsense, Basil," said Chaytor with magnanimous humility; "don't say anything about it."

"But it ought to be said, and I should be the ungratefullest fellow living if I ever missed an opportunity of acknowledging it. I owe you something too, Corrie. There's that mare of yours I borrowed and lost."

"Shut up," growled Old Corrie, "if you want us to part friends. I've never given the mare a thought, and as for paying me for it, well, you can't, and there's an end of it. I'll say before your mate what is in my mind. You're a gentleman, Master Basil, and here you are wasting your time and your years to no purpose. England is the proper place for you." Chaytor caught his breath, and neither Basil nor Old Corrie could have interpreted this exhibition of emotion aright; but Basil, who thought he understood it, smiled gently at Chaytor, as much as to say, "Don't fear, I am not going to desert you." Old Corrie, who had paused, took up his words: "England is the proper place for you. Say the word, and we'll go together to Sydney and take two passages for home. There you can hunt up your old friends, and you'll be a man once more. Come now, say, 'Yes, Corrie,' and put me under an obligation to you for life."

"I can't say yes, Corrie, but I'm truly obliged to you for your kind offer. Even if I wished to break my connection with Chaytor-which I don't-it's for him to put an end to our partnership, not for me-don't you see that it would be impossible for me to lay myself under an obligation to you?"

"No, I don't see it,' growled Old Corrie.

"Then, again, Corrie, what inducement have I to return to England?"

"There's little lady," interrupted Old Corrie.

"She has forgotten me," said Basil, sadly. "What business have I to thrust myself upon her? If she desired to continue a friendship which was as precious to me as my heart's blood-yes, I don't mind confessing it; there may be weakness, but there is no shame in it-would she not have written to me? She would, if it was only one line. It is true that her uncle may be jealously guarding and watching her-there was love lost between us-but in these three years that have passed since the last day we saw each other, it is not possible to think that she could not have contrived once to have put in the post a bit of paper with only the words, 'I have not forgotten you, Basil.' Who and what am I that I should cross the road she is traversing for the purpose of bringing a reminiscence to her mind that she chooses not to remember? There would not be much manliness in that. Besides, it's a hundred chances to one that she's not in England at all. It is my belief she is living in her father's native country, Switzerland, where, surrounded by new scenes and new companions, I hope she is happy. Thank you again, Corrie; I cannot accept your offer."

"All right," said Corrie, with disappointment in his face and voice; "you ought to know your own mind, though I make bold to say I don't believe you've said what's in your heart. Well, there's an end to it. I'm off early in the morning. Good-bye, Master Basil."

"Good-bye, Corrie, and good luck to you."

"Good luck to you, better than you've had in more ways than one."

"Good-bye, Mr. Corrie," said Chaytor.

Old Corrie could scarcely refuse the hand that Chaytor held out to him, but the grasp he gave it was very different from the grasp he gave Basil's. Before he turned to leave the ill-assorted comrades he did something which escaped the eyes of Basil, but not those of Chaytor. He furtively dropped, quite close to Basil's feet, a round wooden matchbox, which, emptied of matches, gold-diggers frequently used to fill with loose gold. Unobserved by old Corrie, Chaytor put his foot on the box and slipped it to the rear of himself. This was done while Old Corrie was turning to go. Basil was genuinely sorry to See the last of his friend. Both the unexpected meeting and the leave-taking had a touch of sadness in them which deeply affected him, and he gazed with regret after the vanishing form of the man who had offered to serve him. This gave Chaytor an opportunity of slyly picking up the matchbox; it was weighty, and Chaytor knew that it was filled with gold. "A bit of luck," he thought, as he put the box into his pocket, "and a narrow escape as well." He felt like a man sitting on a mine which a stray match might fire at any moment.

"Basil," he said, when Old Corrie was out of sight, "we will strike our tent to-morrow, and go prospecting. I have a likely spot in my mind."

"Very well," said Basil listlessly. "How about money? Can we manage to get along?"

"Oh, yes, we can manage."

Early in the morning the pegs which fastened the tent were dug out of the ground, the tent was rolled up and tied, and with heavy swags of canvas, blankets, tools, and utensils conveniently disposed about their persons, Basil and Chaytor set their faces to the south. They walked for two days, camping out at night, and halted at length on the banks of a river, the waters of which were low. In the winter the floods rolling down from the adjacent ranges made the river a torrent, covering banks which were now bare. These banks were of fine sand, and rising on each side for a distance of some thousands of yards were shelving mountains studded with quartz. Some eighteen months ago Basil and Chaytor had passed the place on their way to a new rush, and Chaytor thought it a likely place in which to find gold. They were now quite alone, not a living soul was within a dozen miles of them. They had reached the spot secretly, and their movements were unknown to any but themselves. Their nearest neighbours were on a cattle station some twelve or thirteen miles away.

"I have had an idea," said Chaytor, throwing the swag off his shoulders, an example which Basil followed, "for a long time past that somewhere about here gold was to be found. My plan is to prospect the place well, without any one being the wiser. Who knows? We may discover a new goldfield, and make our fortunes before we are tracked. Let us camp here, and try. We can't do much worse than we've done already."

"I'm agreeable to anything you propose," said Basil. "Let us camp here by all means."

"The great thing is, that nobody must be let into the secret. If we are discovered, 'Rush, O!' will be the cry, and we shall be overrun before we can say Jack Robinson."

"You have only to say what you wish, Chaytor. You have the cleverer head of the two. I hope for your sake we shall be successful."

"You don't much care for your own."

"Not much."

"You'll sing to another tune when we do succeed. It's wonderful how the possession of a lot of money alters one's views."

"I'll wait till I get it," said Basil, sagely.

"The river runs low at this season and there's no reason in the world why the sand banks shouldn't hold gold."

"They will hold it if its there," said Basil, with a smile.

"We'll try the banks first because they are the easiest, and if we don't get gold in sufficient quantities there we'll try higher up the range. It's studded with quartz, and it looks the right sort. We'll put our tent up now, and in the morning we'll commence work-or rather you will commence while I am away."

"Where are you going to?"

"There's grub to look after. We can't do without meat and flour. All we've got to live on at present is a tin of sardines, about half a pint of brandy, a little tea, and a couple of handfuls of biscuits. Now, I call that a coincidence."

"In what respect?"

"Do you forget," said Chaytor reproachfully, "the first night you come to Gum Flat? I gave you then pretty well all I had in the world in the shape of provisions, some biscuits, some sardines, and a flask of brandy."

"You did, old fellow, and that is the sum total of our provisions this evening." He shook Chaytor's hand warmly. "Don't think me ungrateful, Chaytor, because I don't profess much. Old Corrie said I was changed, and I suppose I must be; but I shall never be so changed as to be unmindful of the way you've stuck to me. Yes, it is a coincidence. But go on. What do you mean to do about grub, for I see you've something in your mind?"