Basil and Annette

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.

CHAPTER XXXIX

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!"

CHAPTER XL

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, it is interesting, 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?"