Basil and Annette

"Never you mind," retorted Chaytor, "whether it does or doesn't. It isn't your affair."

"Perhaps not. You are not in a gracious humour, friend Basil. We will speak of it another time. Do not forget that I am Annette's guardian."

"Oh, no, I'll not forget. When she and I settle things I shall want some information from you."

"About-?" asked Gilbert, and paused.

"About her fortune. You see, up till now, my friend, you have had it all your own way."

"True, true. We will speak of it. Oh, yes, we will speak of it," adding inly, "and of other things as well, my mysterious friend."

The remaining portion of that day Gilbert Bidaud devoted himself to thought, the subject being the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. This, with him, was a distinct process; he had cultivated the art of marshalling facts and evidence, of weighing their relative value and their direct and indirect bearing upon the problem he was endeavouring to solve, and of imparting into it all the arguments which would naturally suggest themselves to an intellect so subtle and astute as his own. "Outside," thought Gilbert, "he is Basil, the man I knew; inside he is not Basil, the man I knew. The outside of a man may change, but it is against nature that his character should be twisted inside out-that it should turn from white to black, from black to white. In my estimate of Basil on my brother's plantation I was not mistaken; and that being so, this man and that man are not the same inwardly. How stands my niece in regard to him? She was all joy when he first joined us; it was nothing but Basil, Basil, Basil, like the magpie that the old woodcutter gave her. But her joy and gladness have not stood the test of time; my niece has grown sad. I have seen her watch Basil's face with grief in her own; I have seen her listen to his conversation with sadness and surprise in her eyes. She says nothing, she nurses her grief, and is the kind of woman that will sacrifice herself to an idea, to a passion she regards as sacred. Yes, this Basil is not the Basil she knew-and she knew him well and intimately, far better than I. That one was capable of noble deeds-though I hated him I will do him justice; this one is sordid, mean, debased, depraved. Fruit ripens and rots; not so men's hearts. Where there is sweetness it is never wholly lost; some trace of it remains, and so with frankness, generosity, and nobility. Has this Basil shown the least moral indication that he is the man we knew? Not one. All the better for me, perhaps. He will want some information from me respecting Annette's fortune, will he? I may want some information from him. He will dictate to me, will he? Take care, my friend, I may dictate to you."

The result of his cogitations was that he made a little experiment. For some time past a celebrated case of personation, in which the fortunes of an old family and estate were involved, had been the theme of conversation and speculation all the world over; and, curiously enough, the man who caused this excitement hailed from Australia. The trial had just commenced, and the newspapers were full of it. Armed with a bundle of papers, Gilbert Bidaud presented himself to Chaytor. Throwing them on the table, he said:

"Never have I been so interested, never has there been such a case before the public. How will it end? that is the question-how will it end? You and I, who are students of human nature, who can read character as we read books, even we must be puzzled and perplexed. Why, what have you there? As I live, you have been purchasing the same papers as myself."

It was true that there were English newspapers scattered about the room of the same dates as those Gilbert Bidaud had brought in with him, and that their appearance indicated that Chaytor had perused them.

"An Englishman may buy an English newspapers I suppose," said Chaytor, a little uneasily, "without its being considered in any way remarkable. What particular case are you referring to?"

"An Englishman, my dear friend," replied Gilbert, with exceeding urbanity, "may purchase every English newspaper there is for sale in the city if he is so inclined. This is the particular case to which I refer." He pointed to the columns upon columns of the reports of the case, taking up one paper after another and laying them all down carefully a-top of each other with the case in question uppermost, till he had gathered together every newspaper in the room, and had arranged them in one pile. While he was thus employed he did not fail to note that Chaytor's face had grown white, and that he was also watching Gilbert Bidaud in fear and secresy. Gilbert Bidaud laughed softly, as he said:

"Study this case, my dear friend. Watch its progress-consider it well. But perhaps it is not necessary for one so deep, so clever as yourself. You have already made up your mind how it will end. Make me as wise as yourself, friend of my soul."

He laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm, and gazed steadily into the traitor's eyes, which wavered in the observance.

"How should I know," exclaimed Chaytor, shaking off Gilbert's hand, "how it will end?"

"Nay, my dear friend," said Gilbert, and once more he laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm, "do not shake me off so rudely. You and I are friends, are we not? We can serve each other; I may be useful to you-yes, yes, very, very useful."

He was one who placed a high value upon small tests, and he had laid his hand upon Chaytor's arm the second time with a deliberate and distinct purpose. If the man before him was really and truly Basil, he could not possibly misunderstand the covert threat which the action and the tone in which he spoke conveyed. Having nothing to fear, he would show resentment, indignation, and would release himself immediately from Gilbert's grasp. Newman Chaytor did nothing of the kind; inwardly shaking with mortal dread, he allowed Gilbert's hand to remain, and for a few moments neither of the men spoke. During this brief silence Gilbert knew that the game was his, and that he had nothing to fear from Chaytor's threat concerning the management of Annette's fortune. He was too wise to push his advantage. With a light laugh, he threw the pile of newspapers into a corner of the room, and said:

"What matter to us how the case ends? If it is against him, he is a fool; if it is for him, he deserves to win; in either case whether he be or be not the man, we will not discuss it. Our own affairs are for us sufficient. Is it not so?"

"Yes," replied Chaytor sullenly. He would not have answered had not Gilbert looked up at him and compelled him to speak.

"I love the daring deed," continued Gilbert; "my soul responds to him who conceives and carries it out, and if there is danger in the execution it is to me all the grander. I have myself been daring in my time, and had I not been successful rue would have been my portion. You and I, my dear friend, have in our nature some resemblance; we view life and human matters with the eye of a philosopher. Life is short-ah! I envy you; your feet have scarcely passed the threshold; I am far on the way. For you the summer, for me the winter. Well, well, there are some years before me yet, and I will exercise our philosophy by enjoying them. I look to myself; let other men do the same. Nature says aloud, 'Enjoy the sunshine.' I obey nature. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy-that is the true teaching; and you, dear friend, are of my opinion. Let this proclaim that we are comrades." He held out his hand, which Chaytor felt restrained to take. "That is well; it is safer so. And attend. I pry not into your secrets, and you will not pry into mine. Of our cupboards with their skeletons we will each keep our key. What I choose to reveal I reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step."

He had not uttered a compromising word, but Chaytor understood him thoroughly. How much, or how little, he knew, Chaytor could not say, but that he could be a most dangerous enemy was clear. He was not a man from whom one could escape easily, and, even if he were, Chaytor was not in the humour to make the attempt. The impression which Annette's grace and beauty had made upon him was so strong that he could not endure the idea of leaving her. The relations between them had not been those of lovers: they had been of an affectionate nature, but no words binding them to each other had passed between them. Gilbert Bidaud was correct in his observation of her. Joyous and bright at first, she had grown sad and quiet. A shadow had fallen upon the ideal she had worshipped; and yet she did not dare to blame the Basil who had reigned in her heart pure and undefiled. Was he still so? She would not answer the question; when it presented itself she refused to listen. With a sad shake of her head she strove to deaden her senses against the still small voice which ever and again intruded the torturing doubt, but she could not dismiss it entirely. Basil she loved, Basil she would always love; was it not treason to love to admit the whispered doubt that he was changed? She argued sometimes that the change was in her, and wondered whether he observed in her what she observed in him. She asked him once:

"Am I changed, Basil!"

"You are more beautiful and charming than ever, Annette."

They had had a little conversation, in which Gilbert Bidaud took part, as to calling each other by their Christian names, and Gilbert had settled the question.

"It is too cold," he said, "this Miss Bidaud, this Mr. Whittingham. You proclaim yourself strangers. Let it be as it was, as it always shall be, Basil and Annette. Always, always, Basil and Annette. Children, be happy."

It was as though he had given them a fatherly benediction. From the day of the last recorded interview between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor, the intimacy between them grew still closer. Gilbert managed that, and also so contrived matters that, without any open declaration being made, no one could doubt that Chaytor and Annette were unavowed lovers. Gilbert had decided that it would be best and safest for him that they should marry. He had Chaytor in his power, and could make a bargain with him which would ensure him ease and comfort for his remaining years. With another man it would not be so easy; he would have to render an account of his stewardship, and in this there was distinct danger. He was very curious to arrive at the real truth respecting Chaytor, and despite his assurance that he would not pry into Chaytor's secret, he was continually on the watch for something that would help to reveal it to him. Chaytor, however, was on his guard, and Gilbert learnt nothing further.

"Next week," he said to Chaytor, "we go to Villa Bidaud. The summer is waning, and the climate there is warm and agreeable. You accompany us?"

"Where Annette goes I go," said Chaytor.

"Yet," said Gilbert, with a certain wary thoughtfulness, "matters should be more definitely arranged before you become absolutely one of our family circle. I have spoken of this before. You are neither brother nor cousin-what really would you be to her?"

"You know what I would really be."

"I know, but at present it is locked in a box. If you tarry too long you will lose her. I perceive that that would be a blow; and well it might be, for she is a prize a king would be proud to win. Shall we decide it this evening?" Chaytor nodded. "Join us at nine o'clock, and we will settle the matter. It may be advisable that I speak first to Annette. She may need management. I will give you a word of warning. If it goes according to your wish, be more careful in your behaviour. Think a little less of yourself, a little more of her. Be tender, considerate, thoughtful, for a time at least, until you are secure of her. Then it is your affair and hers, and I shall have nought to do with either of you."

"I will take care of that," thought Chaytor, and said aloud, "You think I need your warning?"

"I know you need it. You have either small regard for women, or you are clumsy in your management of them. Before I leave you now, I wish you to sign this paper."

It was a document, carefully worded, which Gilbert Bidaud had drawn out, by which Chaytor bound himself to make no demand upon Annette's guardian for any money or property, which had fallen to Annette upon her father's death. It was in fact, a renunciation of all claims in the present or the future.

"Why should I sign this?" asked Chaytor rebelliously.

"Because it is my wish," replied Gilbert.

"If I refuse?"

"In the first place, you will lose Annette. In the second place, something worse than that will happen to you."

"Through you?"

"Through me. I have a touch of the bloodhound in me. Take heed. Only in alliance with me are you safe."

It was a bold hazard, but it succeeded. Without another word, Chaytor signed the paper.

"Basil Whittingham," said Gilbert Bidaud, examining the signature, and uttering the name with significant emphasis. "Good."

That evening the engagement between Annette and Chaytor was ratified in the presence of Gilbert Bidaud and his sister. The old man had a long conversation with his niece before Chaytor made his appearance. He told her that Basil had formally proposed for her hand, and that knowing her heart was already given to the young man, he had accorded his consent to their union. He spoke in great praise of Basil's character, and skilfully alluded to certain matters which he knew Annette was grieving over.

"You have observed a change in Basil," he said, "so have I; but you, my dear niece, are partly responsible for it. The truth is, Basil was fearful of the manner in which you would receive his declaration. He loves you with so deep and profound a love, and he sets so high a value upon you, that he hardly dared to hope. The uncertainty of his position has made him forget himself; he has committed excesses; he has behaved as if he were not Basil, but another man. You, my dear child, with your simple heart, are ignorant of the vagaries which love's fever, and the fear of disappointment, play in a man's nature. They transform him, and only when his heart is at ease, and he is satisfied that his love is returned, does his better, his higher self return. But for this fear Basil would perhaps have unfolded his heart to you without any intervention, though he has behaved like an honourable man in speaking first to me. You will be very, very happy, my child. I bless you."

Only too ready was Annette to accept this explanation. Implicitly believing in it, and not for one moment suspecting guile or duplicity, she felt her faith and her best hopes restored. When Chaytor came to her, he was for awhile humbled by her sweetness and modesty, and what deficiencies there were in him Annette supplied them out of her faith and trust.

"There is a little formality," said Gilbert Bidaud, intruding upon the lovers. "It is a custom in our family to sign a preliminary marriage contract. Affix your signatures here-you, Basil Whittingham, you, Annette Bidaud. It is well. Before the year is out, we will have a wedding."

Within a week they were in Switzerland, settled in the Villa Bidaud.

CHAPTER XLI

Annette did not remain long in her delusion. Gradually, but surely her bright hopes faded away, to be replaced by a terrible feeling of hopeless resignation. The serpent cannot change its nature, and the worst features in Newman Chaytor's character began to assert themselves soon after the signing the document which Gilbert Bidaud had described as the preliminary marriage contract. He was sure of Annette; what need, therefore, for the wearing of an irksome mask? He threw it aside, and exhibited himself in his true colours, to the grief and despair of the girl he had successfully deceived. She heard him, in conversation with her uncle, use language and utter sentiments at which her soul revolted; she saw him frequently the worse for liquor; and often now she purposely avoided him when he sought her society. Brightness died out of the world, and she thought shudderingly of the future. The flowers in her young heart were withered. And yet she dwelt mournfully upon the image of the man she had adored, and asked herself, Can it be possible-can it be possible? The answer was there, in the same house with her, sitting by her side, pressing her hand, while he uttered coarse jokes, or gazing darkly at Gilbert Bidaud, who was ever ready to give smiles for frowns. For this was the old man's method; he was urbane and light-hearted in the family circle, and nothing that Chaytor said could disturb his equanimity. He had the traitor in his toils, and he played his game with the air of an indulgent master.

The Villa Bidaud was a great rambling house of two storeys, standing in its own grounds. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, and stood far back from the public road; when the strong iron gates were locked it resembled a prison. Annette, chilled at heart, began to feel that it was one and but for the companionship of her faithful maid Emily, her life would have been dark and gloomy indeed. It was a relief to her when her uncle announced that he and the man to whom she was betrothed were going away on business for two or three weeks.

Their mission was special and important, and has been attempted by hundreds of other gulls. Gilbert Bidaud had discovered a system by which he could break the bank at Monte Carlo. The one diversion of the two knaves at the Villa Bidaud was gambling. Never a day passed but they were closeted together in a locked room rattling the dice or shuffling the cards. It may be questioned whether the demon of play is not more potent than the demon of drink, and it is certain that it had so fastened itself upon Newman Chaytor that he could not escape from it. His losses maddened him, but his infatuation led him on to deeper and deeper losses, Gilbert Bidaud always declaring that the luck must change and that the money Chaytor lost was only money lent. Occasionally he professed indifference to the fatal pastime, and lured Chaytor on to persuasion, replying, "Well, as you insist." One day Chaytor, as usual, was savagely growling at his ill-luck, when Gilbert said carelessly: "You can get it all back, ten, twenty, a hundred-fold, if you like."

"How?" eagerly demanded Chaytor.

Then Gilbert unfolded his plan. He had made a wonderful discovery, an absolutely infallible system by which fortunes could be won at the roulette tables of Monte Carlo and elsewhere. Chaytor caught at the bait, but with smaller cunning threw doubt upon it.

"You can demonstrate it," said Gilbert. "I have here a roulette table to which I have not yet introduced you, and upon which I have proved my figures. You shall take the bank, and I will carry out my system. We will play for small stakes. What say you?"

Chaytor suggested that the stakes should be imaginary, but to this the cleverer knave would not agree.

"You insist that the bank must win," he said. "Take the bank and try."

They played for three days, during which, as luck would have it, Gilbert rose invariably a winner. At the end of the third day, he said:

"See now. I have won from you an average of one hundred pounds a day. All we have to do at Monte Carlo is to increase the stakes, and we can win as much as we please. Say, to be moderate, three thousand pounds a day. Fifty days, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Seventy five thousand each."

Chaytor was eager to begin, but there was first a bargain to be struck. In return for the fortune they were to win, and of which Chaytor was to have an equal share, Gilbert Bidaud stipulated that his partner should provide the funds for the venture. At first Chaytor refused, but when Gilbert said, "Very well, there is an end of the matter," he implored to be admitted upon the stipulated terms.

"We commence with a bank of five thousand pounds," said Gilbert.

Chaytor drew a long face at mention of this sum, but he was in the toils and avarice compelled compliance. On the morning of their departure he handed over the amount in Bank of England notes, it being another of Gilbert's conditions that he should be the treasurer. Now, on the previous day, after Chaytor had consented to provide the five thousand pounds, Gilbert had resolved to ascertain where he was in the habit of concealing his treasure. It was easy enough to carry out this resolve. The Villa Bidaud was an old house, with the peculiarities of which Gilbert had made himself familiar at the time he purchased it. In one part of the room in which Chaytor slept, the wall was double, an outer panel admitting of the entrance of any person who wished to play the spy. All he had to do was to ascend three steps, when an artfully concealed peep-hole enabled him to see all the movements of the occupant of the inner room. From that point of observation Gilbert watched Chaytor's proceedings; saw him carefully lock the door and mask the keyhole, so that no one could see into the room through it; saw him as carefully cover the windows and render himself safe in that direction; saw him take his hoard of banknotes from the artfully-contrived pockets in his clothes, count them over, place a small pile aside, and return the balance to its hiding-place. Gilbert saw something more. He beheld Chaytor suddenly pause and look before him, while upon his features gathered a convulsed and horror-stricken expression, as though he was gazing on some appalling phantom. It was at such a moment that the character of Chaytor's face became entirely changed, all likeness to Basil being completely obliterated. Chaytor's arms were stretched out in the act of repelling a presence visible only to himself; his limbs trembled, a cold sweat bathed his countenance, and he exhibited all the symptoms of a man in the throes of a mortal agony.

Slowly and thoughtfully Gilbert left his post and returned to his own apartment. His suspicions were absolutely confirmed, so far as the evidence he had obtained could confirm them. On the following morning he and Chaytor took their departure.

"They part from us without regret," he observed as they rode away. "Who are they?" asked Chaytor, in a morose tone. He knew to whom his companion referred. Annette had exhibited no concern when he informed her that business compelled a separation of a couple of weeks. She had received this intimation in silence, and when he kissed her good bye had not returned his kiss. He inwardly resolved that when he and Annette were married she should pay for her growing coldness towards him.

"I was thinking of my niece," replied Gilbert. "She displayed but small grief at the departure of her lover. And such a lover!"

Chaytor looked sharply at him, for there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but Gilbert's countenance was expressionless.

"Women are queer cattle," he said roughly.

"True, true," assented Gilbert, "and cattle must be taught to know who are their masters. Bah! We will not talk of them. Let us rather talk of the fortune we are pursuing and shall overtake."

So they fell to discussing this most agreeable theme, and indulging in visions of vast gains. Chaytor did not know what his companion knew-that the "system" discovered by Gilbert would have been really a certain thing but for one combination or series of figures which might not be drawn for many days together.

It was upon the chance of this series not presenting itself that Gilbert relied; if they escaped it, their purses would be filled; if it occurred, it was not his money that would be lost.

No time was wasted at Monte Carlo: within an hour of their arrival they commenced to play, and before they retired to rest they counted their winnings.

"Are you satisfied?" asked Gilbert gaily.

"No," replied Chaytor, feverishly fingering the gold and notes. "We must win more, more!"

"We will. The world is at our feet. Let us divide."

This was a part of Gilbert's plan; the winnings of each day were to be divided; thus he made sure of gain to himself, whatever might happen to his partner. For some days their operations prospered, and then came the inevitable bad experience. They sustained a loss, another, another; a large sum had to be staked to recover their losses, and that also was swept in by the croupiers, upon whose stony faces ruin and despair produced no impression. Chaytor stormed and reviled, and Gilbert listened with calmness to his reproaches. In desperation the younger man took the game in hand himself, and plunged wildly at the tables, Gilbert looking on in silence. The result was that, after a fortnight had passed, Chaytor had lost ten thousand pounds of his ill-gotten wealth.