Basil and Annette

"Good," said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his pocket. "The bargain must be completed to-night, after which without loss of time, I should advise you to disappear. I will make excuses to my niece; she will not be anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight, here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you have purchased safety we will bid each other an eternal farewell. I will have a horse ready for you, on which you can ride to-where you please. Let us now return to the bosom of my beloved family; a longer absence may arouse suspicion."

CHAPTER XLIII

During the visit of Gilbert and Chaytor to Monte Carlo some important action had been taken by Annette's staunch maid, Emily. Loyal to the backbone to her young mistress, she had fully sympathised with her in her unhappiness, and had gone farther than Annette, in her reflections upon the future. She saw that a marriage with a man to whom Annette had pledged herself would result in lifelong misery, and she set her mind to work to consider how the dreadful consequence could be averted. She saw but one way to accomplish this; she and her mistress must fly from the Villa Bidaud. She did not moot this project to Annette, for whenever she commenced to speak upon the subject of the approaching union Annette stopped her, and would not listen to what she had to say. "But at the last moment," thought the faithful maid, "when she sees that there is no other escape for her, she will agree to fly with me from this horrible place. We will go to mother in Bournemouth; she will be safer there than in these wicked foreign countries." Having reached thus far in her deliberations she did not pursue them farther; she was not an argumentative person, and she was comfortably satisfied with the general reflection that, after that, things would be sure to come all right. Such a belief is common with numbers of worthy people when they are considering knotty questions, and if it evidences no deep powers of mental analysis, is at all events a proof of the possession of an inherent dependence upon the goodness of Providence-which, in its way, is a kind of religion not to be despised.

With a certain conclusion in her mind, Annette busied herself as to the means of carrying it out when the proper time arrived. By Gilbert Bidaud's orders the gates were kept locked, and the duty of opening them devolved upon a man who did all the outdoor work in the house and grounds. Emily's advances towards this man met with no response; other means, therefore, must be tried. She had always been successful in making friends outside Gilbert Bidaud's establishment, through whom she obtained her letters from home, and the friend she had made in the village in which the Villa Bidaud was situated was the woman who kept the post-house. It was a matter easily arranged. Annette was a liberal mistress, and Emily was a saving girl; a judicious system of small bribes effected all that Emily desired in this respect. Twice or thrice every week she visited the post-mistress to enquire for letters, and these visits were made in the night, the darkest hours being chosen. The gates being locked she could not get out that way, and she sought another mode of egress. She found it in the lodge in which Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor held their conference. There was a secure lock on the front door, of which Gilbert, or his sister, kept the key, but the lock on the back door was frail, and Emily discovered how to manage it, so that she could get in and out of the lodge without any person being the wiser. Once inside the lodge Emily would creep up the stairs to the first floor, the window of the back room of which almost touched the stone wall which ran round the grounds. This wall was some seven feet in height, but there were dilapidations in it which served for foot-holes, and by means of these luckily-formed steps the courageous girl was enabled to pass to and fro and make the desired visits to the post-mistress. Of course there was the danger of discovery, but Emily was a girl in a thousand, and the extraordinary care she took in these enterprises was a fair guarantee of safety. The lonely situation of the house assisted her; there were nights when, for hours together, not a human being traversed the narrow road into which the front gate opened.

On the night of the secret interview between Gilbert and Chaytor, Emily had planned a visit to the post-mistress. She made her way into the lodge unobserved, crept up the stairs in the dark, and was about to open the back window, when her attention was arrested by a sound below, which, as she afterwards described, sent her heart into her mouth. It was the sound of the unlocking of the front door. Emily's heart went rub-a-dub with the fear that she was discovered, but as the slow minutes passed without anything occurring, her fear lessened, and she became sufficiently composed to give attention to the circumstances. Softly opening the door which led to the staircase, she heard voices in a room below which she recognised as those of Gilbert Bidaud and the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. What had they come there to say? Why could they not have spoken in the house? They must be hatching some plot against her young mistress. At all hazards, she would try to hear what they were saying to each other. Quietly, very quietly, she descended the stairs, setting her feet down with the greatest care, and pausing between each step. A cat could not have trod more noiselessly than she. At length she reached the door beyond which the conversation was taking place, and crouching down she applied her eye to the keyhole. There were the two men, one with a smile on his face, the other, dark and sinister; and Emily observed that they were not standing side by side, but that a broad table was between them. This precaution had been taken by Gilbert, who was quite prepared for any sudden attempt at violence on Chaytor's part.

Emily was too late to hear all that was said, but she heard enough. Had she not exercised control over her feelings she would have screamed with mingled joy and horror; as it was, the tears ran down her face as fast as she wiped them away, for she wanted to see as much as she could. The brave girl thanked God that a fortunate conjuncture had made her a witness of the interview between the two villains. Now, certainly, her dear mistress was saved, and she the instrument to avert the misery with which she was threatened; for it was not alone the projected marriage which was breaking Annette's heart, but the loss of faith in the purity and nobility of Basil's nature. Emily waited very nearly to the end; she saw Gilbert take out his watch and count the moments, she heard the bargain agreed to and the second interview at midnight planned, and then, just in time, she crept up the stairs as softly as she had crept down, and waited in the room above until the two men left the lodge.

What now should she do? Return to the house, and acquaint Annette with what she had heard, or go to the post-mistress to see if there was a letter for her? If she went straight to Annette she might not have another opportunity of getting out that night; besides, she expected a letter from her mother, and was anxious for it. She decided to go first to the post-mistress; Annette knew that she would be away for some little while, and had said, "I shall wait up for you, Emily."

She threw open the window, and climbed on to the wall, and down into the road. It was very dark, and as Gilbert Bidaud had prognosticated, a storm was gathering, but Emily knew her way well to the post-office, and was not afraid of darkness. So she sped along under the waving branches and over black shadows till she arrived at her destination. Once on her way she was startled; she thought she saw something more substantial than shadow moving by the road side, but after pausing to look and listen her alarm subsided; all was quiet and still.

There was no light in the post-house, which was little better than a cottage, but Emily did not expect to see one. She tapped at the shutters, and a woman's voice from within asked if that was "Miss Emily." The girl answering in the affirmative, a woman appeared at the door and bade her enter.

"Have you a letter for me?" said Emily.

"Yes," the woman replied, "she had a letter for her," and produced it.

"Why," cried Emily, "this is not from England?" No, said the woman, it was not from England, and explained that a gentleman had visited her in the evening, and had made enquiries concerning the Villa Bidaud and its inmates. Hearing that Miss Annette Bidaud was there, he had then inquired for the young lady's maid, mentioning her by name, Miss Emily Crawford. The gentleman asked if the post-mistress was likely to see the girl, and whether she could convey a letter to her secretly that night or early in the morning. The post-mistress said she could not promise to do so that night, but she would endeavour to convey the letter in the morning, and added that it was not unlikely Miss Emily would come before them to inquire for letters. "If she does," said the gentleman, "give her this, and ask her to read it here, before she goes back to the villa. It is a letter of the utmost importance, and it must fall into no other hands than Miss Emily's." The post-mistress concluded by saying that the gentleman had paid her well for the service, and that she was sure there was something very particular in the letter.

Emily, although burning with impatience, listened quietly to the tale, holding the letter tight in her hand all the time, and when the woman had done speaking asked only one question.

"Was the gentleman an Englishman?"

"Yes," replied the woman; "he was an Englishman."

Then Emily opened the letter, and read:

"My Dear Miss Emily Crawford,, – The writer of this is Old Corrie, Miss Annette's sincere and faithful friend. He has seen your mother in Bournemouth, and has come here post haste to defeat a plot to ruin your dear young mistress's happiness. He has a gentleman with him little lady will be glad to see. If you get this letter to-night, don't be frightened if Old Corrie speaks to you as you go back to the Villa Bidaud. Not an hour should be lost to unmask the villain and secure little lady's happiness. You are a brave, good girl. If you don't get this letter till the morning, come at once to the back of the school-house, where you will see little lady's true friend,

"Old Corrie."

The letter had been composed partly by Basil and partly by Old Corrie, who had written it himself. Emily's eyes sparkled as she read. She bade the post-mistress good-night, thanked her for the letter, said it contained good news, and went away with a heart as light as a bird's. So light, indeed, that she carolled softly to herself as she stepped very, very slowly along the dark, narrow road, and the words she carolled were:

"I am Emily Crawford, and I have got your letter. Where are you, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?" The song could not have been put into lines that would scan, but blither, happier words with true poetry in them, were never sung by human voice.

"Where are you, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?" sang the girl, and paused and listened, and went on again, singing.

"Here I am," said a kindly voice, "and God bless you for a true heart!"

"Stop a moment, please," said the girl; who now that the reality was close by her side, could not help feeling startled. "Are you sure you are Old Corrie, my dear mistress's friend from Australia? The gentleman with a bear, you know?"

"You do well to doubt," said Old Corrie, "with what is going on around you in this outlandish country. I am the man I say. Stand still while I strike a light, so that you can see me. We have a bull's-eye lantern with us. Is little lady well?"

"Her heart is breaking," said Emily. "But I have good news for her before she sleeps to-night."

"And so have we, my dear, if you can get us to her."

"Let me hold the lantern, Mr. Corrie, said Emily.

"No, my dear, you might drop it; there is a surprise in store for you and for everyone in the villa yonder with its stone walls. There, the lamp's alight, and you can see my face, dark as the night is. Do you think you can trust me?"

"Yes, I do, and it was only out of curiosity I wanted to look at you." And then Emily cried, "Oh!"

"What is it, my dear?" asked Old Corrie.

"There is another," said Emily, gasping.

"There are two others; we have come prepared."

He whispered something in her ear which caused her to cry "Oh!" more than once, and to clap her hands in wonderment.

"May I see him?" she asked in a whisper.

The answer was given by Basil himself, who came forward and took her by the hand, while the light, directed by Old Corrie, shone upon his face.

"It is wonderful, wonderful!" she exclaimed, and added under her breath, "But I think I should have known."

In the expression of which opinion she paid a higher tribute to her judgment than she could have rightly claimed for it; but this, at such a time and in such circumstances, was a small matter.

Mr. Philpott, who had been standing silently in the rear, now joined the party.

"Don't be frightened, my dear," said Old Corrie; "there are no more of us. What we've got to do now is to decide what is to be done, how is it to be done, and when is it to be done."

"First," interposed Mr. Philpott, to whom, by tacit consent, the command had been given, "Miss Emily will perhaps give us an explanation of certain words she spoke a minute ago. Are we quite private here, Miss Emily?"

"It's hardly likely," replied Emily, "that a living soul will pass along this road till daybreak."

"So much the better. You said just now that Miss Bidaud's heart was breaking, but that you had good news for her before she went to sleep to-night. Did you mean by that that our arrival here was the good news?"

"No, I meant something very different, something that you ought to know before you decide what to do."

"I thought as much. Well, let us hear it, my girl."

Thereupon Emily related all that she had overheard between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor. It was difficult for Basil to curb his excitement, and whenever an indignant exclamation passed his lips, Emily paused in sympathy, but he was too sensible of the value of time to frequently interrupt her, and as she spoke quickly, her tale did not occupy many minutes.

"This story," said Mr. Philpott, with a beaming face, "decides what is to be done, and how and when. The road is prepared for us by the villains themselves. It is a bold move I am about to suggest, but to adopt half-and-half measures with these scoundrels would be ridiculous."

Basil and Old Corrie said they were prepared for any move, however bold and daring, and were only too eager to undertake it.

"We mustn't be to eager," said Mr. Philpott; "cool and steady is our watchword. Now, Miss Emily, can you get us into the grounds of the villa to-night?"

"If I can get in," said the girl, "you can get in."

"And one of us into the lodge where the scoundrels are to meet at midnight?"

"Yes," said Emily, unhesitatingly.

"You are a girl after my own heart," said Mr. Philpott, admiringly. "There is a risk, you know, and you will have a share in it. It wouldn't be right for me to deceive you."

"I don't mind the risk," said the courageous girl. "I want to help to save my dear young lady from these wretches and monsters."

"God bless you, Emily," said Basil, pressing her hand, and Emily felt that she needed no other reward.

Mr. Philpott then described his plan. Guided by Emily, they were all to get into the grounds, when their forces were to be thus disposed of: Basil and Old Corrie were to hide in the grounds as close as possible to the back door of the lodge; they were not to move or speak; Emily was to return to the house, and impart to Annette all that she knew, and in this way prepare her for what was to follow; both Annette and her maid were to be ready to come from the house to the lodge upon a given signal; Mr. Philpott was to conceal himself in one of the upper rooms of the lodge, and no movement whatever was to be made until he blew loudly upon a policeman's whistle. The moment this signal was given, Basil and Old Corrie were to enter the lodge through the back door, which Emily would leave unlocked, but properly closed, so as to excite no suspicion in the minds of Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor-and proceed at once to the lower room, in which these men were located; and Annette and Emily were to leave the house and come immediately to the lodge.

"All this," said Mr. Philpott aside to Basil, "is not exactly lawful, and if Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Chaytor had right on their side we should get into trouble. But we have the whip hand of them and are safe. I anticipate very little difficulty, only neither of our men must be allowed to escape until we have settled with them."

The party proceeded to the villa, Emily walking a little ahead with Basil, to whom she imparted how matters stood with her young mistress.

"Her heart was truly breaking," said the girl, "and she could never have lived through it, never! But she will soon be her dear, bright self again. All, sir, she is the sweetest lady that ever drew breath-and O, how these wretches have made her suffer! But there is happiness coming to her. I could sing for joy, indeed I could, sir!"

CHAPTER XLIV

All was still in house and grounds and lodge. The dark clouds were growing black, but the storm had not yet burst. A clock in the hall struck twelve, and, as if the chimes had called them forth, Gilbert and Chaytor issued from the house, and walked to their rendezvous. Each man was occupied with his own special thoughts, and each kept a wary eye upon the other's shadowed form.

"I left the door of the lodge open," said Gilbert. "Enter."

"After you," said Chaytor.

"Pardon me," said Gilbert, "after you."

Chaytor laughed and stepped into the passage. Gilbert followed, pausing to light a small lamp he carried in his hand. Upon entering the room he lit the larger lamp on the table, on one side of which he placed himself, Chaytor being on the other.

"You seem to be afraid of me," said Chaytor.

"I do not trust you," responded Gilbert.

"There is small temptation for trustfulness between such men as we," said Chaytor. Gilbert nodded quietly. "Well, you have your game, and have won a pretty large stake. Can't you be satisfied with what you have got?"

"You know my terms; the time for discussing them has gone by."

"But there was something forgotten. You made me sign two documents, and you have spoken of forgery."

"You are correct. The production of these documents with the name of Basil Whittingham attached to them in your handwriting would be sufficient to convict you."

"For that reason I do not choose to leave them in your possession. If I pay you the five thousand pounds you are robbing me of you will have to give them up."

"They are here," said Gilbert, producing them, "and will be useless to me when you are gone. You can have them and welcome when the money is paid. You go to-night."

"I go to-night, and hope never to set eyes upon you or yours again."

"My dear friend," said Gilbert, with a courteous bow, "the hope is reciprocal. Let us not prolong this interview. Open your bank and purchase freedom."

Chaytor unbuttoned his waistcoat, and from an inner pocket extracted two bundles of bank notes. Gilbert held out his hand.

"No, no, old fox," said Chaytor. "There are three times five thousand pounds here." He looked at Gilbert savagely.

"If," said the old man, laughing lightly, "by a wish you could burn me to ashes where I stand, you would breathe that wish willingly."

"Most willingly."

"But why? I am dealing tenderly, mercifully by you. In right and justice this money belongs not to you. It belongs to Basil Whittingham. If he were here he could take possession of it, and neither you nor I would care to gainsay him. It being, therefore, as much mine as yours, I let you off lightly by demanding so small a sum. Come, let us finish the comedy; it is time the curtain fell. Count out the price of liberty, the price of my silence, and let us take an affectionate farewell of each other."

"Are you sure we are alone?"

"Do you think I would reveal our conspiracy to a third person? In my pleasant house every human being is asleep; they dream not of the grief which will fill their hearts to-morrow when they learn that you have departed."

"Give me the papers I have signed. Here is your share of the robbery. You had better count it to make sure."

As Gilbert bent over the table to count the notes, Chaytor, with a swift movement, drew a heavy life-preserver from his breast, and aimed a murderous blow at the old man's head. But Gilbert was too quick for him; he had but one eye on the money he was fingering, the other was furtively watching his companion. He darted back, and so escaped the blow; the weapon descended upon the table, and this shock and the violent movements of the men overturned the lamps, the light of which was instantly extinguished. Each man had but one hand disengaged, Chaytor holding the life-preserver and Gilbert a pistol, which he had brought with him as a protection against treachery. The moment the room was in darkness the two disengaged hands groped over the table for the money, and were fiercely clasped. And now a surprising incident occurred. Upon these two hands a third hand was laid, and before they could free themselves were handcuffed together. Simultaneously with this startling and secure manacling of their hands the pistol was knocked from Gilbert's grasp and the life-preserver from Chaytor's; and then a shrill whistle pierced the air and drove the blood from the cheeks of the conspirators. Hurried sounds of steps resounded through the passage.

"This way!" cried Mr. Philpott. "The door is open. Strike a light."

But a light came from another quarter. A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the apartment, and in that flash Newman Chaytor beheld the form of Basil Whittingham, whose death he believed he had compassed on the gold field across the seas. His face grew livid, a heavy groan escaped his lips, and his head fell forward on the table.

"See if you can relight one of the lamps," said Mr. Philpott.

Both the lamps were soon lighted, the glass of only one having been broken. Then Gilbert Bidaud, who had uttered no word during this succession of startling incidents, saw two men whose faces were strange to him, and one whose face he recognised. Manacled as he was to his insensible partner in crime, and unable to release himself, he instantly regained his self-possession.

"If I mistake not," he said, in a tone of exceeding urbanity, "Mr. Basil Whittingham, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making on my brother's plantation in Australia. I suspected from the first that this log lying here was an impostor. It is but a sorry welcome I am able to give you, in consequence of the unlawful proceedings of a ruffian" – he glanced at Mr. Philpott-"who shall answer for the assault in a court of law."

"Do not say one word to him, sir," interposed Mr. Philpott, seeing that Basil was about to speak; "leave him to me; I know how to deal with such cattle. I promise to tame him before I have done with him."

"It will be well for you to bear in mind," said Gilbert, still addressing Basil, "that this is my house, and that you are trespassing illegally upon my property. However, for the sake of old times, and for the sake of my niece, I am agreeable to waive that, and come to an amicable settlement with you."

"He speaks very good English for a foreigner," said Mr. Philpott, "and, I'll wager, understands the law as well as we do. I am an officer of the law" – (Mr. Philpott was satisfied that he was quite safe in indulging in this fiction) – "and I tell him plainly that he as laid himself open to a criminal action for conspiracy."

"Shall I not have the pleasure," said Gilbert to Basil, ignoring Mr. Philpott, "of hearing what you have to say in response to the flag of peace I hold out?"

"He is a shrewd customer, sir," said Mr. Philpott, "and if this flag of peace means absolute and unconditional surrender I am ready to consider it. It may interest him to learn that we are in possession of all the particulars of the interview which took place between him and the insensible party he is fastened to, and of the bargain they made to share your money. That tickles him, I see, but it is only one out of a handful of trumps we happen to hold. I will take care of these notes" – he gathered them up-"and we will go into accounts later on."