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 BASIL AND ANNETTE.
 
 BASIM§# ANNETTE, 
 
 J> 
 
 B. L. PARJEON. 
 
 Author op 
 
 BLADE-O'-GRASS," "GRIF," "TOILERS OF BABYLON, 
 " THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX," etc. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL, I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1890,
 
 PRINTED in 
 
 KELLY ANI» CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS 
 
 \ND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
 
 V.I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 <J&> CHAPTER 
 
 I. 
 
 1- 
 
 55 
 
 II. 
 III. 
 
 
 55 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 
 55 
 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 
 x 
 
 
 
 *o 
 
 55 
 
 IX. 
 
 4 
 o 
 
 55 
 
 X. 
 
 
 
 XI. 
 
 XII. 
 
 v^ 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 5 5 
 
 XIII. 
 
 1 
 
 
 XIV. 
 
 \ 
 
 '" 
 
 XV. 
 
 
 
 
 (8 
 
 
 XVI. 
 
 1 
 
 26 
 
 44 
 
 54 
 
 64 
 
 76 
 
 88 
 
 103 
 
 120 
 
 128 
 
 141) 
 
 179 
 
 194 
 
 21 G 
 
 233 
 
 246 

 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE.
 
 PO PULAR NEW NOVE LS. 
 
 Now Ready, in One Vol., the Eighth Edition of 
 
 ARMY SOCIETY ; or, Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange 
 Winter, Author of "Booties' Baby." Cloth gilt, 6*.; also 
 picture boards, 2s. 
 
 Also, Now Ready, in Cloth Gilt, 2s. Hd. each. 
 
 GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By JOHN 
 
 Strange Winter. Also picture boards, 2s. 
 A SIEGE BABY. By the same Author. Also picture boards, 2*. 
 BEAUTIFUL JIM. By the same Author. Also picture boards, 2s. 
 MRS. BOB. By the same Author. 
 BY WOMAN'S WIT. By Mrs. Alexander, Author of "The 
 
 Wooing O't." Also picture boards, 2s. 
 MONA'S CHOICE. By the same Author. Also picture boards, 2*. 
 A LIFE INTEREST. By the same Author. Also picture boards, 2*. 
 KILLED IN THE OPEN. By Mrs. Edward Kennard. Also 
 
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 THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. A Sporting Novel. By 
 
 the same AUTHOR. Also picture boards, 2s. 
 A REAL GOOD THING. By the same AUTHOR. Also picture 
 
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 A CRACK COUNTY. By the same Author. Also picture boards, 2s. 
 LANDING A PRIZE. By the same AUTHOR. 
 STRAIGHT AS A DIE. By the same AUTHOR. Also picture 
 
 TWILIGHT TALES. By the same AUTHOR. {Illustrated.) 
 
 MATRON OR MAID. By the same Author. 
 
 IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs. LOVETT-Cameron. (Picture 
 
 boards, 2s.) 
 A DEVOUT LOVER. By the same AUTHOR. (Picture boards, 2s.) 
 THE COST OF A LIE. By the same AUTHOR. Also picture boards, 25. 
 THIS WICKED WORLD. By the same AUTHOR. 
 A LOST WIFE. By the same AUTHOR. 
 
 THE OUTSIDER. By Hawley Smart. (Picture boards, 2s.) 
 THE MASTER OF RATHKELLY. By the same AUTHOR. Also In 
 
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 LONG ODDS. By the same AUTHOR. 
 
 MISS MEPHISTOPHELES. By FERGUS HUME. Also picture boards.25. 
 SHE CAME BETWEEN. Bv Mrs. ALEXANDER FRASER. 
 DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA. By the same AUTHOR. 
 THE CRUSADE OF THE " EXCELSIOR." By BRET HARTE. Also 
 
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 MISS KATE. By the same AUTHOR. 
 DREAM FACES. By The Hon. Mrs. Fetherstonhaugh. 
 THE HONBLE. MRS. VEREKER. By the Author of " Molly 
 
 Bawn," &c. Also picture boards, 25. 
 A LIFE'S REMORSE. By the same AUTHOR. 
 THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE. Bv B. L. Farjeon. 
 TOILERS OF BABYLON. By the same AUTHOR. 
 A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE. By the same AUTHOR. 
 THE RIVAL PRINCESS. By Justin M'Carthy, M.P., and Bin. 
 
 Campbell Praed. 
 THE LADIES' GALLERY. By the same Authors. 
 VIOLET VYVIAN, M.F.H. By MAY CROMMELIN and J. MORAY 
 
 BROWN. 
 A WOMAN'S FACE. By Florence WARDEN, Author of "The 
 
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 SYBIL ROSS'S MARRIAGE. By F. C. PHlLirs and C. J. WILLS. 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE 
 
 CHAPTtiE I. 
 
 In tlie old world the reign of winter has 
 commenced. The woods are snow-white, the 
 hedges are frosted over, the pools are 
 frozen, icicles hang from the branches of 
 the trees. Wayfarers walk briskly, stamp 
 their feet, and beat their hands to keep 
 the circulation going ; while other humans, 
 whom business does not call from their houses, 
 snuggle round the fireside, with doors and 
 windows closed to keep out the nipping air. 
 Winged immigrants that came in the sweet 
 spring days have long since taken their de- 
 parture to warmer climes, bearing with them 
 memories of a bright youth, to be renewed 
 when another spring smiles upon the land. 
 
 In the new world, at the same moment, it 
 is nature's holiday time. The air is scented 
 with the fragrance of white lilies and jessa- 
 vol. i. 1
 
 2 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 mine ; fringed violets carpet the woods ; the 
 wild passion fruit, with its gleaming scarlet 
 flowers, illuminates the bushes ; the palm-tree 
 rears its graceful head above festoons of 
 feathery leaves, in which clumps of red berries 
 shine like clusters of stars ; tall quandong- 
 trees and wild plums shoot up straight as 
 arrows, for the most part clear of vines and 
 creepers, but not always successful in escaping 
 the embrace of the stag's horn fern, one of the 
 handsomest of all Australia's parasites ; and 
 the white-wooded umbrella-tree proudly asserts 
 its claim to pre-eminence, with its darkly 
 lustrous laurel-shaped leaves surmounted by 
 long radiating spikes of crimson flowers, the 
 brilliancy of which rivals the glowing sunset 
 of the South. Through the grand forests, in 
 which for unnumbered ages the dusky savage 
 has roamed in freedom, never dreaming of the 
 invasion of a higher civilisation, flit flocks of 
 resplendent parrots, chief among them being 
 the blue mountain, the rosella, and the crim- 
 son wing ; black cockatoos, with their dazzling 
 tails spread out, are lurking in the branches 
 of the bloodwood trees, where they find both 
 food and shelter ; flycatchers, all green and 
 gold, are cunningly watching the waterholes
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 3 
 
 for prey ; laughing jackasses, with their blue 
 feathers and cold grey eyes, which are now 
 twinkling with fun, are making merry over 
 the absurd antics of native companions, whose 
 conceited hoppings and twirlings are comic 
 enough to inspire mirth in the dullest denizens 
 of the woods ; while the soft musical notes of 
 the bell-birds, all green and purple, blue and 
 golden, make harmonious the west wind which 
 travels from the beeches, and till the air with 
 melody strange and sweet. 
 
 Within hail of these summer evidences of 
 loveliness and grandeur stand two men, one 
 young, the other not yet middle-aged. The 
 younger man, whose name is Basil Whitting- 
 ham, is the embodiment of careless, indolent 
 grace, but just now he is evincing an unusual 
 earnestness of manner, both in speaking and 
 listening. His age is barely twenty-three, and 
 he bears about him the unmistakable stamp 
 of gentleman. This is not always the case 
 with men who have honest claims to the title, 
 but with some few it is a gift. It is so with 
 Basil Whittingham. He has blue eyes, fair 
 hair, a supple, graceful form, a laughing mouth, 
 with teeth like pearl, delicate hands, and a 
 long light-brown moustache, which he evi-
 
 4 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 dently regards as a magnificent possession, 
 and cherishes and nurses as a thing of beauty. 
 Otherwise he has not much to be proud of in 
 the shape of possessions, for his clothes would 
 be anything but presentable in Mayfair, though 
 here in the Australian woods they may serve 
 well enough. His trousers, tucked into old 
 knee boots, have conspicuously seen their best 
 days ; his shirt, of some light material, has 
 rents in it, showing the fair skin of his arms 
 embrowned by the sun where the sun could 
 get at them ; the sash round his waist is frayed 
 and faded ; his wide-awake hat, sound in 
 front, is tattered at the back, where it flaps 
 loosely over his flowing hair ; and, moreover, 
 he is smoking a short black cutty. Yet de- 
 spite these drawbacks, if drawbacks they can 
 be called in this land of freedom, freer indeed 
 than any republic under the sun, even the 
 most ordinary observer would be ready to 
 acknowledge that the man was a gentleman. 
 One, for instance, who would not do a dirty 
 trick, who would not tell a lie to serve his own 
 interests, who would not betray a friend, and 
 who would be more likely to wrong himself 
 than others. Tender, simple, brave ; fearless, 
 but not foolhardy ; open-hearted, confiding,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 5 
 
 and unsuspicious of sinister motives in those 
 with whom he has once shaken hands ; with 
 a sense of humour which lightens adversity ; 
 regretting not the past, though he has wilfully 
 steered his boat into the Bay of Poverty, and 
 dreading not the future : such is Basil 
 Whittingham, a typical type of an honest, 
 frank, manly English gentleman. 
 
 His companion, by name Anthony Bidaud, 
 was born and bred in Switzerland, but is of 
 French extraction. He speaks English flu- 
 ently, so well indeed that those who serve 
 him will not believe he is a foreigner. He 
 has not yet reached middle age, but he looks 
 sixty at least, and on his worn, anxious face 
 dwells the expression of a man who is waiting 
 for a mortal stroke. He is well dressed, after 
 the free bush fashion, and is no less a gentle- 
 man than Basil Whittingham. It is the mutual 
 recognition of social equality that keeps Basil 
 penniless and poorly clad, for he is a guest, 
 not a dependent, on the plantation of which 
 Anthony Bidaud is master. This state of 
 things suits the careless nature of the younger 
 gentleman, who, welcomed and received by 
 Anthony Bidaud as an equal, takes a pride 
 in holding himself free from the touch of
 
 6 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 servitude. Perhaps Annette, of whom you 
 shall presently hear, serves as a factor in the 
 attitude he has chosen. 
 
 Being the hero of our story, it is needful 
 that something should be related of his career 
 in the home country. 
 
 His parents were Devonshire people, and he 
 their only child. It was supposed that his 
 father was a man of fortune ; he lived as one, 
 kept hounds and horses, and maintained a 
 costly establishment. Needless to say that 
 Basil was the idol of his parents ; he was also 
 the idol of a wealthy uncle, to whom he paid 
 a visit once in every year, and who, being 
 childless, had announced his intention of 
 making Basil his heir. Thus, all seemed 
 smooth and pleasant-sailing before the young 
 fellow. But misfortunes came ; at the age of 
 fourteen he lost his mother. The memory of 
 the solemn moments he spent by her bedside 
 before she closed her eyes upon the world 
 abided ever with Basil, whose passionate 
 adoration for the dear mother was a good 
 testimony of his affectionate disposition. But 
 there was something deeper than affection in 
 the feelings he entertained for her. She had 
 been to him more than a loving mother ; she
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 7 
 
 had been his truest counsellor and friend. 
 Upon her had devolved the father's duty of 
 inculcating in their child those strict principles 
 of honour and rigdit-doing; which set the seal 
 of true manhood upon him who follows them 
 out in his course through life. Basil's father 
 was of an easy, genial nature, and it was from 
 him that Basil inherited a cheerfulness of 
 temper and a sense of humour which lessened 
 evils instead of magnifying them. The higher 
 qualities of his character came from his 
 mother. Lying on her death-bed she impressed 
 upon him the beauty of honesty and upright- 
 ness, and the lad's heart responded to her 
 teaching. 
 
 " Never look to consequences, my dear 
 child," she said. " Do always what is right ; 
 and when you are a man counsel and guide 
 your dear father." 
 
 He promised to obey her, but it was not 
 until many years had passed that he knew 
 what she meant when she told him to counsel 
 and guide his father. It was she who had 
 steered her husband's boat when it had sot 
 into troubled waters, and steered it always 
 into a safe harbour. No one knew it, no one 
 suspected it ; not even her husband, who be-
 
 8 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 lieved that it was due to himself alone that 
 he escaped dangers which threatened him 
 from time to time ; but this ignorance was 
 due to her wisdom, and partly, also, to her 
 love ; rather than wound his feelings, she 
 preferred to suffer herself. It is not to be 
 inferred from this remark that she had not 
 led a happy life ; she had, and her home was 
 happy in the truest sense ; but she sighed to 
 think of her husband, left alone to grapple 
 with difficulties which his easy nature pre- 
 vented him from seeing. 
 
 She had a private fortune of her own, and 
 with her husband's consent she made a will 
 devising it all to her son, with the exception 
 of some small legacies to humble friends. 
 The money was to be invested, and to accu- 
 mulate till Basil was twenty-one years of age, 
 when he was to come into possession of it ; so 
 that, even without his uncle, he was comfort- 
 ably provided for. A short time after his 
 mother's death his father announced his in- 
 tention of giving up his establishment in the 
 country and settling in London. The home 
 in which he had passed so many happy years 
 with his wife was desolate and sad now that 
 she was gone from it ; he wandered through
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 9 
 
 the rooms with a weight on his heart which 
 memory made heavier instead of lighter. 
 
 " Yes, Basil," he said to his son, " it is the 
 best thing I can do. If I remain here I 
 shall lose my reason ; I must find some dis- 
 traction from grief." 
 
 Basil was too young to question this de- 
 cision ; what his father resolved upon .must 
 be right. The old home was sold up, and 
 father and son removed to London. Then 
 came the question of Basil's education. His 
 uncle considered removal to London a step 
 in the wrong direction, and he wrote to that 
 effect ; he also expressed his opinion that 
 London was an unsuitable place in which to 
 conduct a } T oung gentleman's education. 
 " Give the lad a tutor," lie said, " and let 
 him travel." This was done, and before he 
 was fifteen } T ears of age Basil was living on 
 the Continent, picking up knowledge and 
 picking up pleasure in not quite equal quan- 
 tities, the latter predominating. It was an 
 agreeable life, and Basil did not harm by it. 
 Every year he came to England, and spent a 
 month with his father in London, and a week 
 with his uncle in the country. On one occa- 
 sion he and his uncle spent this week together
 
 10 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 in the great city, living at Morley's Hotel, 
 Charing Cross, and seeing the sights, and this 
 visit was destined to be pregnant with strange 
 results in years to come. Except upon all 
 other occasions the uncle received Basil in 
 the country. The old gentleman was full of 
 quips and cranks and imaginary ills. He 
 fancied himself an invalid, and coddled him- 
 self up absurdly ; and Basil, when he visited 
 him, seldom left the house. The forced seclu- 
 sion did not trouble the young fellow ; he 
 could make himself happy anywhere. Cer- 
 tainly there were few dull moments in his 
 uncle's house when Basil was in it, and the 
 old gentleman, while not objecting to a dis- 
 play of animal spirits, improved the oppor- 
 tunity by endeavouring to drive into his 
 nephew's head a special kind of worldly 
 wisdom. As, for instance : All men are 
 rogues (ourselves excepted). Never open 
 your heart to a friend (except to an uncle 
 who is going to leave you all his money). 
 Keep your secrets. Spend your money on 
 your own pleasures and your own ambitions. 
 Never make yourself responsible for another 
 man's debts. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera 
 This kind of counsel was showered upon
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 11 
 
 Basil, and produced no effect upon him what- 
 ever ; he was spared the trouble of arguing 
 upon these matters, even if he were in the 
 humour for it — which he was not ; he had a 
 knack of avoiding disagreeable topics by his 
 uncle's everlasting assertion that the counsel 
 he gave was absolutely indisputable, and was 
 to be received as such. 
 
 " All right, uncle," said Basil ; " now let us 
 talk of something else." 
 
 And he would fly off into accounts of such 
 of his Continental adventures as he knew 
 would please the old fellow. He had a capi- 
 tal gift of description, and the old man would 
 sit huddled up in his arm-chair, cracking his 
 sides at his nephew's wit. Basil never bade 
 his uncle good-bye without a cheque for a 
 substantial sum in his pocket. He was 
 liberally provided for by his father, but he did 
 not despise his uncle's gifts. Seeing that his 
 stories of his travels amused his uncle, he said 
 that he would one day write a book. 
 
 " And when you write it," his uncle said, 
 " burn it. Write a book indeed ! Put your 
 time out at better interest, Basil. Make 
 money, money, money. Then people will 
 bow down to you. I'm not a nice object to
 
 12 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 look at, am I ? But I've got money, and 
 people bow dov\m to me! How much more 
 will they be likely to do so to a handsome 
 fellow like you ? Make money, my boy, 
 make money, and stick to it.*' 
 
 Which worldly advice went as usual in at 
 one ear and out at the other. After all, the 
 old gentleman's remarks had only a general 
 application ; had there been any special 
 interest at stake Basil would have argued it 
 stoutly enough, and thereby got himself into 
 hot water. 
 
 So things went on till Basil was twenty-one 
 } T ears of age, when he was to come into 
 possession of his mother's fortune. On his 
 birthday he wrote to his father, saying he 
 would be home in a fortnight, and full of 
 kind messages — messages which did not reach 
 the sense of the man for whom they were 
 intended : on the day the letter was delivered 
 at the London address his father was lying 
 in delirium on a bed from which he was 
 never to rise. A week before he intended to 
 start for home Basil received a letter inform- 
 ing him of the sad news. " Come back im- 
 mediately," the writer said, " if you wish to 
 see your father alive." Basil did not lose a
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 13 
 
 moment. Travelling as quickly as possible 
 he arrived at his father's house — too late. It 
 was a terrible blow to him, more terrible than 
 the loss of his mother, for which he had been 
 in a measure prepared. Death came more 
 slowly in her case, and she had instilled into 
 her son a spirit of resignation which softened 
 the bereavement. Even before she drew her 
 last breath Basil had thought of her as an 
 angel in heaven. But with his father it was 
 so sudden ; there had been no preparation 
 for the parting, no indication of it. It was 
 true that his father had been ailing for 
 months, but he had been careful not to alarm 
 his son. He may have believed, as most men 
 do, that the worst would not happen ; we are 
 chary in applying to ourselves the rules we 
 are so ready to apply to others. Only in his 
 last hour of consciousness, before he fell into 
 the delirium from which it was fated he 
 should not recover, had he asked for his 
 desk, and taking from it a sheet of paper 
 wrote a few words to his son, which he de- 
 sired should be delivered in the event of any- 
 thing serious happening to him. He did not 
 believe it even then ; had he been a religious 
 man he would have weighed the matter more
 
 14 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 deeply, but he was one who, living as fairly 
 good and moral a life as the average church- 
 goer, seldom went to the Divine fount for 
 comfort and counsel. It might have been 
 better for Basil if he had, for a warning 
 might have come to him to check the mad 
 desire which had taken possession of him. 
 
 Between him and Basil there had never 
 been a harsh word. Each bore for the other 
 the truest affection . Never a cross, never an 
 ill-tempered look ; unvarying sweetness had 
 marked their intercourse. So sudden a sepa- 
 ration could have been nothing less than 
 terrible to the living. It was long before Basil 
 recovered from it. With the exception of his 
 crotchety old uncle he was absolutely with- 
 out kith or kin. Letters had passed between 
 them with reference to the sad event. ' : I 
 cannot come to London to attend the funeral," 
 his uncle wrote ; " I am too infirm and feeble. 
 When you have settled your father's affairs I 
 shall be glad to see you to talk things over. 
 It is time you made a serious start in life. 
 You have your mother's fortune, and your 
 father's, which I should say is a handsome 
 one ; you will have mine, though I intend to 
 keep you out of it as long as I can. You are
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 15 
 
 a lucky dog ; you ought to die a millionaire." 
 A mortal ending the absolute desirability of 
 which may well be doubted. Basii replied, 
 hoping his uncle would live to a good old age, 
 and promising to visit him as soon as affairs 
 were settled. In his father's desk he found 
 the scrawl which the dying man had written. 
 It was very short. 
 
 " My dear Basil, — The honour of my name 
 is in your hands. Your loving father." 
 
 He had not strength to attach his name. 
 
 It was not- until the day after the funeral, 
 that the significance of these words impressed 
 itself on Basil. "The honour of my name 
 is in your hands." They were his father's 
 last words to him. What meaning did they 
 bear ? He had heard from his father's law- 
 yers, informing him that they had the will in 
 their possession, and that they were at his 
 service. He wrote to them, to the effect that 
 he would call upon them early the following 
 morning. 
 
 The head of the firm received him gravely 
 and courteously, and gave orders that they 
 were not to be disturbed. 
 
 The will had been drawn out years since, 
 and no alteration had been made in it. Every-
 
 16 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 thing was left to Basil, unreservedly to him. 
 There were affectionate allusions in it which 
 drew tears from Basil's eyes. When his emo- 
 tion had subsided he observed that the lawyer 
 was regarding him with an air of curiosity. 
 
 "May I ask," said the lawyer, "if full 
 confidence existed between you and } T our 
 father?" 
 
 "The fullest," replied Basil. " He had no 
 secrets from me. nor I any from him." 
 
 The lawyer seemed sensibly relieved. " You 
 know of his speculations ? " 
 
 " His speculations ! " exclaimed Basil, in 
 surprise. " I was nut aware that he specu- 
 lated." 
 
 " Then full confidence did not exist be- 
 tween you. I warned him ; I could do no 
 more than that. In my experience, my dear 
 sir, I have seen so many go the same way. 
 There is but one end to it, and this has ended 
 as the others have done." 
 
 " I will listen to nothing against my father," 
 said Basil warmly. 
 
 " I have nothing to say against him," re- 
 sponded the lawyer, " except that he was 
 unwise. He had an intense craving to leave 
 you a very large fortune, and this craving
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 17 
 
 became a kind of disease in him, and led him 
 on. I regret to tell you that all his specula- 
 tions have ended disastrously." 
 
 " That is to say, have resulted in a loss ? " 
 
 " In great losses." 
 
 " To what extent ? " 
 
 " Claims are pouring in. If they are satis- 
 fied, the will in your hands is not worth more 
 than waste paper. But some of the claims 
 may be contested, and in my belief success- 
 fully. But that will be a matter for counsel's 
 opinion." 
 
 " It has nothing to do with counsel," said 
 Basil ; "it has to do with me. I am my dear 
 father's representative, and it is for me to 
 determine what is to be done." 
 
 " Undoubtedly. Instructions must come 
 from you." 
 
 " Claims are pouring in you say. Can you 
 tell me to what amount ? " 
 
 " As far as we have received them ; there 
 are more to be presented you understand." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Plainly, then," said the lawyer, " the 
 property your father has left will not be 
 sufficient to meet his debts." 
 
 " They must be paid, however." 
 
 vol. i. 2
 
 18 BASIL ASD ANNETTE. 
 
 The lawyer inclined his head. 
 
 " Yes," said Basil, rising and pacing the 
 room in his excitement, a they must be paid. 
 No stigma must rest upon my father's memory. 
 Some of the claims may be contested,you say ? 
 In justice? " 
 
 " Legally," replied the lawyer. 
 
 " I ask you again," said Basil. " In 
 justice ? " 
 
 The lawyer, declining to commit himself, 
 made no reply. 
 
 " At least," said Basil, " you can answer me 
 this question. My father owes the money ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear sir, he owes the money." 
 
 " Then it must be paid. Do you not see 
 that it must be paid ? No man shall have the 
 power of uttering one word against him." 
 
 " But," said the lawyer, eyeing the young 
 man as he would have eyed a psychological 
 puzzle, " if the estate left by your father is 
 not sufficient to satisfy all these claims, what is 
 to be done ? " 
 
 " I have money of my own — my mother's 
 fortune — of which you have the particulars." 
 
 " Yes, we can give you all the information 
 you require, and it requires but your signa- 
 ture to a few documents, already prepared, my
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 19 
 
 dear sir, to place you in possession of this very 
 handsome inheritance." 
 
 " You can probably tell me the amount 
 of it." 
 
 " Almost to a farthing. It is invested in 
 the safest securities, realisable at an hour's 
 notice, and it amounts to " — the lawyer took 
 some papers from a japanned box, and ran his 
 eye over them — " it amounts to not less than 
 twenty-three thousand pounds." 
 
 " Will that," asked Basil, "with my father's 
 estate, satisfy in full the claims which are 
 pouring in ? " 
 
 " But my dear sir," expostulated the lawyer, 
 with a look of astonishment — 
 
 Basil would not allow him to conclude, " I 
 have to rejoeat some of my questions; it seems," 
 he said. " Will this fortune, which is reali- 
 sable in an hour, satisfy in full the claims of 
 my father's creditors ? " 
 
 The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and 
 replied briefly, " More than satisfy them." 
 
 " Then the matter is settled," said Basil. 
 " I empower you to collect the whole of these 
 claims to the uttermost farthing ; to convert 
 the securities which are mine into money ; to 
 prepare a complete balance sheet, and to pay 
 
 2*
 
 20 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 my father's creditors in full, with as little 
 delay as possible." 
 
 " I am to accept these instructions as defi- 
 nite and decisive ? " 
 
 " As definite and decisive ! " 
 
 " They shall be followed and carried out 
 with as little delay as possible. I must trouble 
 you to call here at three o'clock this afternoon 
 to sign the necessary papers." 
 
 " I will be punctual. Good morning ; and 
 I am greatly obliged to you." 
 
 " Good morning, my dear sir," said the 
 lawyer, adding under his breath, " and I am 
 greatly astonished at you." 
 
 At three o'clock that afternoon Basil called 
 again at the lawyer's office, and signed " the 
 necessary papers," and went away with a 
 light heart and a smiling face. Within a 
 month the affair was concluded, his father's 
 estate was realised, and his father's creditors 
 were paid in full. There remained to him 
 then, out of his mother's fortune, the sum of 
 three thousand pounds. 
 
 He was perfectly happy and contented. 
 Long before the business was finally settled 
 he had realised what his father meant by his 
 last few written words : " My dear Basil, —
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 21 
 
 The honour of my name is in your hands. 
 Your loving father." To good hands indeed 
 had the honour of a dead man's name been 
 entrusted. Basil had preserved it unsullied, 
 unblemished. 
 
 He took no credit for it ; he had fulfilled a 
 sacred trust. It was simply a dut}^ performed. 
 
 " Now,' 1 he said to himself, " I will go and 
 see my uncle." 
 
 "But while he was preparing to start he 
 received a letter from that gentleman, which 
 will explain why the visit was never paid. 
 
 "Nephew Basil" (the letter ran), " I have 
 received news of your mad proceedings since 
 your return home. No person in his sober 
 senses would have acted as you have done. 
 The greater portion of the claims made against 
 your father's estate could have been legally 
 and successfully contested, and even in what 
 remained a sharp lawyer could have obtained 
 a substantial abatement. This view, as I 
 understand, was presented to you by an able 
 firm of solicitors, but you rejected it, and 
 chose to play the fool. Now, I do not care to 
 have dealings with a fool. 
 
 " I might have pardoned you for sacrificing
 
 22 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 your father's estate to satisfy these claims, but 
 I will not pardon you for sacrificing the 
 fortune your mother left you. It proves to me 
 that it is not safe to entrust money to you, 
 and I have decided to put mine to better use 
 than to leave it to you. Accept this intima- 
 tion as my ultimatum. It is the last letter 
 you will ever receive from me, and you will 
 never see me again. Therefore you need not 
 go to the trouble of coming my way. My 
 house is not open to you. All the good 
 counsel I have given } t ou has been thrown 
 away. You might have told me at the time, 
 and I should have saved my breath and my 
 patience. Good-bye, foolish nephew. 
 
 " Bartholomew Whittingiiam." 
 
 He was angry enough to add a postscript : 
 
 " As you are so fond of paying debts for 
 which you are not responsible, what do you 
 say to considering the money I have given 
 you from time to time as one, and handing 
 it back ? You can do as you please about it. 
 I can make no legal demand for it, but I gave 
 it to you under the impression that } t ou were 
 not exactly an idiot. It amounts to quite
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 23 
 
 fourteen hundred pounds. If I had it I would 
 put it out at good interest." 
 
 To state that Basil was not hurt by this 
 letter would be to state what is not true. He 
 had an affection for the old fellow, and he was 
 greatly pained to think that all was over 
 between them ; but he was not in the least 
 disturbed by the old man's arguments. He 
 had done what was right ; of this he was sure. 
 But the letter stung Basil as well as hurt him. 
 There was a bitter twang in his uncle's remark 
 that he could make no le^al demand for the 
 money he had given his nephew. " He shall 
 have it back," said Basil, " every farthing of 
 it." Then he was seized with an expensive fit 
 of humour. His uncle had spoken of interest. 
 He would prove that he was not a whit less 
 independent than the old fellow himself. He 
 made some lame and ridiculous calculations of 
 interest at five per cent, per annum, and 
 arrived at the sum of two thousand pounds 
 and a few pence. He got a draft for the 
 amount, and inclosed it in the following 
 note : — 
 
 " All right, my dear uncle. Here is your
 
 2i BASIL AKD ANNETTE. 
 
 money back again, with interest added. If it 
 is not enough interest, let me know, and I 
 will send you more. Good-bye, and good luck 
 to you. 
 
 M Your affectionate nephew, 
 
 " Basil/' 
 
 This last debt paid, Basil had barely a 
 thousand pounds left. He did not hear from 
 his uncle again. 
 
 w, what was he to do ? He was without 
 profession or trade, and did nut feel equal for 
 any kind of service he saw around, even if it 
 was offered to him. " I think," he said, " I 
 will travel a little more. 1 ' He did so, and was 
 prudent enough to travel in an economic 
 spirit ; but his money went fast enough for all 
 that. At the end of a year and a half he had 
 in his purse exactly one hundred pounds, 
 he dashed r Not a bit. But he knew 
 that something must be done. " I will go to 
 Australia," he said. The project exalted him. 
 _ lowed, he rubbed his hands, he was in a 
 whirl of pleasant excitement. He would be in 
 a new land, in a land of adventure, in a land 
 of romance. There he would be all right of 
 course. Not a doubt of it. As for his empty
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 25 
 
 purse — and it was pretty well empty by the 
 time lie had paid for his passage and a few 
 necessary odds and ends — he scarcely gave it 
 a thought. Was he not going to Australia, 
 the poor man's El Dorado ? So he set forth in 
 a sailing vessel, and enjoyed the passage im- 
 mensely, and landed in Sydney as happy as a 
 king. The fairy harbour, the most beautiful 
 in all the wide world, enchanted him ; the 
 ravishing scenery enchanted him ; the quaint 
 old city, so home-like in its appearance, en- 
 chanted him. Certainly he had come to the 
 right place. 
 
 He was rather more melancholy a few weeks 
 afterwards, but he never lost heart. Suitable 
 employment did not present itself so readily as 
 he had thought it would, and 2fold was not to 
 be picked up in the streets. " I am making a 
 mistake," he said. "I must not remain in the 
 city ; I must go into the bush.''* He soon 
 made a start, and began tramping Queensland 
 way, and after some weeks of wandering 
 reached the tract of country which Anthony 
 Bidaud had taken up.
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 On the plantation which he had brought 
 almost to perfection by twenty years of wise 
 labour Anthony Bidaud lived with his only 
 child, Annette, fourteen years of age. He had 
 no other of his kindred near him. The wife 
 he brought from Switzerland la)' in a flower- 
 covered grave within a mile of the spot upon 
 which he stood. The}' came to the colony 
 childless, but after a lapse of years Annette 
 was born to them. Until the child was nine 
 years of age the fond mother was spared to 
 rear her, and then one morning Annette awoke 
 to find the dear protector lost to her. It was 
 an irreparable loss in that far-away land, and 
 there was no one of her own sex to take the 
 mother's place. But Annette had her father 
 left, and he, not unsuccessfully, strove to fill 
 the void in his child's life. He was unre- 
 mitting in his tenderness and watchfulness, 
 and he bestowed upon his little one a full- 
 hearted love. The two had lived together till
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 27 
 
 now, when Anthony Bidaud's heart was 
 gloomed by the fear of approaching death. 
 He had never been strong, and the climate 
 of the new world in which he had made his 
 home was destined to be fatal to him. He 
 made pilgrimages to Sydney and Melbourne 
 to consult the best physicians, but they gave 
 him little hope. Death was approaching 
 surely and swiftly. A gnawing pain, an in- 
 expressible grief, stirred his heart as he 
 thought of his child, whom he idolised. The 
 reflection that she would be left alone in 
 this wild spot, in this remote part of the 
 world, without a relative, with scarcely a 
 friend, appalled him. Yet what could he 
 do? 
 
 He had neither sought nor made friends, he 
 and Ins wife and child had been sufficient for 
 each other, and when his wife died he and 
 Annette sighed for no other companionship. 
 But had he sought friendships he would not 
 have succeeded in making them in any but 
 fitful fashion. His nearest neighbour was 
 twenty miles away, and everybody in the 
 colony was so intent upon " getting on " and 
 making his fortune, that there was no time for 
 social intercourse. In colonial cities there
 
 28 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 was at that time but little " society ; " in the 
 bush, none. 
 
 About a hundred feet above the blue clear 
 stream of the Pioneer stood the house in 
 which Anthony Bidaud lived. The slabs with 
 which it was built had been split from the 
 £um and bloodwood trees growing in the 
 forest which lay in the rear of the huts and 
 buildings inhabited by the labourers, chiefly 
 South Sea Islanders, who worked on the 
 plantation. The roof was composed of shingles 
 split from the same description of trees. The 
 interior of the house was lined with rich, dark 
 red cedar, which grew in the thick scrub on 
 the opposite banks of the river. An avenue 
 of bananas led from the house along the cliff 
 to an arbour, in which oranges, custard apples, 
 guavas, and other delicious fruits, ripened in 
 unsurpassed perfection. The posts of the 
 verandahs which surrounded three sides of the 
 house were covered by gigantic passion fruit, 
 except at one end, which was completely 
 enclosed by grape vines and the yellow jessa- 
 mine. Hammocks were slung in the verandahs, 
 and the occupants could swing idly to and fro, 
 shaded from the hot sun, and within reach of 
 the fruit which 2frew in such wonderful abun-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 29 
 
 dance and luxuriance all around. A lovely 
 home for husband, wife, and children ; a 
 dream which a poet soul only could properly 
 appreciate, but for one simple human being, 
 in whose days the flower of human affection 
 was not blossoming — little better than a 
 wilderness. 
 
 It was of this sad prospect, which his state 
 of health warned him lay before Annette, that 
 Anthony Bidaud was speaking to Basil at the 
 time of their introduction to the reader. They 
 had been acquainted but a short time, but 
 each bore for the other a genuine esteem. 
 Some kindred qualities of independence, high- 
 mindedness, and honesty of purpose had drawn 
 them together from the hour they first met, 
 and would have drawn them even closer in 
 the future ; but the shadows gathering over 
 one life marred this fulfilment of a brighter 
 promise. Barely two months had elapsed 
 since Basil Whittingham, presenting himself to 
 Anthony Bidaud, had asked for the shelter of 
 his roof for a night. Annette was present 
 when Basil appeared ; by her side a faithful 
 Scotch terrier, who guarded his young mis- 
 tress with watchful care, and when needed, 
 with ferocity. Basil stooped and patted the
 
 SO BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 head of the dog, who did not snarl and show 
 his teeth, as was his wont with strangers, but 
 submitted to the familiarity with unusual 
 amiability. The sensible creature went 
 even farther than this ; he rose, and rubbed 
 his head against Basil's leg, courting by 
 that action a continuance of the caressing. 
 
 " Father," said Annette, " no stranger has 
 ever done that with Bruno before." 
 
 '• Bruno and I are old friends," said Basil, 
 with a pleasant smile. Annette thought that 
 she had never seen such beautiful teeth. 
 
 " Oh, Bruno," she cried reproachfully, " and 
 you never told me ! Come here directly, sir ! " 
 Bruno approached her, wagging his tail. 
 " Eeally old friends ? " she asked, turning to 
 Basil. 
 
 "No, not really," he replied. "What I 
 mean is, I love dogs, and dogs love me." 
 
 " A good testimonial," remarked Anthony 
 Bidaud, gazing with interest upon this poorly 
 attired gentleman. 
 
 " I have found it so," responded Basil, " for 
 dog and man." 
 
 He held out his hand to Annette, who not 
 only took it, but retained it. This went far 
 to complete the conquest of Anthony Bidaud.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE, 31 
 
 With the ordinary tramp he was very familiar, 
 but here was a man of another breed. No 
 hang-dog looks, no slouching, no lowering of 
 the brows, no prison-mark about him. An 
 upright gentleman, who looked the man he 
 was asking a favour from square in the face. 
 
 " Have you travelled far ? " asked Anthony 
 Bidaud. 
 
 " About twenty miles I should say. Rather 
 too hot a day for so long a walk." 
 
 " You must be tired," said Anthony Bidaud. 
 " You are heartily welcome here." 
 
 " I thank you," said Basil. 
 
 That this young man had so swiftly won 
 favour with his child and her four-footed 
 protector was a sufficient recommendation to 
 Bidaud, but independent of that, he was re- 
 joiced to meet with a gentleman from whom 
 manners and polish of good society had not 
 been rubbed off by familiarity with the 
 rougher aspects of life in the new world. 
 Basil was a man whom no experience could 
 harden ; the inner grain of his nature was 
 refined and sweet. The hardships he had 
 already met with in the colony had not em- 
 bittered him in the least. He grumbled at 
 nothing, took all things easily, and showed a
 
 32 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 smiling face to the world. When he presented 
 himself to Anthony Bidaud he was really at 
 his wit's end, but though he had not tasted 
 food that day he was not discouraged or dis- 
 heartened. A clean conscience is a wonderful 
 sustainer. " I am like a cat," thought Basil, 
 as he trudged blithely through the bush, " I 
 am bound to fall on my feet." And fall on his 
 feet he did that summer afternoon, which was 
 to be the prelude of many happier days ; for 
 before the night was over he told his host 
 sufficient of his antecedents to satisfy Bidaud 
 that his hospitality was not likely to be mis- 
 placed. Upon his persuasion his guest remained 
 for a week, then for another week, and so on 
 till the present time. Bidaud was diffident in 
 asking Basil to enter his service, and Basil, 
 though he had come to the jDlantation with a 
 vague idea of seeking employment, did not 
 entertain it after his first introduction to 
 Bidaud and his daughter. The terms upon 
 which they had met and upon which he was 
 received forbade his asking for employment. 
 It was gentleman and gentleman, not master 
 and servant. But at length Bidaud— who 
 had learned sufficient to be aware that Basil's 
 purse was empty, and that he had no friends
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 33 
 
 in the colony — delicately pressed his guest 
 upon the subject, and, as timidly as though he 
 was asking a favour instead of being anxious 
 to bestow one, hinted at some business connec- 
 tion between them. Basil, from scruples with 
 which we are familiar, but which he did not 
 explain to his host, would not entertain the 
 idea, but firmly and courteously set it aside. 
 
 " You have your future to look to," said 
 Bidaud. 
 
 " There is time enough to think of that," 
 said Basil, cheerfully. " I am not so very old." 
 
 Many a time did Bidaud look with eyes 
 of affection at Basil, and wish he had a son 
 like him to whom he could entrust his dar- 
 ling Annette. Basil was a man peculiarly 
 adapted to inspire affection in honest, simple 
 hearts, and such a bond grew between him 
 and Annette. Happy is the man whose 
 manners cause children to regard him as one 
 of themselves ; he possesses an inheritance of 
 pleasant hours which money cannot purchase 
 Basil and Annette, then, spent a great deal 
 of time together, accompanied by the faithful 
 Bruno, and it gladdened the father's heart to 
 see his child so happy in the society of their 
 new friend. 
 
 vol. i. 3
 
 34 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " Father says your name is Whittingham," 
 said Annette. 
 
 " Yes, it is," said the young man. 
 
 " Mr. Whittingham." 
 
 " Yes. Do you like it ? " 
 
 " No. You must have another name." 
 
 " Of course I have. Basil." 
 
 " Basil. That is much nicer, ever so much 
 nicer. I shall call you Basil." 
 
 " I shall feel honoured, Annette." 
 
 This compact being made, Annette took 
 him in hand ; the little maid had already 
 discovered that she knew a great deal which 
 he did not, and she set up a school, with 
 Basil as her one pupil. Whether what she 
 taught was likely to be of use to him in the 
 battle of life he was bound to fight is an open 
 question. Had some foreknowledge come 
 upon him as to the nature of that battle, and 
 the roads into which it would lead him, he 
 would have laughingly rejected it as the 
 wildest of fancies. He was quite content 
 with the present ; he had found an enchant- 
 ing comp nion, and time was passing delight- 
 fully. During Annette's five years of mother- 
 less life she had acquired a wonderful know- 
 ledge of the fauna and the flora of the colony,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 35 
 
 and to these mysteries she introduced Basil. 
 It is not incorrect to call them mysteries, for 
 they are really so to ninety-nine out of every 
 hundred colonials, who spend their lives in 
 ignorance of the wonders by which they are 
 surrounded. But it is so in all lands. 
 
 Annette, then, opened Basil's mind, and 
 let in knowledge. She showed him how to 
 snare game, which abounded in vast quanti- 
 ties, snipe, quail, and numerous varieties of 
 duck, of which the whistling duck is the 
 most curious, and the black duck the best 
 eating ; she taught him the names of the 
 strange and beautiful birds which found 
 their home in the scrub and forests round 
 about ; she described to him the different 
 trees which grew in the neighbourhood of the 
 beautiful Pioneer Eiver, and would not rest 
 contented till he was familiar with them, and 
 could give them their right names. 
 
 " What is this, Basil ? " 
 
 " What is this, Annette ? Why, a tree." 
 
 " But what kind of tree ? " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon. Ha — hum — oh, 
 yes, it is the tea-tree." 
 
 " It is not, Basil. It is the bottle-tree." 
 
 "Well, the bottle-tree. Of course it 
 
 3*
 
 30 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 is the bottle-tree. How could I be so 
 stupid ? " 
 
 " You are not stupid ; you are inattentive. 
 Do you see this hole cut in the tree ? " 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 " I will not have that answer. ' Of course 
 I do ' sounds as if I had no right to ask the 
 question. Say ' I do.' " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " And mean it, if you please." 
 
 " I mean it," said Basil, with his hand on 
 his heart, and a merry twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 " Very good. You see the hole. Who 
 cut it ? " 
 
 " On my word of honour, Annette, I 
 haven't the slightest idea." 
 
 " It was cut by the blacks. Now, what 
 did they cut it for ? " 
 
 " How on earth should I know ? " 
 
 " You ought to know. You have been 
 brought up in a very bad school. I'll show 
 you what for. Out with your knife, Basil. Dig 
 it in here, a long way under the hole. That 
 is right. Now you can have a good drink of 
 cold sweet water. Is it not wonderful ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is. Like Oliver Twist, I ask 
 for more."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 37 
 
 The conversation instantly took another 
 turn. There were but few books on the 
 home station, and among them no work of 
 fiction. It fell to Basil's lot to open a new 
 fairyland in the young girl's life. " What 
 was Oliver Twist ? " "He was not a ' what ' ; 
 he was a 'who.'" "Then who was Oliver 
 Twist ? " Basil told the story as well as he 
 could, and afterwards told another ; and after 
 the second tale, still another, this time a more 
 simple one, from the magic cupboard of Hans 
 Christian Andersen. It was long before they 
 resumed their woodland lessons. Annette 
 pointed out where the best figs and almonds 
 o-rew, instructed him how to make bracelets 
 and necklaces out of the stones of the quan- 
 dong, fruit, and where the sugar bags of the 
 native bees were to be found. They caught a 
 native bear, not a very ferocious creature, 
 and tamed it in a few days so thoroughly 
 that it followed them about like a dog, to the 
 disgust of Bruno, who did not approve of the 
 proceeding ; they gathered wild ginger and 
 wild nutmegs in the scrub, and in a famous 
 creek they caught quantities of golden perch, 
 with red eyes and double chins ; and once 
 they saw two emus in the distance, and heard
 
 38 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 the faint sound of their peculiar whistle. In 
 such- like idling the days flew by, and the 
 hours were all too short, but suddenly it 
 dawned upon Basil that this lotus life could 
 not last for ever. It was from a sense of 
 duty, and with a sinking heart (for the 
 thought of parting from these good friends, 
 especially from Annette, sorely oppressed 
 him) that he intimated to Anthony Bidaud 
 that he had lingered too long, and must go 
 farther afield. 
 
 " I must not outstay my welcome," he 
 said. 
 
 " You cannot do that," said Bidaud. " Are 
 you not happy here ? " 
 
 " Too happy." 
 
 " No, one cannot be too happy," said 
 Bidaud, in a tone of great sadness. There 
 was that weighing on his heart which he 
 yearned to impart to some person in whom 
 he could confide. He had thought of it for 
 days past, and had resolved to unbosom his 
 sorrow to the young gentleman who had 
 brought a new light of tenderness into the 
 prosperous home. 
 
 His story was told. Basil learned that the 
 father feared he had not long to live, and
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 39 
 
 that lie was filled with apprehension at the 
 contemplation of Annette being left without a 
 friend. 
 
 " You were born in Switzerland," said Basil, 
 thoughtfully. " Is there no one connected 
 with you in your own country into whose 
 charge you could give Annette ? " 
 
 " It is twenty } T ears since I left my native 
 land," said Bidaud, " and great changes must 
 have taken place during that time." 
 
 " You left relatives there ? " 
 
 " Yes, a sister — and a brother." His men- 
 tion of his brother was made with evident 
 reluctance. 
 
 " Why not write to }^our brother ? " asked 
 Basil, " to come and receive the trust ? " 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" cried Bidaud. "Give 
 my darling child into Gilbert's care ! I would 
 as soon give her into the care of a wolf ! No, 
 no, it is not to be thought of. Six months 
 ago I wrote to my sister, in whom I have 
 some confidence — she is a woman, and would 
 surely not ill-treat my child — informing her 
 of my circumstances, and of the certain fate 
 which awaited me, and imploring her to come 
 out to me. I promised to provide for her, 
 and for her family, if she had any. I thought
 
 40 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 that the knowledge that I was rich would 
 tempt her. To that letter I have received no 
 reply. Basil," — like his daughter, he called 
 his guest by his Christian name — " it is the 
 sad and sober truth that you are the only 
 friend upon whom I can rely to render me 
 a service. Will you do so ? " 
 
 " If it is in my power," said Basil, gravely. 
 
 "You have given me the impression that 
 you are alone in the world." 
 
 "Practically alone," replied Basil. 
 
 " With no kindred who have claims upon 
 you." 
 
 " My parents are dead ; I was their only 
 child. There is but one man alive in England 
 who is of my blood — an uncle whose heir I 
 was to be, but who has cast me off." 
 
 " May I inquire for what reason ? " 
 
 " For a very serious reason. I did not 
 know the value of money, he said. My father, 
 when he died, was heavily involved, and I 
 ruined myself in paying his debts. My uncle 
 was angry at this, saying there was no obliga- 
 tion upon me to satisfy my father's creditors. 
 I held, and hold, a different opinion ; but the 
 consequence was that my uncle abandoned 
 his intention of making me his heir."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 41 
 
 " My task is all the easier for your expla- 
 nation. The service I am about to ask of 
 you is no light one, and may be agreeable to 
 you because it will open out a future which 
 few men would turn their back upon. I do 
 not say this to tempt you, for I know that 
 }^ou will be guided entirely by your own 
 feelings, by your own sense of right and 
 wrong, and that worldly advantage will weigh 
 for nothing in the scale. You are fond of 
 Annette." 
 
 " I love the child ; I never met with a 
 sweeter and more sympathetic nature than 
 hers. She has strength of character, too." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asked Bidaud, an- 
 xiously. 
 
 " I am sure of it. Even now she rules me." 
 
 Bidaud shook his head with a sad smile. 
 " That is not a proof. You are content to 
 be ruled, and what passes between you 
 springs from affection. The strength of cha- 
 racter required to battle with the world is of 
 a different kind from that which Annette 
 exhibits towards you. The service I ask you 
 to render me concerns Annette." 
 
 " Why, then," said Basil, gaily, " it is 
 rendered before you ask for it."
 
 42 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " You must know its nature before you 
 consent. It is nothing more nor less, Basil, 
 than that you should stand to my child in the 
 lio'ht of guardian." 
 
 Basil started. The tone in which this was 
 spoken was that of a man who was convinced 
 that the world was slipping from him. 
 
 " Surely you are alarming yourself unne- 
 cessarily," said the young man. 
 
 " I am not. There are warnings which it 
 would be criminal to neglect, especially where 
 there is such a vital interest at stake as the 
 happiness of an only and beloved child. I 
 have received these warnings and must be 
 prepared. Say that the spiritual whisper 
 which tells me that my end is approaching is 
 false, is no faith to be placed in the doctor's 
 decree that my hours are numbered ? A man 
 may have morbid fancies, but the teachings of 
 experience and science are not to be lightly 
 set aside and disregarded. If my fears prove 
 groundless, so much the better for Annette ; 
 if they are confirmed — which they will be, 
 Basil, nothing can alter it — so much the worse 
 for her unless needful preparation is made for 
 the crisis in her youns? life. Will vou now 
 consent ? "
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 43 
 
 " Let me hear more fully what you have to 
 say," replied Basil, gravely, " before I fully 
 pledge myself. You speak of a brother and 
 sister in your own country, and you have 
 written to one who may appear at any moment. 
 The claim she has upon Annette, and the 
 authority with which the laws of nature have 
 invested her, are stronger than those of any 
 stranger. I am a young man, and the idea of 
 becoming guardian to so tender and sweet a 
 flower as Annette startles me. I ask myself, 
 am I equal to a responsibility so serious, and 
 the question reveals to me my own deficiences, 
 of which I am generally somewhat painfully 
 aware. It is really as though the most serious 
 page in my life was about to be opened.'' 
 
 ^^iiy^
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " I have no fears," said Anthony Bidaud, 
 with a gentle smile, " on the score of your 
 deficiencies. I have been no inattentive ob- 
 server since the fortunate day upon which I 
 first formed acquaintance with you. That 
 you have had a disappointment in life counts 
 for very little, and such small difficulties as 
 befall a newcomer in this new land are scarcely 
 to be accounted among the real difficulties of 
 life. You do not yet know your own strength, 
 but already, in a position of serious responsi- 
 bility, you have acted in a manner which few 
 men would have had the courage to do. Your 
 past is honourable, and contents me. You 
 have a kind heart, and that adds to my con- 
 tent. Should the worst happen, my Annette 
 will have by her side a true and honest 
 counsellor. Eeflect a moment. Say that IVere 
 to die to-morrow — nay, do not argue with me ; 
 death is the only certain thins? in life, and it
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 45 
 
 may come at any unexpected moment to the 
 strongest — say that I die to-morrow, what 
 would be the position of my dear child ? I 
 have an estate worth thousands of pounds ; she 
 is a mere child, and could not manage it. 
 She would become the prey of schemers, who 
 would undoubtedly not deal fairly by her. I 
 have a hundred servants on this plantation, 
 and not a friend among them. By accident 
 3^ou enter into our lives. I use the term acci- 
 dent, but I believe it to be a providence. We 
 are drawn to each other. I have observed 
 you closely, and am satisfied to deliver into 
 your hands a sacred charge, the charge of a 
 young girl's future. At such moments as these 
 there comes to some men a subtle, unfathom- 
 able insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe 
 that there is a link between you and my child 
 which, if you do not recognise it now, you 
 will be bound to recognise in the future. It 
 may be broken in the present, but the threads 
 will be joined as surely as we stand here side 
 by side. Apart from this mysticism, to which 
 I do not expect you to subscribe, there is a 
 worldly, practical side which it is right and 
 necessary you should understand. You ask 
 for fuller information of my brother and sister.
 
 46 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 I will give it to you. That my brother and I 
 did not part friends, and that his attitude 
 towards me influenced my sister, was not my 
 fault. I loved a young girl in my own station 
 in life, and she loved me and afterwards 
 became my wife. That my brother Gilbert 
 loved her also was to be deplored ; we were 
 not to be blamed for it, though Gilbert was 
 furious — with me for loving her, with her for 
 returning my love. I endeavoured to re- 
 monstrate with him : he would not listen to 
 me. ' You have stepped in the way of my 
 happiness,' he said ; ' }T>u shall rue it.' It is 
 hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, 
 but it is the truth that the girl I loved was 
 fortunate in not placing her affections upon 
 him. He would have broken her heart. He 
 was a spendthrift and a libertine, and would 
 stop at little for the gratification of his selfish 
 pleasures. He was furious against me, not so 
 much because he loved Annette's mother, but 
 because he could not have his own way. He 
 was clever in crooked things, and in cunning 
 shrewdness there were few to beat him. Edu- 
 cated as a doctor, he could have earned a 
 good name if he had chosen to be industrious ; 
 but he preferred to lead an idle, dissolute life.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 47 
 
 These evil courses caused him to be deeply in 
 debt at the time of my father's death. A 
 portion of my father's fortune, which was 
 not very large, was left to me, and Gilbert 
 endeavoured to rob me of it, saying he 
 was the elder, as he was by a year. With 
 wedded life in view I resisted the attempt, 
 and this angered him the more. He swore 
 that he would never forgive me, and that he 
 would be revenged upon me. It was strange 
 that my sister leaned more towards him than 
 towards me, but that does sometimes happen 
 with the scapegrace of the family. I am not 
 endeavouring to blacken Gilbert's character 
 for my own glorification. In drawing his 
 picture I have dealt more than justly by him ; 
 were he not my brother I should speak of 
 actions of his which made me wonder how he 
 and I could have been born of the same 
 mother. It is that I wish you to understand 
 why I did not write to him to come here and 
 take charge of my dear child, and to understand 
 why I said that I would as soon give her into 
 the care of a wolf. I succeeded in obtaining 
 my share of my father's fortune, and soon 
 afterwards married. Even then Gilbert did 
 not cease from persecuting me. He would
 
 48 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 come and take up his quarters in our house, 
 and insult my wife, and revile me, until our 
 life became intolerable. It was then that we 
 resolved to emigrate, chiefly to escape his 
 persecutions. Then he showed us plainly that 
 his love had changed to hate. He said to me 
 before I left Switzerland, ' One day I will be 
 even with you. Eemember my words — 
 dead or alive, I will be even with you ! ' 
 Since that day I have never seen him, 
 never heard from him, and I do not 
 know whether he is still living. Upon our 
 arrival in this colony fortune smiled upon us 
 almost from the first. We were happy, very 
 happy, and as you see I have been prosperous. 
 But I have not been wise. I should have pro- 
 vided my child with a suitable companion at 
 the death of my wife, though heaven knows 
 where I should have found one ; but I should 
 have tried. To marry again was impossible ; 
 I loved my wife too well, and 1 could not be 
 false to her memory. I have been worse than 
 unwise ; I have neglected a serious duty. Up 
 to this day I have shrunk from making a will, 
 so that my affairs would get into confusion 
 should anything happen to me. I have re- 
 solved to make instant amends for this neglect
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 49 
 
 of duty. To-night I shall write to a lawyer to 
 come to me without an hour's delay, and he 
 shall draw out my will before he departs. In 
 this will it is my desire to appoint you manager 
 of my estate and guardian of my child till she 
 arrives at the age of twenty-one. It is not a 
 bad prospect I hold out to you. At the end 
 of seven years you will still be a young man, 
 and if you elect to leave Annette you can do 
 so. She will by that time have learned from 
 you all that is necessary to continue the 
 management of the estate herself ; but she will 
 also then be free to act as she pleases : either 
 to remain upon it, or to sell it and go else- 
 where. I do not think there is anything more 
 I can tell you to enable you to arrive at a de- 
 cision. I do not urge you to comply with my 
 desire because of any personal advantage that 
 may accrue to yourself, but I beg of you as a 
 friend to render me as great a service as it is 
 in the power of one man to render to another. 
 If you wish for time to consider this proposal 
 take it, but decide before the arrival of the 
 lawyer. One way or another, my will must 
 be made before a week has passed." 
 
 But Basil did not ask for time ; he was 
 deeply touched by the confidence reposed in 
 vol. i. 4
 
 50 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 him by Anthony Bidaud, and while the father 
 spoke he had made up his mind. He had been 
 very happy on the plantation ; he knew that 
 it was a desirable home, and that within its 
 domains could be found much that would 
 make a man's life agreeable and useful. He 
 had come to the colony, as had thousands of 
 other colonists, with the intention of making 
 his fortune and returning to England. He 
 could not hope to make a fortune in a day, 
 though wild ideas of gold-seeking — successful 
 gold-seeking, of course — had floated through 
 his mind. Suddenly, when his fortunes were 
 at the lowest ebb, there was presented an 
 opportunity which, unworldly as he was, he 
 could not disguise from himself it would be 
 folly to throw away. But it was due to An- 
 thony Bidaud that the matter should not be 
 concluded without something more being 
 said. 
 
 " I need no time to consider," he said. 
 " Your proposition is flattering and advan- 
 tageous to myself. But you speak of not 
 being wise. Are you wise in placing a trust 
 so delicate and important in the hands of a 
 stranger ? " 
 
 " I am content to do so," said Bidaud, " and
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 51 
 
 I beg you to believe that the obligation will 
 be on my side." 
 
 " After all," suggested Basil, with a little 
 touch of shrewdness, " it may be with you a 
 choice of evils." 
 
 " It is a choice of good," observed Bidaud. 
 
 " I have told you," continued Basil, " that 
 I have not been educated into an understand- 
 ing of business matters, and that my mission 
 in life " — here he smiled deprecatingly — " was 
 to go through life in a gentlemanly way, with- 
 out working for my living." 
 
 "But you came to the colony to work ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am only endeavouring to prove 
 to you how utterly unfit I am for the position 
 you would assign to me." 
 
 "I am entirely convinced," said Bidaud, 
 with a look of affection at the young man, 
 " of your fitness for it." 
 
 " Think of my inexperience." 
 
 " Experience will come to you as it came to 
 me. You will learn as I did." 
 
 " Then there is another view," said Basil, 
 and now he spoke with a certain hesitation. 
 "You and Annette are here as father and 
 daughter. It is not to be supposed that I 
 could supply your place. I am a young man ; 
 
 itv rwc II 1 1NUI& 
 
 4*
 
 52 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 in a very few years Annette will be a young 
 woman. Will not our relative positions 
 then be likely to wound her suscepti- 
 bilities " 
 
 "Do not finish,'' said Bidaud, pressing 
 Basil's hand warmly. " Leave all to time. 
 Nothing but good can spring from what I 
 propose. If Annette were now a young 
 woman " 
 
 And here he himself purposely broke off in 
 the middle of a sentence. Certainly his mean- 
 ing could not be mistaken. A flush came 
 into Basil's face, and he did not speak again 
 for a few moments. 
 
 " Has the letter," he then said, " you wrote 
 to your sister been returned to you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then it must have been delivered." 
 
 " Not necessarily. I am not sure whether 
 undelivered letters addressed to Switzerland 
 are returned to the colonial post-offices. If 
 you have stated your principal objections I 
 see nothing in them to cause you to hesitate. 
 You will consent ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Basil, " I accept the trust." 
 
 "With all my heart I thank you," said 
 Anthony Bidaud ; then he placed his hands
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 53 
 
 on Basil's shoulders, and said in a solemn tone, 
 " Guard my child." 
 
 " Whatever lies in my power to do," said 
 Basil, " shall be done." 
 
 Bidaud nodded and turned away ; his heart 
 was too full to say more. Basil turned in 
 another direction, with the intention of seek- 
 ing Annette, in fulfilment of a promise he had 
 made to join her in the woods. He knew 
 where to find her. 

 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Traversing a narrow, winding bridle track, 
 he soon reached the river. A broad belt of 
 white sand stretched on either side for some 
 little distance, the water glistening like 
 polished mirrors in its smooth deep reaches. 
 Here and there it broke into a thousand tiny 
 silver- crested waves, created by the inequali- 
 ties in the ground. Farther on the main 
 stream twisted into great clusters of dark 
 green river oaks, and was lost to view. The 
 white sands narrowed, and were replaced by 
 rocks, covered with moss and lichen, and here 
 a bark canoe was moored. Stepping on a 
 large boulder, Basil jumped into the canoe, 
 and loosening the rope, paddled down stream. 
 The water ran like a mill race, and presently 
 divided into two streams, beautified by water- 
 falls and fairy islands adorned with luxuriant 
 vegetation. This dividing of the waters ex- 
 tended only some three or four hundred yards,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 55 
 
 at the termination of which they were united 
 in one dark lagoon. A strange stillness 
 reigned upon the surface of the water, but 
 this sign of peace was insincere, the current 
 in reality running hard and strong. Round 
 about the canoe floated masses of white and 
 mauve water lilies ; in parts the huge leaves 
 formed a perfect carpet, which easily sup- 
 ported the light weight of the lotus birds as 
 they skipped from shore to shore. At the 
 lower end of the lagoon the stream became so 
 narrow that a man could jump across it, and 
 here Basil left his canoe, and plunged into the 
 woods to find Annette. 
 
 She was sitting on a great patch of velvet 
 moss, idling with some flowers of the wax 
 plant and the yellow hibiscus. Her back was 
 towards Basil, who stepped softly, intending 
 to surprise her, but the crackling of the 
 leaves betrayed him. She turned quickly, 
 and jumping up, ran to meet him. 
 
 " I have been waiting for you ever so long," 
 she said, and she slipped her hand into his. 
 
 Basil made no excuse for being late ; an 
 age seemed to have passed since he had last 
 seen her, though scarcely three hours sepa- 
 rated " then " from " now." But short as
 
 66 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 was really the interval it had effected an im- 
 portant alteration in their relations towards 
 each other, and the contemplation of this 
 change made him silent. Neither was Annette 
 as talkative as usual, and they strolled idly 
 along for some distance without exchanging a 
 word. Basil had hitherto accepted Annette's 
 beauty in a general sense ; she was pretty, she 
 was bright, she was full of vivacity — that was 
 all. Had she been a woman he would have 
 subjected her to a closer and more analytical 
 observation, for he had an artist's eye for 
 beauty, and loved to look at it in animate and 
 inanimate nature ; but Annette was only a 
 child, and he had paid her just that amount 
 of attention which one pays to small wild- 
 flowers that grow by the wayside. But now, 
 looking down upon her as she walked by his 
 side, he observed that her eyes were hazel, 
 and he said to himself that hazel eyes, in girl 
 and woman, were the most beautiful eyes in 
 the world. The hazel colour in the eyes he 
 was gazing upon was brilliant, and Basil said 
 to himself that it was the brilliant hazel 
 eyes that are the most beautiful in the 
 world. Annette's featurnes were not ex- 
 actly regular, but formed as fair a picture
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 57 
 
 of human loveliness as a man would wish to 
 see, her lips sweetly curved, her teeth white 
 and shapely, her ears like little shells, her 
 golden brown hair gathered carelessly about 
 the gracefully shaped head. Yes, Annette 
 was beautiful even now as a child ; how much 
 more beautiful was she likely to be when her 
 springtime was fully set in ! 
 
 Raising her head suddenly she saw that 
 Basil was gazing at her more earnestly and 
 closely than he was in the habit of doing. 
 
 " I was looking at your eyes, Annette," he 
 said, rather guiltily. "I never noticed their 
 colour till to-day." 
 
 " They are hazel. Do you like hazel 
 eyes ? " 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 "lam glad of that. My eyes are like my 
 mother's. Will you come with me ? " 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " To her grave." 
 
 He had visited it before with Annette, and 
 they now walked towards the canoe, gathering 
 wild flowers as they walked. Once Annette 
 slipped, and he caught her and held her up ; 
 there was an unusual tenderness in the action, 
 and Annette nestled closer to him, and smiled
 
 58 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 happily. In the canoe her skilful fingers 
 were busily at work, weaving the flowers they 
 had gathered into garlands to lay upon her 
 mother's grave. She had a special gift in 
 such-like graceful tasks, but then her heart 
 was in her fingers. The loving homage was 
 reverently rendered when they reached the 
 spot, and Basil assisted her in clearing the 
 dead leaves and in planting some fresh 
 roots she had brought with her from the 
 woods. 
 
 Her task accomplished, Annette sat beside 
 the grave, with a wistful expression on her 
 face which made Basil wonder what was stir- 
 ring in her mind. He waited for her to break 
 the silence, and presently she spoke. 
 
 " What makes you so quiet, Basil ? " 
 
 " I do not know. Perhaps it is because 
 you have said so little, Annette. " 
 
 " I have been thinking." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I wanted all day to speak to you about it. 
 I thought I would when we were in the wood 
 alone ; then you spoke of my eyes and I 
 thought of my dear mother. You would 
 have loved her, Basil, and she would have 
 loved you. She hears me now — yes, she
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 59 
 
 hears and sees me, Basil, and I think she is 
 glad you came to us." 
 
 " I am glad too, Annette." 
 
 " Eeally glad, Basil ? " 
 
 " Eeally glad, Annette." 
 
 " Then you will not go away from us ? " 
 
 " What makes you ask that ? " Her ques- 
 tion, tremulously uttered, formed a pregnant 
 link in the promise he had given her father. 
 
 " It is my dream," said Annette. "I dreamt 
 it last night, and it made me sad. You came 
 to say good-bye, and I was unhappy at the 
 thought that I should never see you again. 
 Basil, if that was to happen I should be sorry 
 you ever came at all." 
 
 " Then you wish me to stay ? " 
 
 " Dearly, Basil, dearly ! I thought I would 
 speak to father about it ; then I thought I 
 would speak to you first." 
 
 " Did you not speak to your father ? " 
 
 " Not about my dream ; but about your 
 going away,"yes. I asked him to persuade 
 you to stop with us." 
 
 "Because, Annette " he said, and 
 
 paused. 
 
 " Because I love you, Basil. I told father 
 so, and he said he loved you, too, and that he
 
 60 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 wished lie had a son like you. Then you 
 would be my brother, and I should be very 
 happy. But father said he was afraid you 
 intended to leave us soon, and that made me 
 dream, I suppose." 
 
 " Annette, listen to me." 
 
 " I am listening, Basil." 
 
 " Your father has spoken to me, and that 
 is why I was so late in coming to you. He 
 asked me to remain here, and I promised him 
 I would." 
 
 "You did? Oh, Basil!" Her voice ex- 
 pressed the most perfect joy. She had risen 
 in her excitement, and was now leaning to- 
 wards him, her lips parted, her eyes glowing. 
 
 "Yes, Annette, I promised him, and I 
 promise you. For some years at least we will 
 live together." 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and 
 kissed him. 
 
 " That will be for ever, Basil. You have 
 made me so happy, so happy ! " 
 
 " So that is all settled," he said. " But I 
 shall be a tyrant, Annette." 
 
 " I don't mind, Basil ; I will be very good 
 and obedient. Do you hear, Bruno, do you 
 hear ? " She knelt and kissed the faithful
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. Q[ 
 
 dog, and pressed his head to her bosom. 
 "Basil is not going away. He will remain 
 here for ever — for ever ! " 
 
 Basil was very grateful for the little maid's 
 affection, grateful that his lines had fallen in 
 such pleasant places. What more could man 
 desire ? But there was a shadow gathering 
 and swiftly approaching which neither of 
 them could see. 
 
 They stopped out later than usual that 
 evening, and when they returned to the house 
 Annette was radiant. 
 
 "Basil has promised to remain with us, 
 father," she said, in a voice of great joy. 
 
 " He has told you, then, dear child ? " 
 
 " Yes, father, yes. He will stop with us for 
 ever. I don't wish for anything now." 
 
 The three happy beings sat together in the 
 verandah during the few brief minutes that 
 divided day and night. In those latitudes 
 there is but little twilight, and the long peace- 
 ful rest of an English sunset is unknown. 
 For a few moments the brilliancy was 
 dazzling. Great clouds of amethyst and ruby 
 spread over the western skies, melting soon 
 into soberer shades of purple and crimson. 
 Then the sun dipped down and disappeared,
 
 62 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 and the skies were overspread with a veil of 
 faded gold, behind which the white stars 
 glittered. 
 
 Their sonls were in harmony with the 
 spiritual influence of the lovely scene, and 
 there was an ineffable peace in their hearts. 
 Annette kissed Basil before she retired to rest, 
 and whispered : " Brother Basil, I shall have 
 happier dreams to-night." 
 
 He kissed her tenderly, and bade her good- 
 night. Unclouded happiness shone in her 
 eyes as she stole to her room, where she knelt 
 by her bedside, and uttered the name of Basil 
 in her prayers. 
 
 Anthony Bidaud gazed at his daughter till 
 she entered the house, and even then kept his 
 eyes fixed upon the door through which she 
 had disappeared. 
 
 " It is years," he said to Basil, " since I 
 have felt so thoroughly content as I do to- 
 night. Come to my room early in the morn- 
 ing ; I shall not write to my lawyer till then, 
 and I wish you to see the letter." 
 
 Shortly after all the inmates of the house 
 were asleep. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 And while they slept, there walked across
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 63 
 
 the distant plains towards the plantation, a 
 man and a woman who had had that goal in 
 view for three months past. It was summer 
 when they left their home across the seas. It 
 was summer when they reached the land to 
 which the woman had been summoned. But, 
 judging from their faces, no summer errand 
 was theirs. 
 
 " Walk quicker," said the man, surlily. 
 " We must get there before sunrise. My heart 
 is bent upon it." 
 
 " I am lit to drop," said the woman. " How 
 much farther have we to go ? " 
 
 " According to information, fifteen miles. 
 Walk quicker, quicker ! Have }'ou travelled 
 so far to faint at the last moment ? Ee- 
 member we have not one penny left to pur- 
 chase food, and have already fasted too many 
 hours. I see visions of ease and comfort, of 
 wine and food, ay, and of riches too. I am 
 eager to get at them." 
 
 "Do you remember," said the woman, 
 " that you were not bidden to come ? " 
 
 "What of that?" retorted the man. "I 
 have my tale ready. Leave me to play my 
 part. Our days of poverty are over. This 
 is the last of them. Walk quicker, quicker ! "
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 A little after sunrise Basil was awake and 
 out, hastening to the river for his morning 
 bath. He had slept well and soundly, but he 
 had had vivid dreams. The events of the day 
 had sunk deep in his mind ; it would have 
 been strange otherwise, for they had altered 
 the currents of his whole future life. They 
 had furnished him with a secure and happy 
 home ; they had placed him in a position of 
 responsibility which he hailed with satisfac- 
 tion and a sense of justifiable pride ; more- 
 over, they had assured him that he had won 
 the affection of a kind and generous gentleman 
 and of a sweet-tempered and gentle little maid. 
 He was no longer an outcast ; he was no 
 longer alone in the world. 
 
 Until this void was supplied he had not felt 
 it. Young, buoyant, and with a fund of 
 animal spirits which was the secret of his 
 cheerful nature, sufficient for the day had 
 been the good thereof ; but now quite sud-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 65 
 
 denly an unexpected and sweetly serious duty 
 had been offered to him, and he had accepted 
 it. He would perform it faithfully and 
 conscientiously. 
 
 Every word Anthony Bidaud had spoken 
 to him had impressed itself upon his mind. 
 He could have repeated their conversation 
 almost word for word. It was this which had 
 inspired his dreams, which formed, as it were, 
 a panorama of the present and the future. 
 
 Annette as she was at this moment, a child, 
 appeared to him, and he lived over again 
 their delightful rambles ; for although it was 
 but }^esterday that they were enjoyed, the 
 duty he had taken upon himself seemed to 
 send them far back into the past ; but still 
 Annette was a child, and her sunny ways be- 
 longed to childhood. The story of "Paul 
 and Virginia " had been a favourite with him 
 when he was a youngster, and his dreams at 
 first were touched by the colour of that simple 
 tale. The life he had lived these last few 
 weeks on Anthony Bidaud's plantation 
 favoured the resemblance ; the South-Sea 
 Islanders who worked on the land, the water- 
 falls, the woods, the solitudes, the protecting 
 bond which linked him to Annette — all 
 vol. i. 5
 
 66 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 formed in his sleeping fancies a conpanion 
 idyll to the charming creation of Bernardin 
 de Saint -Pierre. He carried Annette over the 
 river, he wandered with her through the 
 shadows of the mountains, they were lost and 
 found, they sat together under the shade of 
 the velvet sunflower-tree ; and in this part of 
 his dreams he himself was a youth and not a 
 man. 
 
 So much for the present, and it was due to 
 his light heart and the happiness he had found 
 that his dreams did not take the colour of the 
 subsequent tragedy which brought the lives 
 of these woodland children to their sad and 
 pathetic end. His future and Annette's was 
 brighter than that of Paul and Virginia. He 
 beheld her as a woman, and he was still her 
 protector. She represented the beauty of 
 the entire world of thought and action. Her 
 figure was faultless, her face most lovely, her 
 movements gracefully perfect. There are 
 countenances upon which an eternal cloud 
 appears to rest, and which even when they 
 smile are not illumined. Upon Annette's 
 countenance rested an eternal sunshine, and 
 this quality of light irradiated not only all 
 surrounding visible objects, but all hopes and
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 67 
 
 feelings of the heart. When Basil awoke 
 these felicitous fancies were not obliterated or 
 weakened, as most such fancies are in waking 
 moments, and as he walked towards the river 
 they lightened his footsteps and made him 
 glad. Wending his way along a cattle track 
 dotted with gum-trees, he saw beneath the 
 branches of one a woman whose face was 
 strange to him. She was not English born, 
 and as she reclined in an attitude of fatigue 
 against the tree's trunk there was about her 
 an air of exhaustion which stirred Basil to 
 compassion for her apparently forlorn condi- 
 tion. He remembered his own days and 
 nights of weary tramping through the bush, 
 and, pausing, he looked down upon her, and 
 she peered up at him through her half-closed 
 lids. 
 
 " Good morning," said Basil. 
 
 "Is it ? " she asked, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " Is it what ? " 
 
 " Good morning. To me it is a bad 
 morning." 
 
 Basil looked round. The heavens were 
 
 luminous with vivid colour, the birds were 
 
 flying busily to and from their nests, nature's 
 
 myriad pulses throbbed with gladness. To 
 
 5 #
 
 68 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 him it was the best, the brightest of days. 
 But this sad woman before him was pale and 
 worn ; there were traces not only of exhaus- 
 tion but of hunger in her face. 
 
 " You are hungry," said Basil. 
 
 " Don't mock me," said the woman, in no 
 gracious tone ; " let me rest." 
 
 " If you follow this track," persisted Basil, 
 " the way I have come, you will see the 
 Home Station. They will give you breakfast 
 there." 
 
 For a moment the woman appeared in- 
 clined to accept his kindness ; she made a 
 movement upwards, but almost immediately 
 she relinquished her intention. 
 
 " No," she said, "I will wait." 
 
 He was loth to leave her in her distressful 
 plight, but her churlish manner was dis- 
 couraging. 
 
 " Will you not let me help you ? " 
 
 " You can help me," said the woman, " by 
 leaving me." 
 
 He had no alternative. " If you think 
 better of it," he said, " you can obtain shelter 
 and food at the Home Station." Then he 
 passed on to the river. 
 
 A stranger was there, already stripping for
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 69 
 
 the purpose of bathing. Scarcely looking at 
 him, Basil was about to remove to a more 
 retired spot when he observed something in 
 the water which caused him to run to the man, 
 who was removing his last garment, and seize 
 his arm. 
 
 " What for ? " demanded the stranger. 
 
 He spoke fairly good English, as did the 
 woman who had declined his assistance, but 
 with a foreign accent. He was brown, and 
 thin, and wrinkled, and Basil saw at once that 
 he was not an Englishman. 
 
 " I presume you have not breakfasted yet," 
 was Basil's apparently inconsequential answer 
 to the question. 
 
 " Not yet," said the stranger impatiently, 
 shaking himself free from Basil's grasp. 
 " Why do you stop me ? Is not the river 
 free ? " 
 
 " Quite free," said Basil ; " but instead of 
 eating you may be eaten." 
 
 He pointed downwards, and leaning for- 
 ward the stranger beheld a huge alligator 
 lurking beneath a thin thicket of reeds. The 
 brute was perfectly motionless, but all its 
 voracious senses were on the alert. 
 
 " Ugh ! " cried the stranger, beginning to
 
 70 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 dress hurriedly. " That would be a bad com- 
 mencement of my business." 
 
 He did not say " thank you," nor make the 
 slightest acknowledgment of the service Basil 
 had rendered him. This jarred upon the 
 young man, who stood watching him get into 
 his clothes. They were ragged and travel- 
 stained, and the stranger's physical condition 
 was evidently none of the best ; but his eyes 
 were keen, and all his intellectual forces were 
 awake. In this respect Basil found an odd 
 resemblance in him to the alligator waiting for 
 prey in the waving reeds beneath, and also a 
 less odd resemblance to the woman he had 
 left lying in the shadow of the gum-trees. 
 
 " You have business here, then ? " asked 
 the young man. 
 
 " I have — important business. Understand 
 that I answer simply to prove that I am not 
 an intruder." 
 
 " I understand. Is the woman I met on my 
 way a relative of yours ? " 
 
 " What woman ? " cried the stranger, in 
 sharp accents. 
 
 " Like you in face, and bearing about her 
 signs of hard travel." 
 
 " Did she speak to you ? Why do
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 71 
 
 you question me about her ? By what 
 right ? " 
 
 " There is no particular right in question 
 that I can see," said Basil. " I spoke to her 
 as I am speaking to you, and asked if I could 
 serve her." 
 
 " And she ? " 
 
 " Was as uncivil as yourself, and declined 
 my offers of assistance." 
 
 " She acted well. We are not beggars. 
 For my incivility, that is how you take it. 
 You misconstrue me." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. You seem tired." 
 
 " I have been walking all day and all night, 
 and all day and night again, for more days 
 and nights than I care to count. I have done 
 nothing but walk, walk, walk, since my 
 arrival at this world's end." 
 
 " Have you but just arrived ? " 
 
 "Yes, but just arrived, wearied and worn 
 out with nothing but walking, walking, walk- 
 ing. Is that what this world's end was made 
 for ? " 
 
 If the stranger had not stated that he had 
 important business to transact, and had there 
 not been something superior in his speech 
 and deportment to the ordinary tramp with
 
 72 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 whom every man in the Australian colonies is 
 familiar, Basil would have set him down as a 
 member of that delectable fraternity. Not- 
 withstanding this favourable opinion, how- 
 ever, Basil took an instinctive dislike to the 
 man. He had seen in him an odd likeness to 
 the alligator, and brief as had been their 
 interview up to this point, he had gone the 
 length of mentally comparing him now to a 
 fox, now to a jackal — to any member of the 
 brute species indeed whose nature was dis- 
 tinguished by the elements of rapacity and 
 cunning. 
 
 " Have you far to go ? " he asked. 
 
 " No farther," replied the stranger, with an 
 upward glance at Anthony Bidaud's house, 
 one end of which was visible from the spot 
 upon which they were conversing. 
 
 " Is that your destination ? " inquired Basil, 
 observing the upward glance. 
 
 "That," said the stranger, with a light 
 laugh, " is my destination, if I have not been 
 misinformed." 
 
 The laugh intensified Basil's dislike ; there 
 was a mocking sinister ring in it, but he 
 nevertheless continued the conversation. 
 
 " Misinformed in what respect ? "
 
 EASIL AND ANNETTE. 73 
 
 " That is M. Bidaud's house ? " 
 
 " It is M. Bidaud's house." 
 
 " M. Anthony Bidaud ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Originally from Switzerland." 
 
 Basil's hazard of the stranger's precise 
 nationality now took definite form. 
 
 " As you are," he said. 
 
 " As I am," said the stranger, " and as 
 Anthony Bidaud is.' ; 
 
 " You are right in your surmise. He is 
 from Switzerland." 
 
 " My surmise ? Ah ! He has a fine estate 
 here." 
 
 " He has." 
 
 "But his wife — she is dead." 
 
 " That is so, unhappily." 
 
 " What is one man's meat is another man's 
 poison — a proverb that may be reversed." 
 His small eyes glittered, and his thin pointed 
 features seemed all to converge to one point. 
 ("Fox, decidedly," thought Basil.) The 
 stranger continued. " His health, is it 
 good ? " 
 
 In the light of Anthony Bidaud's revelation 
 on the previous evening this was a startling 
 question, and Basil answered, " It is an in-
 
 74 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 quiry you had best make of himself if you 
 are likely to see him." 
 
 "It is more than likely that I shall see 
 him," said the stranger, " and he will tell me. 
 He has but one child." 
 
 "You are well informed. He has but one." 
 
 " Whose name is Annette." 
 
 " Whose name," said Basil, wondering from 
 what source the stranger had obtained his 
 information, " is Annette." 
 
 " Charming, charming, charming," said the 
 stranger. " Everything is charming, except," 
 — with a loathing gesture at the alligator, 
 which lay still as a log, waiting for prey — 
 " that monster ; and except also that I am 
 dead with fatigue. I came here for a bath to 
 refresh myself after much travelling. Is there 
 any part of this treacherous river in which a 
 man may bathe in safety?" 
 
 " I will show you a place." 
 
 " No tricks, young sir," said the stranger, 
 suspicion in his voice. 
 
 " Why should I play you tricks ? If you 
 do not care to trust me, seek a secure spot 
 yourself." 
 
 " No, I will accompany you, who must 
 know the river well. You do, eh ? "
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 75 
 
 " I am thoroughly acquainted with it." 
 
 " You guessed my nation ; shall I guess 
 yours ? Australian." 
 
 " I am an Englishman." 
 
 " A great nation ; a great people. Is this 
 the spot ? " 
 
 They had arrived at a smooth reach of 
 water, semicircularly protected by rocks from 
 the invasion of alligators. 
 
 " This is the spot," said Basil, " you will be 
 perfectly safe here." 
 
 The water was so clear that they could see 
 to the bottom. Black and silver bream, 
 perch, mullet, and barramundi were swimming 
 in its translucent depths. The stranger 
 peered carefully among the rocks to make 
 sure that they were free from foes, and then, 
 without thanking Basil, began to strip off his 
 clothes. 
 
 " And you — where will you bathe ? " 
 
 " A little farther up stream. Goodonorn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Ah, good morning ; but I may see you 
 again if you are living near." 
 
 " I live," said Basil, " in the house yonder."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A sudden excitement was observable in the 
 stranger. He paused in his undressing, and 
 laid his hand on Basil's arm, clutching with 
 nervous fingers. 
 
 " You are very intimate with M. Anthony 
 Bidaud ? " he said. 
 
 " We are friends." 
 
 " Friends ? Ah ! You are not related ? 
 No, you cannot be, for you are English. Yet 
 there are other ties. His wife is dead, you 
 say, and as I know. Yes, dead. But he may 
 be looking for another, may be already 
 married again." He spoke in feverish haste. 
 (" A touch of the jackal here," thought 
 Basil.) "Tell me, you friend of M. Anthony 
 Bidaud." 
 
 " He is not married again," said Basil, 
 " and to my knowledge is not seeking another 
 wife." 
 
 The stranger drew a long breath of relief,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 77 
 
 followed immediately by the exhibition of a 
 new suspicion. 
 
 " His daughter, Annette — if he spoke truth 
 a child. But men lie sometimes, very often, 
 you, I, all men. He married long, long ago, 
 and this Annette may well be a young woman 
 of twenty." He scowled as he looked at 
 Basil's handsome face. " Is she married, or 
 going to be ? " 
 
 " Absurd," said Basil, but a little touch of 
 colour came into his face which the sharp eyes 
 of the stranger noted, " she is scarcely four- 
 teen years of age." 
 
 " Good, good. Time, let us hope, to 
 prevent mischief. But, pardon me, if you 
 live in the house of M. Bidaud, there must be 
 a reason. You do not look like a common 
 labourer ; you are something better, a gentle- 
 man — eh ? " Again all his thin pointed 
 features seemed, foxlike, to converge to one 
 point. 
 
 " I am a gentleman," said Basil, " and I am 
 staying with M. Bidaud as a guest." He 
 referred to the present, not feeling warranted 
 in speaking of the future. The arrangement 
 he had entered into with Anthony Bidaud had 
 yet to be carried into effect.
 
 78 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " Ah, ah, as a guest, only as a guest, but 
 with an eye to the future, perhaps. M. 
 Anthony Bidaud is rich, and in two years his 
 daughter, his only child, will be sixteen, and 
 nearly ripe. There is a saying, is there not, 
 among you English that welcomes the coming 
 and speeds the parting guest ? I have been 
 in your country, and know something of its 
 literature, and in my own land my education 
 was not neglected. That saying about the 
 coming and parting guest is a good omen, for 
 I have but just arrived, and you " 
 
 But Basil did not wait to hear the conclu- 
 sion of the sentence. Annoyed at the turn 
 the conversation had taken he turned on his 
 heel, and left the stranger to enjoy his bath. 
 He walked slowly to his own, rather ruffled by 
 the interview. 
 
 " Who can he be ? " he thought, as he 
 prepared for his swim. " He seems to be 
 acquainted with M. Bidaud and with his 
 personal history. What on earth made me 
 answer his interminable questions ? His per- 
 tinacity, I suppose, and a kind of magnetism 
 in him which it was hard to resist. But I 
 might have been courteous without being 
 communicative. I said nothing, however, of
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 79 
 
 my own prompting, and his questions followed 
 each other naturally. What he learnt from 
 me he could have learnt from a dozen others, 
 and after all there is no harm done. He 
 certainly has the knack of rubbing the wrong 
 way ; an extraordinarily annoying fellow, but 
 neither loutish nor ignorant. That is why I 
 was constrained to follow his lead. This is 
 his destination ; his business, then, must be 
 with M. Bidaud. Important business, he said 
 — and with Annette's father. I did not like 
 his references to Annette. Will it be right or 
 wrong for me to convey my impressions of 
 this stranger to M. Bidaud ? Wrong. I will 
 merely mention that I met with such a man, 
 who was coming to the house upon business. 
 He spoke of having walked a long way. He 
 must be poor, or he would have chosen 
 another mode of conveyance, especially as he 
 seems to be in somewhat feverish haste. 
 Being poor is nothing against him ; I am poor 
 myself. Psha ! What a worry I am making 
 of nothing ! " 
 
 He could not dismiss the subject, however, 
 and the currents of his thoughts ran on even 
 as he swam. 
 
 "The woman I met on my way to the
 
 80 BASTL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 river ; how skilfully lie evaded my inquiries 
 as to the relationship between them ! His 
 tone when he spoke of her showed that he 
 had power over her. I have not the least 
 doubt he is the kind of man who can make 
 himself intensely disagreeable, Poor woman ! 
 There is a resemblance in their features ; I 
 have read that husband and wife frequently 
 grow like each other in face. She was 
 hungry, but she declined the offer of a good 
 meal. Acting, I should say, under her 
 husband's instructions, and too frightened of 
 him to disobey him. Faithful creatures, 
 women. Patient as camels some of them and 
 as docile. A hard tramp she seems to have 
 had of it, and he has not spared her. Well, 
 she can rest here a few days. Would I like 
 them to remain on the plantation ? No. He 
 would keep me in a continual state of irrita- 
 tion. His allusions to Annette were in the 
 worst of taste. I dare say before the day is 
 out I shall know the nature of his business. 
 M. Bidaud will tell me. Confound the 
 fellow! Ill not think of him any more." 
 
 As a contribution towards this end he 
 plunged half a dozen times into the deepest 
 parts of the river, and finally emerged, glow-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 81 
 
 ing. The disturbing impressions produced by 
 the stranger were dissipated, and Basil 
 thought it would look churlish if on his road 
 back to the house he did not go to see 
 whether he could be of any service to him. 
 He saw nothing, however, of the man or the 
 woman, and greatly refreshed, he proceeded 
 to the house. The sun was now high in the 
 heavens, and the labourers were at work on 
 the plantation. He exchanged greetings with 
 a few of the better sort, and inquired whether 
 they had seen anything of the strangers. 
 They replied in the negative ; they had seen 
 nothing of them. 
 
 " Have you, Eocke ? " he asked of one who 
 was regarding him with a scowl. 
 
 "No," said Eocke. "What business is it 
 of mine ? " 
 
 It was Eocke's misfortune to always wear a 
 scowl on his face, but in this scowl there 
 were degrees. To produce an amiable smile 
 was with Eocke an impossibility ; nature had 
 been cruel, and his parents, one or both of 
 them, had transmitted to him a sour temper 
 as an inheritance ; but the state of his feelings 
 could be correctly judged by the kind of 
 scowl he wore ; a nice observer could scarcely 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 make a mistake as to whether lie tolerated, 
 disliked, or hated the man he was gazing on. 
 There could be no mistake made now ; he 
 hated Basil. 
 
 There was a reason. Every man has his 
 good points, even the worst of men, and 
 Eocke's good point was that he conscien- 
 tiously performed the duties for which he was 
 engaged. However hard the work before 
 him, done it was with a will — and a scowl. 
 Now, this was a distinct virtue, and Anthony 
 Bidaud gave him credit for it, and appre- 
 ciated the conscientious worker, as any other 
 master would do of a man who gave him full 
 value for his wage. So far, so good ; master 
 and man were satisfied. But before Basil's 
 arrival on the plantation Kocke had got it 
 into his head — which was not an intellectual 
 head — that Anthony Bidaud entertained 
 the notion of creating a general supervisor 
 and manager of the estate, and that he, 
 Rocke, was the man to be apj)ointed ; 
 and since Basil's arrival his ambitious 
 dream was disturbed by the conviction 
 that Basil would step into the shoes he 
 wished to wear. 
 
 "I don't know that it is anv business of
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 83 
 
 yours," said Basil to Eocke, " only I thought 
 you might have seen these persons." 
 
 " Well, I haven't," said Eocke. 
 
 Basil nodded cheerfully, and proceeded 
 towards the house. He was not a man of 
 paroxysms ; except upon very special 
 occasions his temperament was equable. As 
 to whether Eocke had spoken the truth or no 
 he did not speculate ; it was not in Eocke he 
 was interested, but in the man and the woman 
 with whom he had spoken on his way to the 
 river. 
 
 Anthony Bidaud was an early riser, and 
 Basil went to the room in which the master of 
 the plantation was in the habit of transacting 
 his private business. He knocked twice or 
 thrice at the door without receiving an 
 answer, and then, turning the handle, he 
 entered the room. 
 
 Anthony Bidaud was reclining in the chair 
 in which he usually sat when engaged in 
 correspondence. His back was towards Basil, 
 and before him on the table writing materials 
 were spread. He sat quite still, and for a 
 moment or two the young man was uncertain 
 what to do. Then he called Bidaud by 
 name. No answer came, and Basil, surprised 
 
 6*
 
 84 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 at the stillness, advanced to Bidaud, and 
 stood immediately behind him. Still no 
 notice was taken of Basil. Then he laid his 
 hand upon Bidaud's shoulder. The occupant 
 of the chair did not move, and Basil leaned 
 anxiously forward to look into his face. At 
 first Basil believed him to be asleep, but a 
 closer examination sent the blood rushing to 
 the young man's heart in terror. Bidaud's 
 arm hung listlessly by his side, and upon his 
 face dwelt an expression of acute suffering. 
 Again Basil called him by name, and shook 
 him roughly, but no responsive word or 
 movement greeted him from the quiet figure 
 in the chair. Basil thrust his hand into 
 Bidaud's shirt over the region of his heart, 
 and trembled to meet with no pulsation there. 
 He raised Bidaud's arm and released it. It 
 dropped lifeless down. 
 
 " Merciful heavens ! " cried Basil, looking 
 helplessly around. " Can this be death ? " 
 
 The question he asked of himself was heard 
 by another man. The stranger he had met 
 on the banks of the river had noiselessly 
 opened the door, and now advanced to the 
 chair. 
 
 " Who speaks of death ? " asked the
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 85 
 
 stranger. " Ah, it is you, who are a guest in 
 this house. And I find you and him " — he 
 stretched a long bony ringer at the recumbent 
 figure of Anthony Bidaud — "here together, 
 alone. You with a face of fear, terror, and 
 excitement ; he quite still, quite still ! " 
 
 He was perfectly composed, and there was 
 a malicious smile on his lips as he confronted 
 Basil. Dazed by the situation, Basil could 
 find no words to reply. 
 
 " You are confounded," continued the 
 stranger. "It needs explanation. Who is 
 this man sitting so quietly in his chair ? " 
 
 "M. Anthony Bidaud," said Basil, with 
 white lips, " the master of this house." 
 
 " Ah, M. Anthony Bidaud, the master of 
 this house," said the stranger, echoing Basil's 
 words, but whereas Basil's voice was agitated, 
 his had not a tremor in it. "I will see if you 
 are speaking the truth." He lowered his 
 face, and his eyes rested upon the face of the 
 motionless figure. " Yes, it is he, Anthony 
 Bidaud, worn, alas ! and wasted. Sad, sad, 
 sad ! " Grief was expressed in the words but 
 not in the tone of the speaker. " What was 
 it you asked a moment ago ? Can this be 
 death ? I am a doctor. I will tell you."
 
 lifting the li: ai in L: laid 
 
 it upon and tearing open the shirt 
 
 and .ony 
 
 : - k: his pub 
 
 finger and thumb. He proceeded with his 
 examination by _ from his 
 
 leath ntainin_ tnd a 
 
 narrow slip of lookin. _ _ the 
 
 surface of the glass dry with a hand 
 that had dropped to the grou: 
 
 the mouth of AntL 
 held it up to the li_ 
 
 *• Yea,* he king Basil full in the 
 
 face, death. It is lucky I traveUed 
 
 hither in _ . and did not allow m; 
 
 to be delayed 
 
 you. You have treated me scurvily 1 
 at length you mile upon me. 
 
 Being a lady. I ju" 
 
 _ 
 heartless in the action 
 indignai. vhat 
 
 right hi intruded yourself into this 
 
 - 
 
 inmediately rt 
 
 producing : . ed hiri- h a pinch.
 
 He offered the 
 
 He smiled and rep"- :: 
 
 pocket, and wa to replace the 
 
 leather when an ring 
 
 occurred to him. Hr 
 the comb, and _ 
 
 with an afl His 
 
 broaden I as he e r in 
 
 . s - 
 "You 
 I am, and by wl 
 
 this room : You have .] s ■ . *SL. 
 
 Anthony Bi 
 
 'intrude 7 to m bis A _ "- 
 
 brother. My - L Eh : 
 
 Did ;
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 So many conflicting emotions had been 
 pressed into the last few minutes that Basil 
 was utterly bewildered. The cold, sardonic 
 face before him, wreathed into mocking 
 smiles even in the presence of death, added to 
 his bewilderment. He passed his hand across 
 his eyes, wondering whether he was dreaming, 
 but removing his hand from his forehead he 
 saw the dead form of Anthony Bidaud on the 
 sofa, and heard the light laugh of the man 
 who called himself Anthony's brother. This 
 laugh recalled him to himself ; he was in full 
 possession of his senses, and understood what 
 had occurred, and to some extent what it 
 portended. 
 
 Gilbert Bidaud ! And the woman with 
 him was not his wife, but his sister, to whom 
 Annette's father had written six months asro, 
 imploring her to come to him, and promising 
 to provide for her and her family. That
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 89 
 
 being so, she was here by authority. She 
 was but an instrument in the hands of Gilbert 
 Bidaucl, whose lightest word she was con- 
 strained to obey. 
 
 Gilbert Bidaud ! 
 
 "It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh 
 and blood, but it is the truth that the girl I 
 loved was fortunate in not placing her affec- 
 tions upon him. He would have broken her 
 heart. He was a spendthrift and a libertine, 
 and would stop at little for the gratification 
 of his selfish pleasures." 
 
 It was but last evening that these words 
 were spoken by lips that would never speak 
 again, and now this spendthrift and libertine 
 was within touch of him, was standing with 
 a smiling face by the dead body of the 
 brother he would have wronged. There 
 came to Basil's mind the image of Annette, 
 the sweet confiding girl, who was to have 
 been given into his care to guard and protect. 
 All that was over now. Inexorable death 
 had stopped the fulfilment of the fond father's 
 wish. And Annette herself, how would it 
 fare with her ? She was ignorant as yet of 
 the crushing, terrible blow which had so 
 suddenly fallen upon her. Who would
 
 90 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 impart the cruel news to her ? Who woulcj 
 comfort her in her bereavement ? Even as 
 these reflections crossed his mind he heard 
 the young girl's voice singing outside as she 
 tripped downstairs from her bedroom. He 
 glided to the door, and softly turned the key. 
 Just in time. Annette lingered at the door, 
 tried the handle gently with the intention of 
 kissing her father good morning, and, finding 
 the door fast, passed on gaily and continued 
 her song. 
 
 " That is Annette ? " questioned Gilbert 
 Bidaud. Basil nodded. " A sweet voice, the 
 voice of a child, whose nature is not yet 
 moulded. We will mould it, my sister and I. 
 We will instil into her virgin soul, principles. 
 She will be grateful that we have come, being 
 of her blood. I have a number of your 
 English sayings at my fingers' ends. Blood is 
 thicker than water. I represent the one, you 
 the other. She is not a woman — yet. The 
 mind of a child is like a slate ! fancies, likings, 
 are easily rubbed off. It is more serious when 
 we grow older. The child forgets, the woman 
 remembers. Do you catch my meaning ? " 
 
 " I should be sorry to say I did," replied 
 Basil.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE 91 
 
 " Ah, you would pay me a compliment, 
 gilding me with virtues to which I do not 
 aspire, to which I have never aspired. I am 
 a plain man, I ; honest to the backbone ; 
 with my heart on my sleeve, transparent. It 
 has not paid up to this time, but my hour has 
 come. Why did you lock the door ? " 
 
 " Does not that answer you ? " pointing to 
 the dead body of Annette's father. 
 
 " Ah, she does not know. You are con- 
 siderate, you." A strange smile came to his 
 lips as he added, " No one knows but you 
 and I." 
 
 Basil stepped to the table. Perhaps the 
 letter which Anthony Bidaud intended to 
 write to his lawyer was there ; it might con- 
 tain something by which he could be guided 
 at this dread crisis. But the sheet of paper 
 which Anthony Bidaud had taken from the 
 open desk displayed only the mark of a scrawl 
 at the top. The pen, with the ink scarcely 
 dried in it, lay upon the table. Evidently at 
 the very moment that Anthony Bidaud had 
 put pen to paper he was visited by the death 
 stroke. The pen had dropped from his 
 fingers, and he had fallen back lifeless in his 
 chair. There was, however, an addressed
 
 92 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 envelope, and Basil noted the name and the 
 direction, which were those of the lawyer 
 whom Anthony Bidaud intended to summon 
 to the plantation. 
 
 Gilbert Bidaud had followed his movements 
 attentively, and now, when Basil looked up 
 from the table, he repeated the last words he 
 had uttered. 
 
 " No one knows but you and I." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " demanded 
 Basil. 
 
 "What I mean," said Gilbert Bidaud, 
 touching his forehead with a linger, " I keep 
 here for the present. It is sometimes danger- 
 ous to explain meanings too soon. Take 
 heed. When I came to this colony — but a 
 short time since — I was inwardly warned that 
 I might meet with men from whom it would 
 be necessary to protect myself. Therefore I 
 purchased this " — producing a revolver — 
 " and this " — producing a knife — " only to be 
 used in self-defence, against you, against any 
 man." 
 
 There was nothing menacing in his tone. 
 He spoke, indeed, rather playfully than other- 
 wise, and handled the revolver and knife as 
 though they were toys instead of dangerous
 
 BASIL AND ANNETiE. 93 
 
 weapons. A wild thought crossed Basil's 
 mind, and he acted upon it instantly. 
 
 " You say you are Gilbert Bidaud, brother 
 of this unfortunate gentleman, but I have 
 only your word for it." 
 
 " Ah, ah," said Gilbert Bidaud, with an 
 air of great amusement, " you have only my 
 word for it. But what kind of authority do you 
 hold here that you should demand answers to 
 questions upon this or any other subject ?" 
 
 Basil could not answer this direct 
 challenge ; he inwardly recognised the weak- 
 ness of his position ; Anthony Bidaud dead, 
 he was but a cipher on his estate. 
 
 " You are as a feather to a rock," said 
 Gilbert Bidaud, with a gesture of contempt, 
 " and I am but amusing myself with you. I 
 stand quietly here for a reason I may pre- 
 sently explain. This house has lost a master." 
 He glanced at his dead brother. " This house 
 has gained a master." He touched his breast 
 triumphantly. " It is but a change, a law of 
 nature. My brother and I have not met for 
 twenty years. He had a good motive for 
 avoiding me ; he fled from Switzerland with 
 money of mine, and now, through death, he is 
 compelled to make restitution."
 
 94 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " It is false," cried Basil, chivalrously 
 defending the friend he had lost. " If you 
 are Gilbert Bidaud it was you who attempted 
 to rob him of his inheritance." 
 
 " Ah, ah. Did my estimable brother open 
 his heart entirely to you ? " 
 
 " Sufficiently to reveal your true character 
 — even to the last words you spoke to him 
 before he left Switzerland." 
 
 "Favour me with them. It may be 
 excused if I do not faithfully recall them at 
 this distance of time." 
 
 " ' One day,' you said to him, ' I will be 
 even with you. Eemember my words — dead 
 or alive, I will be even with you.' " 
 
 " I remember. My words were prophetic. 
 Fate was on my side, justice was on my 
 side. They whispered to me, ' Wait.' I 
 waited. And now — look there ! So, so, my 
 ingenious young friend ; you know the whole 
 story." 
 
 " It was related to me by your brother." 
 
 " By this lump of clay ! It would be the 
 act of a fool to deal tenderly by you ; and I, 
 as you may have already learned, am no fool. 
 How came my brother by his death ?" 
 
 " How came he by his death ? " stammered
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 95 
 
 Basil, puzzled by the question, and not seeing 
 the drift of it. 
 
 " Ay, how came he by his death ? I am 
 not so ignorant as you suppose. I have made 
 inquiries about you ; there are men on this 
 estate who bear you no good will. You are 
 here, not as a guest, but an interloper. You 
 and my brother were strangers a few short 
 weeks ago, and you forced yourself upon him 
 and lived here, a beggar, eating his food, 
 drinking his wine, and paying for them 
 neither in service nor money. That is a 
 creditable part to be played by one who calls 
 himself an English gentleman. Summoned 
 here by M. Anthony Bidaud — I have in my 
 pocket the letter he wrote to our sister — I 
 hasten on the wings of love, tarrying not on 
 the road, but wearing myself near to death in 
 order that I may satisfy his longing desire to 
 embrace me. I meet you by accident on the 
 river's bank, and I perceive that you regard 
 yourself as master here. The river is yours, 
 the land is yours, my brother is yours, his 
 daughter Annette is yours — ah, you wince at 
 that. All this you proclaim in your lordly 
 way, and patronise me — me, whose rightful 
 place you would have usurped. Before meet-
 
 96 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 ing me you pass my sister, resting in her 
 labour of love, and you offer her charity — 
 you, a beggar, pass this insult upon a lady 
 who, under my direction, will educate my 
 dear brother's little daughter, and teach her 
 — principles. You leave me by the river ; I, 
 guileless, unsuspicious, a child in innocence, 
 calmly take my bath, and reflect with delight 
 upon the joy of my brother when he takes 
 me to his arms. Walking to this house, I 
 meet a labourer, whose name is Eocke. He 
 tells me something of you ; he directs me to 
 my brother's private room. I open the door ; 
 I see you standing by my brother's side. 
 You are in a state of fear and agitation ; }^our 
 face is white, your limbs tremble. I hear you 
 ask the question, ' Can this be death ? ' To 
 whom or to what do you address this inquiry ? 
 To your conscience, for you believe yourself 
 to be alone ; you are unconscious that T am 
 present. ' Can this be death ? ' I convince 
 myself, and you. It is death. I am deprived 
 of the opportunity of saying to my brother 
 that I forgive him for the wrong he did me in 
 the past. It is most cruel, and you have 
 robbed me of the opportunity ; but, before I 
 forget it, I will chance the efficacy of my
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 97 
 
 forgiveness, though lie be dead." With a 
 mock liurnility shocking to witness, he ex- 
 tended his hands, and, looking upwards, said, 
 " Brother, I forgive yon. I return to my 
 argument. What passed between you and my 
 brother before I entered this room ? Again I 
 ask, how came he by his death? If it is not 
 a natural end, who is the murderer ? " 
 
 In hot indignation Basil started forward, 
 but by a great effort of will restrained himself. 
 He had been appalled by the careless mock- 
 ing tone in which Gilbert Bidaud had spoken, 
 by his false assumption of a grief he did not 
 feel, by the evident enjoyment he derived 
 from the glaring insincerity of his professions. 
 For no two things could be more distinctly 
 at variance than Gilbert Bidaud's words and 
 the tone in which he uttered them. It ex- 
 hibited a refinement of malice, and, what 
 rendered it more revolting, of malice in which 
 the intellectual quality was conspicuous. 
 
 " It is well," continued Gilbert Bidaud, 
 " that vou exercise self-control. I might call 
 aloud for help ; I might, in less time than it 
 takes me to speak it, create in this room the 
 evidences of a struggle, in the course of which 
 I might lire my revolver, produced for self- 
 vol. i. 7
 
 98 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 defence ; I might inform those who would 
 break the door down — it is locked by you, 
 remember — that you attempted to murder me, 
 even as you Ah, I perceive you under- 
 stand. Yes, all this I might do, and you 
 would be in the toils. Do not move until I 
 have done with you, or you will be in deadly 
 danger. In such parts of the world as this, 
 exasperated men often proceed hastily to 
 summary justice, and it might be executed 
 upon you. I am teaching you lessons, as I 
 shall teach my dear niece Annette, principles. 
 You are young ; I, alas, am old. I have 
 nothing to learn ; you have much. Tell me, 
 you hanger-on in this house, you beggar 
 of my brother's hospitality, what passed 
 between you and him before I entered this 
 room ? " 
 
 " Nothing," replied Basil, confounded by 
 the possibilities of a ruthless malice with 
 which Gilbert Bidaud had threatened him. 
 "I have already informed you that when I 
 entered the room he was dead." 
 
 " What brought you here ? " 
 
 " I came by appointment," said Basil. He 
 no longer doubted that the man before him 
 was Anthonv Bidaud's brother, and he was
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 'J9 
 
 surprised that he had not detected the re- 
 semblance upon his first meeting with Gilbert. 
 
 ' ; What was the nature of the appoint- 
 ment ? " 
 
 " He wished me to read a letter he intended 
 to write to his lawyer." 
 
 " Ah, ah ! He intended to write to his 
 lawyer. May I ask this lawyer's name ? " 
 
 " It is there upon an envelope." 
 
 " His place of residence ? " 
 
 " Sydney, I believe." 
 
 " A long way off. The letter was to have 
 been written this morning ? " 
 
 " Yes. He at first intended to write it last 
 night, but he put it off till to-day. The 
 postponement was most unfortunate." 
 
 " To you?" 
 
 "To me. I should have urged him to 
 carry out his intention last night, as he 
 designed." 
 
 " Ah ! Apres dommage chacun est sage — 
 except the dead. Why should you have 
 urged him ? " 
 
 "It would have been to my interests — and 
 his, I fear." 
 
 " Leave his out of the question ; he has 
 done with the world. Yours is another
 
 100 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 matter. How could a simple letter to a 
 lawyer have been in your interests ? A letter 
 is not a legal document." His preternatural 
 sharpness as he made this remark was a reve- 
 lation to an honest nature like Basil's. There 
 seemed to be no limit to Gilbert Bidaud's 
 cunning. 
 
 " At least it would have explained matters, 
 and cleared me from your suspicions.'' 
 
 "Words are easily spoken, and weigh no 
 more than air. To what effect was to have 
 been this letter ? " 
 
 "He desired to make his will." 
 
 Gilbert Bidaud drew a deep breath of satis- 
 faction ; he had elicited something tangible, 
 something which wonderfully strengthened 
 his position. " Then there is no will, and the 
 letter, which would have been valueless, was 
 not written. Your expression of regret leads 
 me to infer that the will was to have been in 
 your favour." 
 
 " To a certain extent." 
 
 " False. He intended to repair the in- 
 justice from which I have so long suffered ; 
 his property would have been divided be- 
 tween me and the little Annette It is too 
 late for him to do that now : but I stand as
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 101 
 
 natural guardian to my niece. I am truly 
 the master here ; the law will declare me so. 
 Console yourself. You shall depart from this 
 house a free man. You are not in danger. 
 Bear witness to my magnanimity ; my brother 
 died a natural death. I will testify it, to save 
 you." 
 
 "That will not do," said Basil. "From 
 what cause he died shall be proved by proper 
 evidence." 
 
 " It shall. I, a doctor, will supply it." 
 
 "I reject your proof; you are an interested 
 party. It shall be independent evidence that 
 shall establish the cause of death." 
 
 " So be it, young Daniel," said Gilbert 
 Bidaud briskly. u Meanwhile, I release you 
 from suspicion ; I, the gentleman you have 
 insulted, believe you to be innocent. I go 
 to seek my niece, to introduce myself to her, 
 and to break to her the sad, the melancholy 
 news. But before I go I give you notice of 
 your discharge. For one week from this day 
 you shall enjoy my hospitality, but for no 
 longer, for not an hour longer. Accept it, 
 beggar, or leave at once." 
 
 He paused at the door, opened it, removed 
 the key to the outside, and with a con-
 
 102 BASIL ASD ANKETTE. 
 
 temptuous motion, ordered Basil to quit the 
 room. The young man had no choice but to 
 obey. Whatever might be Gilbert Bidaud's 
 character, he stood in the house as legal 
 representative of the dead. Annette was but a 
 child, and her uncle was her lawful guardian. 
 Grieved, sorrow- stricken, and humiliated, Basil 
 left the room, and heard Gilbert Bidaud turn 
 the key. 
 
 +^^*H=2=§§*
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 What should lie do now, how should he 
 act ? To accept Gilbert Bidaud's hospitality 
 was impossible. The old man was his bitter 
 enemy, and would show him no consideration. 
 Indeed, what consideration could he expect ? 
 There was no denying that he had no right to 
 remain on the estate, but he felt he could not 
 leave it for ever without seeing Annette once 
 more, without speaking to her perhaps for the 
 last time. Nor could he well take his final 
 departure without making an attempt to clear 
 himself from the foul suspicions which, in his 
 absence, he felt convinced Gilbert Bidaud 
 would set in circulation against him. He had 
 led a spotless life, and the thought that a stain 
 should now be cast upon it was unbearable. 
 But what means could he take to clear him- 
 self from the breath of slander ? He could 
 think of no way at present, and he walked into 
 the open with a heavy weight of melancholy 
 at his heart.
 
 104 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 He wandered into the woods and gathered 
 some fruit ; he had a vigorous appetite, and 
 it would be folly to starve himself. But the 
 food of which he partook had never tasted 
 less sweet than on this sad morning. His 
 hunger appeased, he returned to the vicinity 
 of the house. 
 
 He heard a cry of distress in the distance, 
 and saw men and women hurrying to the 
 spot from which the cry proceeded. The 
 voice was Annette's. 
 
 Presently he saw the men and women 
 coming towards the house. They were 
 headed by Gilbert Bidaud and his sister, and 
 one of the men — before the group came 
 close to him he saw that it was Eocke — was 
 carrying in his arms the insensible form of 
 Annette. Impelled by love and infinite com- 
 passion for the child, he started forward, 
 but was haughtily waved off by Gilbert 
 Bidaud. 
 
 " That man," said Gilbert to those in his 
 rear, " has my permission to remain on this 
 estate for one week. When that time has 
 expired he will be a trespasser." 
 
 As he finished speaking Annette opened 
 her eyes — they fell upon Basil.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 105 
 
 " Basil, Basil ! " she cried, extending her 
 arms to him. 
 
 " Annette ! " 
 
 Once more he attempted to go to her ; 
 once more Gilbert Bidand waved him off, 
 and stepped before him. 
 
 " If he touches her, if he follows her, arrest 
 him. I give you authority." 
 
 Basil fell back. Annette's mournful eyes 
 were fixed upon his face in dumb despair. 
 
 " Hurry in — hurry in," said Gilbert Bidaud 
 in a harsh tone. 
 
 They passed into the house, and Basil was 
 left alone. It was a favourite trick of his to 
 put his thoughts into unspoken words ; he 
 had encouraged the habit, finding it led to 
 clearness, and generally, when he was in 
 doubt, to some definite issue. In his dis- 
 turbed mood he found this a suitable time for 
 this mental indulgence. Something should be 
 done, clearly ; but what ? 
 
 " Poor Annette ! " he thought. " Poor 
 child ! What will now become of her ? What 
 will be her future ? That brute — he is no 
 less — who boasts so sardonically that he in- 
 tends to teach her principles, will poison her 
 mind against me. If I do not see her again
 
 106 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 she will grow to hate me. It is dreadful to 
 think of. She has none but kind thoughts 
 of me now ; and though in a short time we 
 may be parted for ever, and all chance of 
 ever seeing her again will be lost, I should 
 dearly like to feel that if she thinks of me in 
 the future it will be with gentleness and 
 affection. I have done nothing to forfeit her 
 affection, except that I am unfortunate. 
 
 " My bright dreams are suddenly snapped. 
 A few short hours have changed happiness to 
 woe. Still — still I have committed no wrong. 
 Of that I am sure, and it is a comfort — but 
 poor Annette ! If I could assure her that I 
 am not to blame, I could bear it. She would 
 believe me, and I could go on my way with a 
 less sorrowful heart. 
 
 " That brute will try his hardest to prevent 
 my seeing her. The blow that has fallen 
 upon her may prostrate her. She ma}^ die — 
 it is horrible, horrible ! If that should happen, 
 Gilbert Bidaud will come into possession of 
 everything. Is that the end to which he will 
 work ? He is capable of it, capable of any 
 villainy. Can I do nothing to save her ? 
 
 " I am powerless. I have no claim upon 
 her ; I have no right to be here. But I will
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 107 
 
 not go away without seeing, without speaking 
 to her. If he takes her from this place, which 
 is likely enough, I will follow them. She must 
 not, she must not be left to the tender mercies 
 of that jackal. 
 
 " All very fine to talk, Basil. You will 
 follow them? Why, man, you must live. It 
 is a necessity. And to live you must work. 
 How much money have you in your pocket to 
 commence the fight of existence with ? — to 
 say nothing of the grand things you are going 
 to do for sweet Annette. 
 
 " She lias got hold of my heart-strings. I 
 shall never, never forget her. Certain words 
 spoken by my dear friend, Anthony Bidaud, 
 last night, come to my mind. Let me recall 
 them, exactly as he spoke them. 
 
 " ' We are drawn to each other,' he said. 
 And before that : ' By accident you enter 
 into our lives. I use the term accident, but 
 I believe it to be a providence.' How if it 
 should be so ? The shadow of death was 
 hanging over him, and at such times some 
 men have been gifted with prophetic insight. 
 If it were so with Anthony Bidaud, this is 
 not the end. The thought I have expressed, 
 the very word ' insight ' I have used, were
 
 108 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 his. ' I have observed you closely,' lie said, 
 ' and am satisfied to deliver into your hands 
 a sacred charge, the charge of a young girl's 
 future. At such moments as these there 
 comes to some men a subtle, unfathomable 
 insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe 
 that there is a link between you and my child 
 which, if you do not recognise it now, you 
 will be bound to recognise in the future. It 
 may be broken in the present, but the threads 
 will be joined as surely as we stand here side 
 by side.' 
 
 " With all my heart I hope so, but it is the 
 wildest, the most unreasonable of hopes. 
 
 " Can nothing, nothing be done ? 
 
 " He said he had made no will ; but he may 
 have left papers expressing his wishes. How 
 to get a sight of them ? If I had sufficient 
 means to take me to Sydney I would hasten 
 there, to Anthony Bidaud's lawyer, and lay 
 the case before him. But my purse is empty. 
 I have, however, something about me of value. 
 My gold watch and chain, given to me by my 
 dear father. That is worth a certain sum, 
 but it would not carry me to Sydney. It 
 would carry me, however, to Gum Flat, where 
 perhaps I can find a lawyer who will advise
 
 BASIL ASD ANNETTE. 109 
 
 her. In the saddle I could reach there to- 
 night, and be back to-morrow. Where can I 
 obtain a horse ? I dare not take one from the 
 plantation. Gilbert Bidaud would accuse me 
 of theft, and he would be within his right. 
 Ah ! Old Corrie ! " 
 
 Here he stopped. His unspoken thoughts 
 had led him to a definite issue. 
 
 Gum Flat was the name of the nearest 
 township, if township it could be called. In 
 the Australian colonies they delight in singu- 
 lar names for places. Old Corrie was a man 
 who, by permission of Anthony Bidaud, occu- 
 pied a hut which he had built with his own 
 hands on the plantation, some two miles from 
 the spot upon which Basil at that moment 
 stood. He was not employed on the estate, 
 but did odd jobs in wood splitting and the 
 felling of trees for the master of the plantation. 
 The man had " taken " to Basil, as the saying 
 is, and in his odd way had shown a liking for 
 the young man, who always had a pleasant 
 word for any agreeable person he chanced to 
 fall across. 
 
 Old Corrie was not an old man, his age 
 being about forty, but he was dubbed Old 
 Corrie because he was angular, because he
 
 110 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 was crooked, because lie had a mouth all 
 awry, because he chose to keep himself from 
 his fellows. He owned a horse, and it occurred 
 to Basil that he might lend it to him for the 
 journey to Gum Flat, which was distant some 
 forty-five miles. To Old Corrie's hut, there- 
 fore, Basil betook himself, stepping out with a 
 will. 
 
 In less than half-an-hour he reached the old 
 fellow's dwelling. Old Corrie was not at 
 home, but Basil heard the sound of his axe in 
 the woods. It was not very near, but men's 
 ears get trained to fine sounds in the bush. 
 Guided by the thud of the axe Basil in a short 
 time found himself face to face with the wood- 
 man. 
 
 Old Corrie went on with his work, merely 
 glancing up and giving Basil a friendly nod. 
 From another living creature Basil received 
 a more boisterous greeting, a laughing jackass 
 which Old Corrie had tamed bursting into an 
 outrageous fit of laughter without the least 
 apparent cause. This bird, which is sometimes 
 called the bushman's clock, was an uncouth- 
 looking object, as big as a crow, of a rich 
 chestnut-brown colour with light-blue wings ; 
 its beak was long and pointed, and its mouth
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. Ill 
 
 inordinately large. These characteristics, in 
 alliance with a formidable crest, invested it 
 with a ferocious air ; but this particular speci- 
 men was exceedingly gentle despite the ex- 
 travagant sounds it emitted, which might have 
 been excruciatingly prolonged had not its 
 sharp eye caught sight of a carpet snake 
 wriggling through the underwood. Down 
 darted the laughing jackass, and commenced 
 a battle with the snake which terminated in 
 the bird throwing the dead body of the reptile 
 into the air, with a series of triumphant 
 chuckles ; after which it sat silent on a branch, 
 contemplating the dead snake with an air 
 partly comical, partly profound, and waiting 
 in grim patience for a movement on the part 
 of its victim which would furnish an excuse 
 for a renewal of hostilities. 
 
 Basil had time to note all this, for Old 
 Corrie did not speak, and the young man was 
 debating how to commence. 
 
 "Well, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, 
 presently, throwing down his axe and taking 
 out his pipe, a common short clay which he 
 would not have exchanged for thrice its 
 weight in gold, " what brings you this way ? 
 Any message from Mr. Bidaud ? "
 
 112 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " No, Corrie," replied Basil sadly, " you 
 will receive no more messages from him." 
 
 " I was thinking myself," said Corrie, 
 glancing at Basil, and not immediately re- 
 cognising the gravity of the reply, " that there 
 mightn't be many more." 
 
 " What made you think that ? " asked 
 Basil, in doubt whether the man knew of 
 Anthony Bidaud's death. 
 
 " I'm down with the fever, Master Basil." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that, Corrie," said 
 Basil in surprise, for Old Corrie was the 
 picture of health and strength. " Can I do 
 anything for you ? " 
 
 " No, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, with 
 a smile and a kindly look at Basil. " The 
 fever I'm down with ain't the kind of fever 
 that's in your mind. It's the gold fever I'm 
 down with." 
 
 " Oh," said Basil, " I understand." 
 
 " The wonder is that I've never been down 
 with it before. If I don't strike a rich claim 
 or find a big nugget or two, I can always come 
 back to this." 
 
 " Have you heard any news, then ? " 
 
 " Well, two men camped out here last 
 night, and we had a talk. I gave 'em some
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 113 
 
 tea, and their tongues got loosened a bit. 
 There's a new gold-field discovered somewhere 
 in the north, and they're after it. A regular 
 Tom Tiddler's ground, Mr. Basil, only it's all 
 gold and no silver. Twenty ounces to the 
 tub." 
 
 " And you're off ? " 
 
 " When I've finished this job for Mr. 
 Bidaud." 
 
 " How long will that take you ? " 
 
 " About three weeks." 
 
 " Is it a contract job ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Signed on paper ? " 
 
 " No, we never had need of that. Mr. 
 Bidaud's word is as good as his bond ; so's 
 mine." 
 
 iS I would not go on with it, Corrie, if I 
 were you, till I made sure." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because the gentleman who made the 
 
 contract with you by word of mouth is 
 
 dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " 
 
 " Died this morning suddenly, I grieve to 
 
 say." 
 
 Old Corrie took his pipe from his mouth, 
 
 vol. i 8
 
 114 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 and sent a look of reproach in the direction of 
 the laughing jackass, from whose throat pro- 
 ceeded a faint gurgle of laughter. At this 
 look the quaint bird — as odd a specimen of 
 the feathered tribes as Old Corrie was of the 
 human race — checked its mirth, and cocking 
 its head knowingly on one side, inquired with 
 its speaking eye what was the matter. 
 
 " That's bad news, Master Basil." 
 
 " The worst of news, Corrie." 
 
 " Died suddenly ? " 
 
 " Quite suddenly. It is a great shock." 
 
 "What's to become of the little lady?" 
 asked Old Corrie, in aisympathising tone. The 
 inquiry was addressed as much to himself as 
 to Basil. 
 
 " That is one of the things that are troub- 
 ling me, Corrie. You are a favourite of hers." 
 
 " I've seen her grow up, and remember her 
 mother well. I've cause. Once when I was 
 down with the colonial fever — almost as bad 
 as the gold fever, Master Basil — Mrs. Bidaud 
 as good as nursed me through it, coming or 
 sending every da}' for two months and more, 
 till I got strong. When I was well I went up 
 to the house to thank her. The little lady 
 was just toddling about, and made friends
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 115 
 
 with me. I shall never forget Mrs. Bidaud ; I 
 went to her funeral. You stopped at my hut 
 before you came here, I expect." 
 
 " Yes ; I thought you might be there." 
 
 " Did you hear anything? " 
 
 " Only the sound of your axe in the 
 woods." 
 
 " I mean inside the hut. There's a magpie 
 there that's got the sense of a human being 
 and a voice like a flute. I only got it a fort- 
 night ago, and I've tamed it already, sur- 
 prising. Back as white as snow, Master Basil, 
 and breast and wings shining like black satin. 
 A handsome bird, and quite young. It says 
 ' Little lady ; Little lady ! ' and 'Miss Annette ! ' 
 in a way that'll astonish you. I'm doing it for 
 the little lady herself, and I'm glad I began it 
 because I'm going away." 
 
 " It will please her greatly, Corrie, if she is 
 allowed to accept it." 
 
 " What's to prevent her ? Poor little lady ! 
 First her mother, then her father. I thought 
 there was trouble in your face when I saw it. 
 Would you mind explaining, Master Basil, 
 about this wood-splitting contract of mine ? 
 Why shouldn't I finish it till I made sure." 
 
 Then Basil told of the arrival of the dead 
 
 8*
 
 116 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 man's brother and sister, and was not delicate 
 in expressing his opinion of Gilbert Bidaud. 
 
 " You're not the sort of man," said Old 
 Corrie thoughtfully, " to speak ill behind 
 another's back without good reason. Little 
 lady's uncle must be a bad lot. A man and 
 a woman, you say, foreign looking. They 
 must be the pair that passed my hut early this 
 morning when I was getting up. They didn't 
 stop ; she wanted to, I think, but he wouldn't 
 let her. ' Curse you ! ' I heard him say, ' What 
 are you lagging for ? Put life into your 
 miserable limbs ; we haven't got far to go.' It 
 seemed to me as if he laid hands on her to 
 drag her along. I came out of the hut, and 
 saw them ahead, the woman walking as if she 
 was dead beat, and the man lugging her on. 
 They never turned to look behind, and I 
 watched till they were out of sight. I'm sorry 
 for the little lady. I'll go up to the house to- 
 day, and judge for myself." 
 
 " You may hear something against me, 
 Corrie. Don't believe it." 
 
 " I won't, without reason. I make up my 
 mind slow, Master Basil. Perhaps you've got 
 something more to tell me. It won't be 
 thrown away."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 117 
 
 Wishing to stand well with Old Corrie, 
 Basil became more communicative, and put 
 the woodman in possession of the particulars 
 of what had passed between himself and 
 Anthony Bidaud on the previous evening, 
 and also of his interviews with Anthony's 
 brother. 
 
 " It looks black," said Old Corrie. " It's a 
 pity you didn't leave him to the alligator. 
 And now, Master Basil, you've something else 
 in your mind. Out with it." 
 
 "I came to ask you to do me a great 
 service." 
 
 "Give it mouth." 
 
 " It may be that poor Annette's father has 
 left some papers with respect to her future 
 which the law might declare valid. If that is 
 so, and her uncle finds them, he will destroy 
 them ; it may be to his interest to do so, and 
 in that case he will allow no considerations of 
 right and wrong to stand in his way. The 
 presence of a lawyer may prevent this. Then 
 there is the slanderous talk he is sure to set 
 going against me ; I want to clear myself of 
 it. The precise cause of Anthony Bidaud's 
 death should be ascertained and declared by 
 a competent and disinterested person, and I
 
 118 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 thought of going to Gum Flat and enlisting 
 the services of a lawyer and a doctor, whom I 
 would bring back with me." 
 
 " It would be a proper thing to do," said 
 Corrie. 
 
 "But I am in a difficulty. I could walk 
 the distance, but I could not get there till 
 to-morrow. Coming and going, four days at 
 least would be wasted, and in that time 
 Annette's uncle could work his own ends 
 without interruption. Now, if I had a horse 
 I could get there this evening, and back to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " You want me to lend you my mare ? " 
 
 "That is what I came to ask you." 
 
 " You can have her ; she's a willing crea- 
 ture, and '11 go till she drops." 
 
 " It is kind of you, Corrie." 
 
 " Not at all. I do it a little bit for your 
 sake, but a good deal more for the sake of the 
 little lady." 
 
 " You run a risk, Corrie. My story may 
 not be true ; I may never come back." 
 
 " I'll take security, then." 
 
 " I have no money. The only thing I pos- 
 sess of value is this watch and chain." 
 
 " I won't take that ; you may need it to
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 119 
 
 pay the lawyer and the doctor with. Besides 
 that isn't the security I mean. I'll take your 
 word." 
 
 "You're a real good fellow, Corrie. Some 
 day I may be able to repay you." 
 
 " If I had any idea of looking out for that 
 day I shouldn't do what I'm doing. Look 
 here, Master Basil. I know a gentleman 
 when I see one ; and you're a gentleman. I 
 believe every word you've told me. This 
 fellow that's turned up, the little lady's uncle, 
 is a scoundrel, or he wouldn't have spoken the 
 words I heard to a woman nearly dead with 
 fatigue — his own sister, too. Come along ; 
 let's saddle the mare." 
 
 Before that was done, however, Old Corrie 
 insisted that Basil should eat a hearty meal 
 and see the magpie he was taming for An- 
 nette. Then Basil mounted the willing mare, 
 and with a grip of the hand and a hearty 
 "Good luck, mate," from Old Corrie, the 
 young man started for Gum Flat.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 It was three months since Basil had passed 
 through the conglomeration of canvas tents 
 and stores which rejoiced in a title which cer- 
 tainly could not be called euphonious, and 
 then, although those were its most prosperous 
 days, it had struck him as being a wretched 
 hole. Humours of rich finds of gold had ori- 
 ginally attracted a population to Gum Flat 
 township, but the glowing anticipations of 
 the gold-diggers who flocked to the false El 
 Dorado were doomed to disappointment. It 
 was not a gold-diggers' but a storekeepers' 
 rush, and the result was a foregone conclu- 
 sion ; after a time the miners who had nocked 
 thither began to desert the place. Not, how- 
 ever, before they gave it a fair trial. They 
 marked out claims, they prospected the hills 
 and gullies, they turned the waters of a large 
 creek, the} 7 sank shafts in many a likely-look- 
 ing spot, they followed spurs of stones on the
 
 BASIL AND ANSETTE. 121 
 
 ranges in the hope that they would lead them 
 to a rich quartz reef, but their labours were 
 unrewarded. A couple of specks to the dish 
 and the faintest traces of gold in the quartz 
 were not sufficient to pay for powder and 
 tobacco, and the men gradually began to 
 leave the uninviting localit}\ A few re- 
 mained, but not to dig for gold ; these were 
 chiefly loafers, and lived on each other, play- 
 ing billiards during the day on the one 
 billiard table that had been left behind, and 
 cards during the night, for fabulous and 
 visionary sums of money which, really lost 
 and won, would have transformed beggars 
 into millionaires and millionaires into beggars. 
 The poorer they grew the larger the stakes 
 they played for, and their delusions created 
 for their delectation the most delicious pa- 
 roxysms of infinite joy and overwhelming 
 despair. These they enjoyed to the full, 
 reckoning up their loses and gains with wild 
 eyes and radiant countenances. One beg- 
 garly loafer, who for the last five years had 
 not had five pounds to bless himself with, 
 went to the creek one dark night after a 
 visionary loss of a hundred thousand pounds 
 or so, and insisted' upon drowning himself.
 
 122 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 It required a vast amount of insistance on his 
 part, for the creek just then was not more 
 than three feet deep. Anyway, he was found 
 dead the next morning, with a letter in his 
 pocket to the effect that he was financially 
 ruined and could not survive the disgrace ; 
 whereupon his principal creditor, who, in the 
 matter of finances, was no better off than the 
 drowned man, perambulated High Street in a 
 state of fury, fiercely denouncing his debtor 
 who had not the courage to live and pay his 
 debts of honour. 
 
 Some means of subsistence, however in- 
 adequate, Gum Flat must have had ; these 
 were found in the persons of a half-a-dozen 
 drivers of bullock drays, who every two weeks 
 brought their earnings there and spent them 
 ro} T ally. This process lasted on each occasion 
 exactly three days, during which time the 
 population, numbering in all not more than 
 thirty souls, were in clover. When the 
 bullock drivers returned to their avocations 
 the loafers declared that the colonies were 
 going to the dogs, and resumed the routine of 
 their dismal days, gambling, drinking, quar- 
 relling, until the six solvent men returned 
 again to gladden their hearts.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 123 
 
 Even this miserable state of affairs came to 
 an end after a time, and reached a more 
 deplorable stage. The bullock drivers dis- 
 covered more agreeable quarters, and in their 
 turn deserted the township. Driven by sheer 
 necessity the loafers, one by one, followed 
 their example, and slunk from the place, until 
 only four remained. Such was the condition 
 of Gum Flat as Basil rode towards the town- 
 ship on a day eventful enough in the story of 
 his life, but scarcely less eventful than the 
 night which followed it was destined to 
 be. Had he been aware of this he would 
 have thought twice before he made up his 
 mind to proceed thither in search of lawyer 
 and doctor ; but such is the irony of circum- 
 stances that, had he not set forth on his 
 present journey, the entire course of his 
 future life would have drifted into channels 
 which would, almost to a certainty, have 
 separated him from Annette for ever. Acci- 
 dent or fate, which you will ; but the course 
 of many lives is thus determined. 
 
 He rode all day through the tracks he re- 
 membered, and concerning which he had 
 been refreshed by Old Corrie, who was as 
 ignorant as himself of the deplorable change
 
 124 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 that had taken place. The road for a few 
 miles lay along great plains of rich black soil, 
 dotted here and there with masses of blue 
 and barley grass, among which might be 
 found the native leek and wild cucumber ; 
 then followed a tract of country somewhat 
 lightly timbered but heavily grassed, where 
 he came across a nasty bit of " devil devil " 
 land, fortunately of not great extent, for he 
 had to ride with a loose rein and leave it to 
 his horse to pick the safest way. On his 
 left were large lagoons in which a wondrous 
 variety of wild fowl abounded ; on his right 
 was a belt of impenetrable scrub ; but the 
 track was well defined, and after riding 
 twenty miles he entered a thickly wooded 
 forest, for the shade of which he was grate- 
 ful, the sun now being high in the heavens. 
 Emerging from this forest he halted near a 
 vast sheet of water, in which tall reeds grew, 
 and where he found the wild banana. Off 
 this fruit and some cold meat and bread 
 which old Corrie had forced upon him, he 
 made a sufficient meal, and then resumed his 
 journey. In the afternoon the road lay 
 through a more even country, and he 
 reckoned upon reaching Gum Flat before sun-
 
 BASIL AND AKNETTE. 125 
 
 down. But he reckoned without his host, 
 for the distance was longer than he calculated, 
 and at sunset he was still, according to the 
 information given to him by the driver of a 
 bullock dray, eight or ten miles from the 
 township. This man was the only human 
 being he had met in his lonely ride. Many 
 a time in the course of the day had he fallen 
 into contemplation of the pregnant events of 
 the last twenty-four hours, thinking, " This 
 time yesterday I was walking with Annette 
 in the woods, gathering wildflowers for her 
 mother's grave. She slipped, and I caught 
 her in my arms." And again : " This time 
 yesterday Anthony Bidaud, Annette, and I, 
 were sitting in the verandah, watching the 
 sunset ; and a moment afterwards white stars 
 were glittering in the clouds of faded gold. 
 How peaceful, how happy we were ! And 
 now ? " He shuddered as he thought of the 
 dead form of Anthony Bidaud lying in his 
 room and of the sense of desolation which 
 must have fallen upon Annette. He strove 
 to direct his thoughts into more cheerful 
 grooves, but he was not successful. 
 
 The gorgeous colours in the heavens melted 
 away ; the sun dipped beneath the horizon ;
 
 126 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 it was night. Fortunately it was light, and 
 lie could see the road he was riding over. 
 The willing animal he bestrode plodded on, 
 more slowly now, and Basil did not attempt 
 to quicken the pace. It was ten o'clock when 
 he reached the township of Gum Flat. 
 
 He recognised it by the outlines of the 
 tents. He had expected to see lights in the 
 dwellings, arguing that Gum Flat must have 
 increased in importance since his last visit, 
 but all was dark on the outskirts. He was 
 surprised at the darkness, but grateful that 
 his journey was over. He rode along the 
 High Street, and with still deeper surprise 
 observed that on some of the stores the canvas 
 lay loose, and that the calico over the frame 
 was torn and rent. " Can I have mistaken 
 the road ? " he thought. In the middle of the 
 High Street he paused. The door of a store 
 was thrown suddenly open, and three men, 
 whose movements had been inspired by the 
 sound of the horse's hoofs, emerged there- 
 from, and stood looking up at Basil. Each 
 had cards in his hand, denoting that when 
 they were disturbed they had been gambling. 
 The picture at that moment was Eembrandt- 
 esque. The street was in darkness ; not a
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE, 127 
 
 light was visible. One of the men standing 
 
 at the door held above his head a lighted 
 candle stuck in a whisky bottle, and this dim 
 light enabled the three gamblers and Basil 
 not exactly to see each other but to define 
 outlines. Through the open door Basil saw a 
 table upon which was another candle, and 
 sitting at which was another man, also with 
 cards in his hand. This man, leaning for- 
 ward, was striving to pierce the gloom in 
 which his companions and Basil stood. He 
 rose and joined them, and going close to 
 Basil, laid his hand upon the horse's neck. 
 Thus, Basil and he confronted each other. 
 And at that moment was commenced the 
 weaving of a strand which was to connect the 
 lives of these two men, for weal or woe. 
 
 -^^(IM)^-
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Each man of this small group represented in 
 his own person the epitome of a drama more 
 or less stirring and eventful. With three of 
 these we have little to do, and no good pur- 
 pose will be served by recounting their ante- 
 cedents. The history of the fourth — he who 
 stood with his hand on the neck of old Corrie's 
 horse, looking up at Basil — will presently be 
 unfolded. 
 
 He was a full-bearded man, the light-brown 
 hair so effectually concealing his features that 
 only his cheekbones and forehead were 
 visible. To a physiologist, therefore, the 
 index was imperfect. He was a young man, 
 of about the same age as Basil, and his name 
 was Newman Chaytor. This was his true 
 name ; it will be as well to say as much, for 
 there was much that was false about him. 
 
 The man who held the candle was known 
 as Jim the Hatter ; Jim belonged properly to
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 123 
 
 liim by right, the Hatter was a patronymic he 
 had earned by working on various goldfields 
 alone, without a mate. Why they call men 
 on the gold-diggings thus inclined, Hatters, 
 is one of the mysteries, but it is a fact. Of 
 the other two it will be sufficient to refer to 
 them as Nonentity Number One and Non- 
 entity Number Two. Jim the Hatter was 
 a large-boned, loose limbed man, of great 
 strength. Upon his first arrival in Australia 
 his time, to put it gently, was not his own ; 
 it belonged to his country. He was now 
 free, but his morals had not been improved 
 by the lesson his country had administered to 
 him. 
 
 It will thus be seen that Basil had unfor- 
 tunately fallen among thieves. 
 
 For a few moments the man on horseback 
 and the men on foot preserved silence, and 
 opportunity was afforded for a striking 
 picture. Jim the Hatter was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 " Well, mate ? " he said. 
 
 " Is this the township of Gum Flat ? " in- 
 quired Basil. 
 
 " It is. If you're looking for it, you're 
 dead on the gutter." 
 
 o 
 VOL. I. i)
 
 130 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " I thought I must have mistaken my way," 
 said Basil. " What has come over the 
 place ? " 
 
 Newman Chaytor answered him. " It has 
 gone," he said, "to the dogs." 
 
 " Like yourselves," thought Basil, gazing 
 at the men, but deeming it prudent not to 
 express himself aloud upon a point so per- 
 sonal. He spoke, however. " It is the place 
 I was making for. I suppose I can put up 
 here for the night ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to prevent you. Gum 
 Flat township just now is Liberty Hall." 
 
 " Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Nonentity 
 Number One, considering it necessary to his 
 dignity that he should take part in the con- 
 ference. " Is the gentleman prepared to pay 
 for accommodation ? " 
 
 " That's a proper question," said Nonentity 
 Number Two, thus asserting himself. 
 
 " Of course he is," said Jim the Hatter, 
 answering for Basil, who, with an empty 
 purse, was saved from awkwardness. 
 
 A diversion occurred here. Newman 
 Chaytor snatched the candle from Jim the 
 Hatter, in order that he might obtain a clearer 
 view of Basil.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 131 
 
 " Manners, mate," said Jim the Hatter. 
 
 "Manners be hanged!" retorted Newman 
 Chaytor, holding the candle high. " They're 
 out of stock." 
 
 This was evident. To smooth matters 
 Basil volunteered an explanation. " I have 
 come here upon business, but I am afraid I 
 have lost my time." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Jim the Hatter. 
 « "We're all business men here ; ready at a 
 moment's notice to turn a honest penny. 
 That's true, ain't it, mate ? " 
 
 He addressed Newman Chaytor, but that 
 worthy did not reply. Having obtained a 
 clearer view of Basil's face, he seemed to be 
 suddenly struck dumb, and stared at it as 
 though he were fascinated. 
 
 "Still," continued Jim the Hatter, "it's 
 as well to be particular in these times. I'm 
 very choice in the company I keep, and I 
 don't as a rule do business with strangers, 
 unless," he added, with a grin which found 
 its reflection on the lips of Nonentities Num- 
 bers One and Two, " they pay their footing 
 first." 
 
 " If you wish to know my name," said 
 Basil, " it is Basil Whittingham." 
 
 9*
 
 132 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " What ! " cried Newman Chaytor, finding 
 his tongue ; but the exclamation of undoubted 
 astonishment appeared to be forced from him 
 instead of being voluntarily uttered. 
 
 " Basil Whittingham," repeated Basil. 
 " Being here, I must stop for the night. Is 
 there a stable near ? " 
 
 " There's one at the back," said Newman 
 Chaytor, with sudden alacrity, " or rather 
 there was one. I'll show you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Basil, and followed his 
 guide to the rear of the shanty. 
 
 The three men looked after them with no 
 good will. 
 
 " He's a swell," said Nonentity Number 
 One. 
 
 " He's got a watch and chain," said Non- 
 entity Number Two. 
 
 " And a horse," said Jim the Hatter. 
 
 Then they re-entered the store, and settled 
 down to their game of cards. 
 
 " Stop here a moment," said Newman 
 Chaytor to Basil. " I'll get a light." 
 
 Eeturning with a candle stuck in a bottle, 
 the fashionable form of candlestick in Gum 
 Flat, he waved it about, sometimes so close to 
 Basil that it shone upon his features.
 
 LASIL AND ANNETTE. 133 
 
 " You stare at me," said Basil, " as if you 
 knew me." 
 
 "Never saw you before to my knowledge." 
 (A falsehood, but that is a detail.) " You're 
 not a colonial." 
 
 " I am an Englishman, like yourself, I 
 judge." 
 
 " Yes, I am English." 
 
 "You have the advantage of me — you 
 know my name. May I ask yours ? " 
 
 "Certainly," said Chaytor, but he spoke, 
 nevertheless, with a certain hesitation, as if 
 something of importance hung upon it. " My 
 name is Newman, with Chaytor tacked to it." 
 Then, anxiously, " Have you heard it 
 before ? " 
 
 " Never. This is a tumble-down place. It 
 is a courtesy to call it a stable." 
 
 " It will serve, in place of a better." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it is better than nothing." 
 
 " Everything is tumble-down in Gum 
 Flat. I am an Englishman, town-bred. And 
 you?" 
 
 " My people hail from Devonshire." 
 
 " I am not dreaming, then," said Chaytor, 
 speaking for the second time involuntarily. 
 
 " Dreaming ! " exclaimed Basil.
 
 134 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " I was thinking of another matter," said 
 Chaytor, with readiness. " Speaking my 
 thoughts aloud is one of my bad tricks." 
 
 " One of mine, too," said Basil, smiling. 
 
 " That is not the only thing in which we're 
 alike." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " We are about the same age, about the 
 same build, and we are both gentlemen. 
 Your horse is blown ; you have ridden a long 
 distance." 
 
 " From Bidaud's plantation." 
 
 " I have heard of it. And you come 
 upon business ? I may be able to assist 
 you." 
 
 " I shall be glad of assistance," said Basil, 
 recognising in his companion an obvious 
 superiority to the men they had left. " When 
 I passed through Gum Flat a few months ago 
 I thought it a township likely to thrive, and 
 now I find it pretty well deserted. 
 
 " It has gone to the dogs, as I told you. 
 There's nothing but grass for your horse to 
 nibble at. So you're from Devonshire. Do 
 your people live there still ? " 
 
 He mixed up the subjects of his remarks 
 in the oddest manner, and cast furtive glances
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 135 
 
 at Basil with a certain mental preoccupation 
 which would have forced itself upon Basil's 
 attention had he not been so occupied with 
 his own special cares. 
 
 " There are none left," said Basil. " I am 
 the only one remaining." 
 
 " The only one ? " 
 
 " Well, I have an old uncle, but we are not 
 exactly on amicable terms." 
 
 " You are better off than I am. I have 
 no family left." He sighed pathetically. "I 
 fancy I can lay my hands on a bundle of 
 sweet hay." 
 
 "I should feel grateful." 
 
 " Don't leave the stable till I come back ; 
 I shan't be £one lono\" 
 
 He was absent ten minutes or so, and 
 though he went straight about his errand, he 
 was thinking of something very different. 
 " It is the most wonderful thins? in the world," 
 ran his thoughts — " that I should meet him 
 here again, in this hole, not changed in the 
 slightest ! It can't be accident ; it was pre- 
 destined, and I should be a self-confessed 
 idiot if I did not take advantage of it. But 
 how is it to be worked ? His uncle is still 
 alive. What did he say? 'We are not ex-
 
 136 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 actly on amicable terms.' That is because 
 he is proud. I am not. I should be a better 
 nephew to the old fellow than this upstart. 
 He is very old, in his second childhood most 
 likely. This is the turning point of my life, 
 and I will not throw away the chance. Just 
 as I was at the bottom of the ladder, too. 
 Til climb to the top— I will, I will ! " He 
 raised his hand to the skies, as though regis- 
 tering an oath. 
 
 " There," he said, throwing down a bundle 
 of hay which the horse immediately began to 
 munch, " with a bucket of water your mare 
 will do very well. I'll fetch it." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Basil, warming 
 to Newman Chaytor. 
 
 " Not at all. Noblesse oblige." This was 
 said with a grand air. 
 
 Basil held out his hand, and Chaytor 
 pressed it effusively. Then, at Chaytor's 
 request, Basil spoke of the errand upon 
 which he was engaged, and being plied 
 skilfully with questions, put his companion 
 in possession of a great deal he wished to 
 know, not only in relation to the affairs of 
 Bidaud's plantation but his own personal 
 history as well.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 137 
 
 " It is curious," said Chaytor, " that we 
 two should have met at such a time and in 
 such a place. Who knows what may come 
 of it ? I am, strange to say, a bit of a doctor 
 and a bit of a lawyer, and if you will accept 
 my services I shall be glad to accompany you 
 back to Bidaud's plantation." 
 
 " But why ? " asked Basil, touched by the 
 apparently unselfish offer. " I have no claim 
 upon you." 
 
 "Except the claim that one gentleman has 
 upon another — which should count for some- 
 thing. It always has with me." 
 
 " Upon my word I don't know how to 
 thank you." 
 
 " Don't try. It is myself I am rendering a 
 service to, not you. This deserted hole, and 
 the association of those men" — jerking his 
 thumb over his shoulder in the direction of 
 the tent — " sicken me. Does there not come 
 to some men a crisis in their lives which 
 compels them to turn over a new leaf, as the 
 saying is, to cut themselves away entirely 
 from the past and commence life anew ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Basil, struck by the application 
 of this figure of speech to his own circum- 
 stances, " it lias come to me."
 
 138 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " And to me. I intended to leave Gum 
 Mat to-morrow, and I did not know in which 
 direction. I felt like Eobinson Crusoe on the 
 desert island, without a friend, without a 
 kindred soul to talk to, to associate with. 
 If you will allow me to look upon you as a 
 friend you will put me under a deep obliga- 
 tion. Should the brother of the poor gentle- 
 man who died so suddenly this morning — the 
 father of that sweet young lady of whom you 
 speak so tenderly — succeed in having things 
 all his own way, you will be cast adrift, as I 
 am. It is best to look things straight in the 
 face, is it not ? — even unpleasant things." 
 
 "It is the most sensible course," said 
 Basil. 
 
 " Exactly. The most sensible course — and 
 the most manly. Why should not you and I 
 throw in our fortunes together ? I am sure 
 we should suit each other." 
 
 " I can but thank you," said Basil. " It is 
 worth thinking over." 
 
 " All right ; there is plenty of time before 
 us. Let us go into the store now. A word 
 of warning first. The men inside are not to 
 be trusted. I was thrown in their company 
 against my will, and I felt that the associa-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 139 
 
 tion was degrading to me. We can't pick 
 and choose in this part of the world." 
 
 " Indeed we cannot. I will not forget 
 your warning. To speak honestly, I am not 
 in the mood or condition for society. I have 
 had a hard day, and am dead beat." 
 
 " You would like to turn in," said Chaytor. 
 " I can give you a shake -down, and for supper 
 what remains of a tin of biscuits and a tin of 
 sardines. There, don't say a word. The 
 luck's on my side. Come along." 
 
 The Nonentities and Jim the Hatter were 
 in the midst of a wrangle when they entered, 
 and scarcely noticed them. This left Chaytor 
 free to attend to Basil. He placed before him 
 the biscuits and sardines, and produced a 
 flask of brandy. Basil was grateful for the 
 refreshment ; he was thoroughly exhausted, 
 and it renewed his strength and revived his 
 drooping spirits. Then he filled his pipe, and 
 conversed in low tones with his new friend, 
 while the gamblers continued their game. 
 
 " If I stop up much longer," said Basil, 
 when he had had his smoke, " I shall drop off 
 my seat." 
 
 Chaytor rose and preceded him to the 
 further end of the store. The building, if
 
 140 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 such a designation may be allowed to an 
 erection composed of only wood and canvas, 
 had been the most pretentious and imposing 
 in the palmy days of the township, and 
 although now it was all tattered and torn, 
 like the man in the nursery rhyme, it could 
 still boast of half a dozen private compart- 
 ments in which sleepers could find repose and 
 solitude. The walls of course were of calico, 
 and for complete privacy darkness was neces- 
 sary. 
 
 Chaytor and the three gamblers who were 
 bending over their cards in the dim light of 
 the larger space without, each occupied one 
 of these sleeping compartments. Two re- 
 mained vacant, and into one of these Chaytor 
 led Basil. 
 
 There was a stretcher in the room, a piece 
 of strong canvas nailed upon four pieces of 
 batten driven into the ground. The canvas 
 was bare ; there were no bedclothes. 
 
 " I have two blankets," said Chaytor, " I 
 can spare you one." 
 
 Basil was too tired to protest. Dressed as 
 he was he threw himself upon the stretcher, 
 drew the blanket over him, and bidding his 
 hospitable friend good night, and thanking
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 141 
 
 him again, was fast asleep almost as the words 
 passed his lips. 
 
 Newman Chaytor stood for a moment or 
 two gazing upon the sleeping man. " I can't 
 be dreaming," he thought ; " he is here before 
 me, and I am wide awake. I drink to the 
 future." He held no glass but he went 
 through the pantomime of drinking out of one. 
 
 Taking the lighted candle with him he 
 joined his mates, and left Basil sleeping calmly 
 in darkness. They were no longer playing 
 cards, but with heads close together were 
 debating in whispers. Upon Chay tor's en- 
 trance they shifted their positions and ceased 
 talking. 
 
 " Have you put your gentleman to bed? " 
 asked Jim the Hatter, in a sneering tone in 
 which a sinister ring might have been de- 
 tected. 
 
 " Much obliged to you for the inquiry, 
 replied Chaytor, prepared to fence ; " he is 
 sound asleep." 
 
 " Interesting child ! A case of love at first 
 sight, mates." 
 
 Nonentities Numbers One and Two nodded, 
 with dark looks at Chaytor, who smiled 
 genially at them and commenced to smoke.
 
 142 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " Or," said Jim the Hatter, " perhaps an 
 old acquaintance." 
 
 " Take your choice," observed Chaytor, 
 who, in finesse and coolness, was a match for 
 the three. 
 
 "Doesn't it strike you, Newman, that it's 
 taking a liberty with us to feed and bolster 
 him up, and stand drinks as well, without 
 asking whether we was agreeable ? " 
 
 " Not at all. The sardines were mine, the 
 biscuits were mine, the grog was mine. If 
 you want to quarrel say so." 
 
 " I'm for peace and quietness," said Jim 
 the Hatter, threateningly. " I was only ex- 
 pressing my opinion." 
 
 " And I mine. Look here, mates, I don't 
 want to behave shabbily, so I'll tell you what 
 is in my mind." 
 
 " Ah, do," said Jim the Hatter, with a 
 secret sign to the Nonentities which Chaytor 
 did not see ; " then we shall know where we 
 are." 
 
 " I'll tell you where we are, literally, mates. 
 We're in a heaven-forsaken township, run- 
 ning fast to bone, which leads to skeleton. 
 Now I'm not prepared for that positive 
 eventuality just yet. This world is good
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 143 
 
 enough for me at present, and I mean to 
 do my best to enjoy it." 
 
 "Can't you enjoy it in our company?" 
 asked Jim the Hatter. 
 
 " I think not," said Chaytor, with cool 
 insolence. " The best of friends must part." 
 
 ' ; Oh, that's your little game, is it ? " 
 
 " That is my little game. I am growing 
 grey. If I don't look out I shall be white 
 before I'm thirty. Eeally I think it must be 
 the effect of the company I have kept." 
 
 " We're not good enough for you, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " If you ask for my deliberate opinion I 
 answer most distinctly not. No, mates, not 
 by a long way good enough." 
 
 "Don't be stuck up, mate. Better men 
 than you have had to eat humble pie." 
 
 " Any sort of pie," said Chaytor, philoso- 
 phically, " is better than no pie at all. Take 
 my advice. Bid good-bye to Gum Flat, 
 gigantic fraud that it is, and go in search 
 of big nuggets. That is what I am going 
 to do." 
 
 " With your gentleman friend ? " 
 
 " With my gentleman friend. We may as 
 well part civilly, but if you choose the other
 
 144 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 thing I am agreeable." The three men rose 
 with the intention of retiring. They did not 
 respond to his invitation to part friends. 
 " Well, good-night, and good luck to you." 
 They nodded surlily and entered their 
 sleeping apartments, after exchanging a few 
 words quietly between themselves. 
 
 Newman Chaytor helped himself to brandy 
 from his flask, then filled his pipe, and began 
 to smoke. 
 
 That he had something serious to think of 
 was evident, and that he was puzzled what 
 use to make of it was quite as clear. An 
 enterprise was before him, and he was dis- 
 posed to pledge himself to it ; but he was in 
 the dark as to what end it would lead him. 
 In the dark, also, how it could be so con- 
 ducted as to result in profit to himself. He 
 was in desperately low water, and had lost 
 confidence in himself. His ship was drifting 
 anchorless on a waste of waters ; suddenly an 
 anchor had presented itself, which, while it 
 would afford him peace and safety for a time, 
 might show him a way to a golden harbour. 
 An ugly smile wreathed his lips, the sinister 
 aspect of which was hidden by his abundant 
 hair ; but it was there, and remained for
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 145 
 
 many musing moments. He took from his 
 pocket a common memorandum book, and 
 on a few blank pages he wrote the names, 
 Newman Cliaytor and Basil Whittingham, 
 several times and in several different styles of 
 handwriting. Then he wrote upon one, in 
 the form of a cheque, " Pay to Newman 
 Chaytor, Esq., the sum of forty thousand 
 pounds. Basil Whittingham." He contem- 
 plated this valueless draft for a long time 
 before destroying it at the candle's light, 
 as he destroyed the other sheets of paper 
 upon which he had written the signatures. 
 
 " All the pleasures of existence," he mused, 
 " all the light, everything in the world worth 
 having, are on the other side of the water. 
 Was I born to grind out my days in a prison 
 like this ? No, and I will not. Here is the 
 chance of escape " — he turned his head to 
 the room in which Basil was sleeping — " with 
 possibilities which may give me all I desire. 
 It would be flying in the face of Providence 
 to neglect it. The first law of nature is Self. 
 I should be a born fool not to obey the first 
 law of nature." 
 
 In these reflections he passed an hour, when 
 he determined to go to bed. 
 
 vol. I. 10
 
 146 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 All was still. He stepped on tiptoe to each 
 of the four compartments occupied by Basil, 
 Jim the Hatter, and the Nonentities, and 
 listened at the doors to assure himself that he 
 was the only wakeful person in the store. 
 Deeming himself safe he entered his own 
 room, and taking a small round mirror in a 
 zinc frame from the top of a packing case 
 which served as wash-stand and dressing- 
 table, gazed at his face with strange intent- 
 ness. Putting the hand mirror down he cast 
 wary looks around. Yes, he was alone ; 
 there were no witnesses. Then he did a 
 curious thing. He took off his beard and 
 whiskers. 
 
 In the room on his right lay Basil asleep ; 
 in the room on his left was Jim the Hatter, 
 whom he supposed to be. But in this he 
 reckoned without his host, as many another 
 sharp rogue has done in his time. Jim the 
 Hatter, despite his deep breathing, which 
 had deceived Newman Chaytor, was wide 
 awake. The moment Chaytor entered his 
 room Jim the Hatter had slipped noiselessly 
 from his stretcher, and his face was now 
 glued to the wall of calico through which 
 the light of Chaytor's candle was shining.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 147 
 
 There was a small slit in the calico, which 
 enabled Jim the Hatter to see what was 
 passing in Chaytor's room. Chaytor's back, 
 however, was towards the wall through 
 which he was peeping. The watcher was 
 puzzled ; he could not exactly discover what 
 it was that Chaytor had done. 
 
 Upon Chaytor's face, now beardless and 
 whiskerless 3 there was a natural growth of 
 hair in the shape of a moustache. This 
 moustache was the precise colour of that 
 which Basil grew and cherished. It was not 
 so long, but a few weeks' growth would make 
 the resemblance perfect, if such was Chaytor's 
 wish. In other respects the resemblance 
 between him and Basil was remarkable. 
 Height, figure, complexion — even the colour 
 of the eyes — all tallied. 
 
 In his anxiety to discover exactly what was 
 going on, Jim the Hatter made a slight move- 
 ment, which was heard by Chaytor. He 
 turned suddenly, and the astonished watcher 
 beheld the counterpart of Basil. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he said inly ; " twins ! 
 
 Then, warned by Chaytor's attitude that he 
 was in danger of himself being discovered, he 
 slipped between his blankets as noiselessly as 
 
 10*
 
 148 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 he had slipped out of them. Waiting only to 
 resume his disguise of beard and whiskers, 
 Chaytor, candle in hand, went quietly but 
 swiftly into the adjoining room and looked 
 down upon the recumbent form of Jim the 
 Hatter. Undoubtedly asleep, and sleeping- 
 like a top. Chaytor passed the candle across 
 the man's face, who never so much as winked. 
 Assured that there was no cause for alarm, 
 Chaytor stepped backed to his own recess, put 
 out the light, and went to bed. 
 
 -gffib .
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Leaving this schemer to his ill-earned repose, 
 we strip the veil from his past and lay it 
 bare. 
 
 Nature plays tricks, but seldom played a 
 stranger than that of casting Newman Chay- 
 tor physically in the same mould as Basil. 
 Born in different counties, with no tie of 
 kinship between their families, their likeness 
 to each other was so marvellous that any 
 man seeing them for the first time side by 
 side, without some such disguise as Chaytor 
 wore on Gum Flat, and the second time 
 apart, would have been puzzled to know 
 which was which. But not less strange than 
 this physical likeness was the contrast between 
 their moral natures. One was the soul of 
 guilelessness and honour, the other the soul of 
 cunning and baseness. One walked the 
 straight paths of life, the other chose the 
 crooked.
 
 150 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 Chaytor ay as born in London, and his 
 parents occupied a respectable position. 
 They gave him a good education, and did all 
 they could to furnish him worthily for the 
 battle of life. The affection they displayed 
 was ill-requited. In his mother's eyes he was 
 perfection, but his father's mind was often 
 disturbed when he thought of the lad's future. 
 Perhaps in his own nature there was a moral 
 twist which caused him to doubt ; perhaps his 
 own youth was distinguished by the vices he 
 detected in his son. However that may be, he 
 took no blame to himself, preferring rather to 
 skim the surface than to seek discomfort in 
 psychological depths. 
 
 The parents discussed their son's future. 
 
 " We will make a doctor of him," said the 
 father. 
 
 " He will be a great physician," said the 
 mother. 
 
 At this time Chaytor was eighteen years 
 of age. At twenty it was decided that 
 he was in the wrong groove ; at least, that 
 was the statement of the doctor who 
 had undertaken his professional education. 
 It was not an entirely ingenuous state- 
 ment ; the master was eager to get rid of
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 151 
 
 his pupil, whose sharp practices distressed 
 him. 
 
 " What would you like to be ? " asked his 
 father. 
 
 " A lawyer," replied Chaytor. 
 
 " He will be Lord Chancellor," said his 
 mother. 
 
 Thereupon Newman Chaytor was articled 
 to a firm of lawyers in Bedford Bow, London, 
 W.C., an old and respectable firm, Messrs. 
 Eivington, Sons, and Eivington, who kept its 
 exceedingly lucrative business in the hands of 
 its own family. It happened, fatefully, that 
 this firm of lawyers transacted the affairs of 
 Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's uncle, 
 with whom our readers have already made 
 acquaintance. 
 
 In the course of two or three years Chay- 
 tor's character was fully developed. He was 
 still the idol of his mother, whose heart was 
 plated with so thick a shield of unreasoning 
 love that nothing to her son's disparagement 
 could make an impression upon it. Only 
 there were doors in this shield which she 
 opened at the least sign from the reprobate, 
 sheltering him there and cooing over him as 
 none but such hearts can. Her husband had
 
 152 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 the sincerest affection for her, and here was 
 another safeguard for Chaytor. 
 
 The surroundings of life in a great and gay 
 city are dangerous and tempting even to the 
 innocent. How much more dangerous and 
 tempting are they to those who by teaching 
 or inclination are ripe for vice ? It is not our 
 intention to follow Chaytor through these 
 devious paths ; we shall simply touch lightly 
 upon those circumstances of his career which 
 are pertinent to our story. If for a brief 
 space we are compelled to treat of some of 
 the darker shadows of human nature, it must 
 be set down to the undoubted fact that life 
 is not made up entirely of sweetness and 
 light. 
 
 Chaytor's father, looking through his bank 
 book, discovered that he had a balance to his 
 credit less by a hundred pounds than he knew 
 was correct. He examined his returned 
 cheques, and found one with his signature for 
 the exact amount, a signature written by 
 another hand than his. He informed his wife, 
 pending his decision as to what steps to take 
 to bring the guilt home. His wife informed 
 her son. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "I have my suspicions."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 153 
 
 And he mentioned the name of a clerk in his 
 father's employ. 
 
 This ball being set rolling, the elder Chaytor 
 began to watch the suspected man, setting 
 traps for him, across which the innocent 
 man stepped in safety. Mr. Chaytor was 
 puzzled ; he had, by his wife's advice, kept 
 the affair entirely secret, who in her turn had 
 been prompted by her son to this course, and 
 warned not to dra^ his name into it. The 
 father, therefore was not aware that the 
 accusation against the clerk proceeded from 
 his son. 
 
 Chaytor had a design in view ; he wished 
 to gain time to avoid possible unpleasant 
 consequences. 
 
 Some three weeks afterwards, when Mr. 
 Chaytor had resolved to take the forged 
 cheque to the bank with the intention of 
 enlisting its services in the discovery of the 
 criminal, he went to his desk to obtain the 
 document. It was gone, and other papers 
 with it. He was confounded ; without the 
 cheque he could do nothing. 
 
 " Have I a thief in my house," he asked of 
 himself, " as well as a forger at my elbow." 
 
 The man he had suspected was in the habit
 
 154 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 of coming to his private house once a week 
 for clerking purposes. Without considering 
 what he was laying himself open to, he 
 accused his clerk of robbing him, and the 
 result was that the man left his service and 
 brought an action for slander against him, 
 which he was compelled to compromise by 
 an apology and the payment of a sum of 
 money. 
 
 " It is father's own fault," said Chaytor to 
 his mother ; had he waited and watched, he 
 would have brought the guilt home to the 
 fellow. But don't say anything more to him 
 about it ; let the matter rest." 
 
 It did rest, but Mr. Chaytor did not 
 forget it. 
 
 Being in pursuit of pleasure Chaytor found 
 himself in continual need of money, and he 
 raised and procured it in many discreditable 
 ways, but still he managed to keep his secret. 
 Then came another crime. Some valuable 
 jewels belonging to his mother were stolen. 
 By whom ? 
 
 " By one of the female servants, of course," 
 said Chaytor. 
 
 He was not only without conscience, he 
 was without heart.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 155 
 
 Mr. Chaytor proposed to call in a detective. 
 Mrs. Chaytor, acting upon the secret advice 
 of her son, would not hear of it. The father 
 had, therefore, two forces working against 
 him, his wife, whom he could answer, because 
 she was in the light, and his son, with whom 
 he could not cope, because he was in the dark. 
 
 " It would be a dreadful scandal," said 
 young Chaytor to his mother. " If nothing 
 is discovered — and thieves are very cunning, 
 you know — we shall be in Avorse trouble than 
 father got into with the clerk who forged his 
 name to the cheque. We should be the 
 laughing-stock of everyone who knows us, 
 and should hardly be able to raise our heads." 
 
 His word was law to her ; he could twist 
 her round his little finger, he often laughingly 
 said to himself; and as she, in her turn, 
 dominated her husband, the deceits he 
 practised were not too difficult for him to 
 safely compass. Every domestic in the house 
 was discharged, and a new set engaged. 
 When they sent for characters no answer was 
 returned. Thus early in life young Chaytor 
 was fruitful in mischief, but he cared not 
 what occurred to others so long as he rode in 
 safety.
 
 156 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 One day an old gentleman paid a visit to 
 Messrs. Eivington, Sons, and Eivington. This 
 was Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's 
 uncle. He had come upon the business of 
 his will, the particulars of which he had 
 written down upon paper. He was not in 
 the office longer than ten minutes, and he left 
 at half-past one o'clock, the time at which 
 Chaytor was in the habit of going to lunch. 
 Following the old gentleman Chaytor saw 
 him step into a cab, in which a young gentle- 
 man had been waiting. The young gentleman 
 was Basil, and Chaytor was startled at the 
 resemblance of this man to himself. Kelin- 
 quishing his lunch, Chaytor jumped into a 
 cab, and bade the driver follow Basil and his 
 uncle. They stopped at Morley's Hotel, 
 Charing Cross, and Chaytor had another 
 opportunityfof verifying the likeness between 
 himself and Basil. It interested him and 
 excited him. He had not the least idea what 
 he could gain by it, but the fact took posses- 
 sion of his mind and he could not dislodge it. 
 He ascertained the names of Basil and his 
 uncle by looking over the hotel book, and 
 when he returned to the office in Bedford 
 Kow the task was allotted to him of preparing
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 157 
 
 the rough draft of the will. Mr. Bartholomew 
 Whittingham was very rich, and every 
 shilling he possessed was devised to Basil, 
 without restrictions of any kind. 
 
 " The old fellow must be worth forty 
 thousand pounds," mused Chaytor, and he 
 rolled out the sum again and again. " For-ty 
 thou-sand pounds ! For-ty thou-sand pounds ! 
 For-ty thou-sand pounds ! And every shilling 
 is left to Mr. Basil Whittingham, my double. 
 Yes, my Double ! My own mother would 
 mistake him for me, and his doddering old 
 uncle would mistake me for him. What 
 wouldn't I give to change places with him ! 
 For-ty thou-sand pounds ! For-ty thou-sand 
 pounds ! It's maddening to think of. He 
 has a moustache ; I haven't. But I can grow 
 one exactly like. His hair is the colour of 
 mine. I'll keep my eye on him." 
 
 It was an egregiously wicked idea, for by 
 the wildest stretch of his imagination he 
 could not see how this startling likeness could 
 be worked to his advantage. Nevertheless he 
 was fascinated by it, and he set himself the 
 task of seeing as much of Basil as possible. 
 During the week that Basil was living at 
 Morley's Hotel, Chaytor in his spare hours
 
 158 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 shadowed him, without being detected. Basil 
 never once set eyes on him, and as the young 
 gentleman never entered the office of Messrs. 
 Kivingpton, Sons, and Rivington, no one there 
 had opportunity to note the resemblance 
 between the men. 
 
 Chaytor for a week was in his element ; he 
 ascertained from the hall porter in the hotel 
 the places of amusement which Basil visited 
 of an evening, and he followed him to them ; 
 he waited outside the hotel to catch glimpses 
 of him ; he studied every feature, every ex- 
 pression, every movement attentively, until 
 he declared to himself that he knew him by 
 heart. He began to let his moustache grow, 
 and he practised little tricks of manners 
 which he had observed. He was like a man 
 possessed. 
 
 " He is a gentleman," he said. "So am I. 
 I am as good looking as he is any day of the 
 week. Why shouldn't I be, being his 
 Double ? " 
 
 He pondered over it, he dreamt of it, he 
 worked himself almost into a fever concerning 
 it. Distorted possibilities presented them- 
 selves, and monstrous views. The phantom 
 image of Basil entered into his life, directed
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 159 
 
 his thoughts, coloured his future. He 
 walked along the streets with this spectral 
 Double by his side ; he leant over the river's 
 bridges and saw it reflected in the water ; he 
 felt its presence when he woke up in the dark 
 night. One night during this feverish week, 
 after being in the theatre which Basil visited, 
 after sitting in the shadow of the pit and 
 watching him for hours in a private box, 
 after following him to Morley's Hotel and 
 lingering so long in Trafalgar Square that he 
 drew the attention of a policeman to his 
 movements, he walked slowly homeward, 
 twisting this and that possibility with an 
 infatuation dangerous to his reason, until he 
 came quite suddenly upon a house on fire. 
 So engrossed was he that he had not noticed 
 the hurrying people or their cries, and it was 
 only when the blazing flames were before him 
 that he was conscious of what was actually 
 taking place. And there on the burning roof 
 as he looked up he beheld the phantom Basil on 
 fire. With glaring eyes he saw it with the flames 
 devouring it, dwindling in proportions until its 
 luminous outlines faded into nothingness, until 
 it was gone out of the living world for ever. 
 A deep sigh of satisfaction escaped him.
 
 160 EAS1L AND ANNETTE. 
 
 "Now he is gone," lie thought, "I will 
 take his place. His uncle is an old man ; I 
 can easily deceive him ; and perhaps even he 
 will die before morning." 
 
 In the midst of this ecstatic delirium a 
 phantom hand was laid upon his shoulder, a 
 phantom face, with a mocking smile upon it, 
 confronted him. He struck at it with a 
 muttered curse. It came to rob him of forty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 Had this mental condition lasted long he 
 must have gone mad. The reason for this 
 would have been that he had nothing to 
 grapple with, nothing to fight, nothing but a 
 shadow, which he had magnified into a 
 mortal enemy who had done him a wrong 
 which could only be atoned for by death. It 
 was fortunate for him, although he deserved 
 no good fortune, that Basil's residence at 
 Morley's lasted but a week, and that he and 
 his double did not meet again in the Old 
 World ; for although Basil passed much of 
 his time in his father's house in London he 
 lived at a long distance from Chaytor's usual 
 haunts, and the young mens lives did not 
 cross. Gradually Chaytor's reason reasserted 
 itself, and he became sane. Grimly, des-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 161 
 
 perately sane, with still the leading idea 
 haunting him, it is true, but no longer 
 attended by monstrous conceptions of what 
 might occur in a day, in an hour, in a 
 moment, and he on the spot ready to take 
 advantage of it. 
 
 Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his 
 mother if she ever had twins. 
 
 " What on earth do you mean, my dear ? " 
 she asked, laughing at him. 
 
 "It is plain enough," he answered in- 
 cautiously. " I dream sometimes of a brother 
 the exact counterpart of nryself." 
 
 "You work too hard," said his mother, 
 pityingly. " You must take a holiday, my 
 darling." 
 
 " Who's to pay for it ? " he asked gloomily. 
 
 " I am," she said fondly. " I have saved 
 fifty pounds for you." 
 
 " Give it to me," he said eagerly, and with 
 the money he went to Paris for a fortnight and 
 squandered it on himself and his pleasures. 
 
 The foolish mother was continually doing 
 this kind of thing, saving up money, wheed- 
 ling her husband out of it upon false pretexts, 
 stinting herself and making sacrifices for the 
 worthless, ungrateful idol of her loving heart. 
 vol. 1. 11
 
 162 BASIL ASD ANNETTE. 
 
 So time passed, and Chaytor was still in the 
 office of Eivington, Sons, and Eivington, 
 picking up no sound knowledge of the law, 
 but extracting from it for future use all the 
 sharp and cunning subtleties of which some 
 vile men make bad use. To the firm came a 
 letter from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, 
 with the tenor of which Chaytor made himself 
 familiar. He was a spy in the office, and 
 never scrupled at opening letters and reading 
 them on the sly to master their contents. In 
 the letter which Basil's uncle wrote occurred 
 these words : 
 
 " Send me in a registered packet, by first 
 post, my will, the will I made in favour of 
 my nephew, Mr. Basil Wittingham. He has 
 acted like a fool, and I am going to destroy it 
 and disinherit him. At some future time I 
 will give you instructions to draw up another, 
 making different dispositions of my property. 
 I am not a young man, but I shall live a good 
 many years yet. and there is plenty of time 
 before me. Meanwhile bear witness by this 
 letter that I have disinherited my nephew 
 Basil Whittingham." 
 
 Of course the} 7 followed his instructions, 
 and the will was forwarded to him.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 163 
 
 " He has stolen forty thousand pounds 
 from me," thought Chaytor. 
 
 Within a week thereafter he overheard a 
 conversation between two of the principals. 
 He was never above listening at doors and 
 creeping up back staircases. The lawyers 
 were speaking of Bartholomew Whittingham 
 and the will. 
 
 " Will he destroy it ? " asked one. 
 
 " I think not," replied the other. " It is 
 my opinion he will keep it by him, half in- 
 tending to destroy it, half to preserve it, and 
 that it will be found intact and unaltered 
 when he dies." 
 
 " I do not agree with you. He will destroy 
 it one day in a rage, and make another the 
 next." 
 
 " In favour of whom ? " 
 
 " Of his nephew. He has in his heart an 
 absorbing love for the young gentleman, and 
 he is a good fellow at bottom. Mr. Basil 
 Whittingham will come into the whole of the 
 property." 
 
 The conversation was continued on these 
 lines, and the partners ultimately agreed that 
 after all Basil would be the heir. " There is 
 a chance yet," thought Chaytor, for although 
 
 11*
 
 164 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 the dangerous period of ecstasy was passed 
 there still lingered in his mind a hope of for- 
 tunate possibilities. 
 
 He continued his evil courses, gambled, 
 drank, and led a free life, getting deeper and 
 deeper into debt. His mother assisted him 
 out of many a scrape, and never for one 
 single moment wavered in her faith in him, 
 in her love for him. It was a sweet trait in 
 her character, but love without wisdom is 
 frequently productive of more harm than 
 good. Chay tor's position grew so desperate 
 that detection and its attendant disgraceful 
 penalty became imminent. He had made 
 himself a proficient and skilful imitator of 
 handwriting, and more than once had he 
 forged his father's name to cheques and bills. 
 The father was aware of this, but out of 
 tenderness for his wife had done nothing 
 more than upbraid his son for the infamy. 
 Many a stormy scene had passed between 
 them, which both carefully concealed from 
 the knowledge of the fond woman whose 
 heart would have been broken had she known 
 the truth. On every one of these occasions 
 Chaytor had humbled himself and promised 
 atonement, with tears and sighs and mock
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 165 
 
 repentance which saddened but did not con- 
 vince the father. 
 
 "For your mother's sake," invariably he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, yes," murmured the hypocrite, " for 
 my dear mother's sake — my mother, so good, 
 so loving, so tender-hearted ! " 
 
 " Let this be the last time," said the father 
 sternly. 
 
 " It shall be, it shall be ! " murmured the 
 son. 
 
 It was a formula. The father may some- 
 times have deceived himself into belief ; the 
 son, never. Even while he was humbling 
 himself he would be casting about for the 
 next throw. 
 
 This continued for some considerable time, 
 but at length came the crash. Chaytor and 
 his parents were seated at breakfast at nine 
 o'clock. The father had the morning letters 
 in his pocket ; he had read them and put 
 them by. He cast but one glance at his son, 
 and Chaytor turned pale and winced. He 
 saw that the storm was about to burst. As 
 usual, nothing was said before Mrs. Chaytor. 
 The meal was over, she kissed her son, and 
 left the room to attend to her domestic affairs.
 
 166 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " I must be off," said Chaytor. " Mustn't 
 be late this morning. A lot to attend to at 
 the office." 
 
 " You need not hurry," said the father. " I 
 have something to say to you." 
 
 " Won't it keep till the evening ? " 
 
 " No. It must be said here and now." He 
 stepped to the door and locked it. " We will 
 spare her as long as possible ; she will know 
 soon enough." 
 
 " Oh, all right," said Chaytor sullenly. 
 " Fire away." 
 
 The father took out his letters, and, select- 
 ing one, handed it to his son who read it, 
 shivered, and returned it. 
 
 " What have you to say to it ? " asked the 
 father. 
 
 " Nothing. It is only for three hundred 
 pounds." 
 
 " A bill, due to-day, which I did not sign." 
 
 " It was done for all our sakes, to save the 
 honour of the family name. I was in a hole 
 and there was no other way of getting out 
 of it." 
 
 " The bill must be taken up before twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Will it be ? "
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 167 
 
 " It will, for your mother's sake." 
 
 " Then there is nothing more to be said. 
 I am very sorry, but it could not be helped. 
 I promise that it shall never occur again. I'll 
 take my oath of it if you like." 
 
 " I take neither your word nor your oath. 
 You are a scoundrel." 
 
 " Here, draw it mild. I am your son." 
 
 " Unhappily. If your mother were not 
 living you should be shown into the dock for 
 the forgery." 
 
 "But she is alive. I shall not appear in 
 the dock, and you may as well let me go. 
 Look here, father, what's the use of crying 
 over spilt milk ? " 
 
 " Not much ; and as I look upon you as 
 hopeless, I would go on paying for it while 
 your mother lived. If she were taken from 
 me I should leave you to the punishment you 
 deserve, and risk my name being dragged 
 through the mire." 
 
 " I hope," said Chaytor, with vile sancti- 
 moniousness, " that my dear mother will live 
 till she is a hundred." 
 
 "There is, I must remind you, another 
 side to the shield. I said ' as long as I can 
 afford it.' "
 
 168 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " Well, you can afford it." 
 
 " I cannot," said Mr. Chaytor, with a sour 
 smile. " My career snaps to-day, after pay- 
 ing this forged bill with money that properly 
 belongs to my creditors. Newman Chaytor, 
 you have come to the end of your tether." 
 
 " You are saying this to frighten me," said 
 Chaytor, affecting an indifference he did not 
 feel. " Why, you are rolling in money." 
 
 " You are mistaken. Speculations into 
 which I have entered have failed disastrously. 
 If you had not robbed me to the tune of 
 thousands of pounds — the sum total of your 
 villainies amounts to that — I might have 
 weathered the storm, but as I am situated it 
 is impossible. It is almost a triumph to me to 
 stand here before you a ruined man, knowing 
 you can no longer rob me." 
 
 " Still I do not believe you," said Chaytor. 
 
 " Wait and see ; you will not have to wait 
 long." 
 
 The tone in which he uttered this carried 
 conviction with it. 
 
 " Do you know what you have done ? " 
 cried Chaytor furiously. " You have ruined 
 me ! " 
 
 " What ! " responded Mr. Chaytor, with
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 169 
 
 savage sarcasm. " Is there any more of this 
 kind of paper floating about ? " Chaytor bit 
 his lips, and his fingers twitched nervously, 
 but he did not reply. " If there is, be ad- 
 vised, and prepare for it. In the list of my 
 liabilities, which is now being prepared, there 
 will be no place for them. How should there 
 be, when I am in ignorance of your prospec- 
 tive villainies. Do you see now to what you 
 have brought me ? " 
 
 " Do you see to what you have brought 
 me? " exclaimed Chaytor, in despair. " Why 
 did you not tell me of it months ago ? " 
 
 " Because I hoped by other speculations to 
 set myself straight. But everything has gone 
 wrong — everything. Understand, I cannot 
 trouble myself about your affairs ; I have 
 enough to do with my own. I have one 
 satisfaction : your mother will not suffer." 
 
 " How is that ? " 
 
 " The settlement I made upon her in the 
 days of my prosperity is hers absolutely, and 
 only she can deal with it. In the settle- 
 ment of my business there shall be no senti- 
 mental folly ; I will see to that. Her money 
 shall not go to pay my debts." 
 
 " But it shall go," thought Chaytor, with
 
 170 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 secret joy, " to get me out of the scrape I am 
 in. It belongs to me by right. 1 will see 
 that neither you nor your creditors tamper 
 with it." He breathed more freely ; he could 
 still defy the world. 
 
 " I have not told you quite all," continued 
 Mr. Chaytor. " Here is a letter from Messrs. 
 Eivington, Sons, and Eivington, advising me 
 that it will be better for all parties that you 
 do not make your appearance in their office. 
 Indeed, the place you occupied there is 
 already filled up." 
 
 " Do they give any reason for it ? " asked 
 Chaytor, inwardly not greatly astonished at 
 his dismissal. 
 
 " None ; nor shall I ask any questions of 
 them or you. You know now how the land 
 lies. Good morning." 
 
 He unlocked the door, and left the house. 
 This was just what Chaytor desired. His 
 vicious mind was quick in expedients ; his 
 mother was his shield and his anchor. Her 
 settlement would serve for many a long day 
 yet. To her he went, and related his troubles 
 in his own way. She gave him, as usual, her 
 fullest sympathy, and promised all he asked. 
 
 " Between ourselves, mother," he said.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 171 
 
 " Yes, my darling, between ourselves." 
 
 " Father must not know. He was always 
 hard on me. He thinks he can manage 
 everybody's affairs, but he cannot manage his 
 own." Then he disclosed to her his father's 
 difficulties. " If he had allowed me to 
 manage for him it would not have happened. 
 Trust everything to me, mother, and this day 
 year I will treble your little fortune for you. 
 Let me have a chance for once. When I 
 have made all our fortunes you shall go to 
 him and say, ' See what Newman has done for 
 us.' " 
 
 " It shall be exactly as you say, darling. 
 You are the best, the handsomest, the cleverest 
 son a foolish mother ever had." 
 
 Kisses and caresses sealed the bargain. 
 
 Within twenty-four hours he knew that 
 everything his father had told him was true. 
 The family were ruined, and but for Mrs. 
 Chaytor's private fortune would have been 
 utterly beggared. They moved into a smaller 
 house and practised economy. Little by little 
 Chaytor received and squandered every 
 shilling his mother possessed, and before the 
 year was out the sun rose upon a ship beating 
 on the rocks.
 
 172 BASIL' AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " Are you satisfied ? " asked his father, 
 from whom Chaytor's doings could no longer 
 be concealed. 
 
 " Satisfied ! " cried Chaytor, trembling in 
 every limb. " When your insane speculations 
 have ruined us ! " 
 
 Then he fell into a chair and began to sob. 
 He had the best of reasons for tribulation. 
 With his mind's eye he saw the prison doors 
 open to receive him. It was not shame that 
 made him suffer ; it was fear. 
 
 Again, and for the last time, he went to his 
 mother for help. 
 
 " What can I do, my boy ? " quavered the 
 poor woman. " What can I do ? I haven't 
 a shilling in the world. " 
 
 He implored her to go to his" father. 
 
 " He can save me," cried the terror-stricken 
 wretch. " He can, he can!" 
 
 She obeyed him, and the father sent for his 
 son. 
 
 " Tell me all," he said. " Conceal nothing, 
 or, as there is a heaven above us, I leave you 
 to your fate." 
 
 The shameful story told, the father said, 
 " Things were looking up with me, but here 
 is another knock-down blow, and from my
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 173 
 
 own flesh and blood. I accept it, and will 
 submit once more to be ruined by you." 
 
 " Bless you, father, bless you," whined 
 Chaytor, taking his father's hand and attempt- 
 ing to fondle it. Mr. Chaytor plucked his 
 hand away. 
 
 " There is, however, a condition attached to 
 the promise." 
 
 " What condition ? " faltered Chaytor. 
 
 " That you leave England and never return. 
 Do you hear me ? Never. You will go to 
 the other end of the world, where you will end 
 your days." 
 
 " To Australia ! " 
 
 " To Australia. When you quit this 
 country I wish never to hear from you ; I 
 shall regard you as dead. You shall no 
 longer trade upon your mother's weak love 
 for you. I will not argue with you. Accept 
 or refuse." 
 
 " I accept." 
 
 " Very well. Go from this house and never 
 let me look upon your face again." 
 
 " Can I not see my mother," whined Chay- 
 tor, " to wish her good-bye ? " 
 
 " No. You want to hatch further troubles. 
 You shall not do so. Quit my house."
 
 174 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 With head bent low in mock humility 
 Chaytor left the house. He had no sincere 
 wish to see his mother ; he had got out of her 
 all he could, and she was of no use to him in 
 the future. The promise his father made was 
 fulfilled ; the fresh forgeries he had perpetrated 
 were bought up, but one still remained of 
 which he had made no mention. This was a 
 bill for a large amount which he had accepted 
 in the name of Eivington, Sons and Eivington. 
 It had still two months to run, and Chaytor 
 determined to remain in England till within a 
 week or two of its becoming due ; something 
 might turn up which would enable him to 
 meet it. He loved the excitements of English 
 life ; Australia was banishment ; but perhaps, 
 after all, if he were forced to go it might be 
 the making of him. He had read of rough 
 men making fortunes in a week on the gold- 
 fields. Why should not he ? 
 
 The last blow proved too much for Mr. 
 Chaytor ; it broke him up utterly. He was 
 seized with a serious illness which reduced him 
 to imbecility. The home had to be sold, and 
 he and his wife removed to lodgings, one small 
 room at the top of a house in a poor neigh- 
 bourhood. There poverty fell upon them like
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 175 
 
 a wolf. Five weeks afterwards Chaytor, 
 slouching through the streets on a rainy night, 
 saw his mother begging in the roadway. The 
 poor soul stood mute, with a box of matches 
 in her hand. Chaytor turned and fled. 
 
 " I am the unluckiest dog that ever was 
 born," he muttered. " Just as I was going to 
 see if I could get anything out of her ! " 
 
 It was now imperative that he should leave 
 England, and he managed to get a passage in 
 a sailing vessel as assistant steward at a 
 shilling a month. He obtained it by means of 
 forged letters of recommendation, and he went 
 out in a false name. This he would have re- 
 tained had it not been that shortly after his 
 arrival in Australia he met a man who had 
 known him in London, and who addressed 
 him by his proper name. It was not the only 
 inconvenience to which an alias subjected him. 
 There was only one address in the colonies 
 through which he could obtain his letters, and 
 that was the Post Omce. Obviously, if he 
 called himself John Smith he could not expect 
 letters to be delivered to him in the name of 
 Newman Chaytor. Now, he was eager for 
 letters from the old country ; before he left it 
 he had written to his mother to the effect that
 
 176 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 he was driven out of it by a hard-hearted 
 father, and that if she had any good news to 
 communicate to him he would be glad to hear 
 from her. At the same time he imposed upon 
 her the obligation of not letting anyone know 
 where he was. Therefore, when his London 
 acquaintance addressed him by his proper 
 name, saying, " Hallo, Chaytor, old boy ! " he 
 said to himself, " Oh hang it ! I'll stick to 
 Newman Chaytor, and chance it. If mother 
 writes to me I shall have to proclaim myself 
 Chaytor ; an alias might get me into all sorts 
 of trouble." 
 
 Why did he write to his poor mother, for 
 whom he had not the least affection, and what 
 did he mean by expecting her to have any 
 good news to communicate to him ? The last 
 time he saw her, was she not begging in the 
 streets ? Well, there was a clear reason ; he 
 seldom did anything without one ; and be sure 
 that the kernel of that reason was Self. His 
 father, from the wreck of his fortune, had 
 managed to preserve a number of shares in 
 some companies which had failed, among them 
 two mining companies which had come to 
 grief. Now, it had happened before and 
 might happen again, that companies which
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 177 
 
 were valueless one day had leaped into favour 
 the next, that shares which yesterday could 
 have been purchased for a song, to-morrow 
 would be worth thousands of pounds. Sup- 
 pose that this happened to the companies, or 
 to one of them, in which his pauper father 
 held shares. He was his father's only child, 
 and his mother would see that he was not 
 disinherited. Chaytor was a man who never 
 threw away a chance, and he would not throw 
 away this, remote as it was. Hence his 
 determination to adhere at all hazards to his 
 proper name. The perilous excitements of 
 the last two or three years had driven Basil 
 Whittingham out of his mind, but having more 
 leisure and less to occupy his thoughts in the 
 colonies, he thought of him now and then, 
 and wondered whether the old uncle had re- 
 lented and had taken his nephew again into 
 his favour. " Lucky young beggar," he 
 thought. " I wish I stood in his shoes, and 
 he in mine. I would soon work the old 
 codger into a proper mood." His colonial 
 career was neither profitable nor creditable, 
 and he had degenerated into what he was 
 when he and Basil came face to face in Gum 
 Flat, an unadulterated gambler and loafer. 
 vol. i. 12
 
 178 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 The strange encounter awoke within him 
 forces which had long lain dormant. He re- 
 cognised a possible chance which might be 
 worked to his benefit, and he fastened to it like 
 a limpet. When he said to Basil that he was in 
 luck he really meant it. 
 
 A word as to his false beard and whiskers. 
 In London he had had a behind-the-scenes 
 acquaintance, and in a private theatrical per- 
 formance in which he played a part he had 
 worn these identical appendages as an adjunct 
 to the character he represented. He had 
 brought them out with him, thinking they 
 might be serviceable one day. Before he 
 came to Gum Flat he had got into a scrape 
 on another township, and when he left it, had 
 assumed the false hair as a kind of disguise. 
 Making his appearance on Gum Flat thus 
 disguised, he deemed it prudent to retain it, 
 and when he came into association with Basil 
 he thanked his stars that he had done so ; 
 otherwise he might have drawn upon himself 
 from the man he called his double a closer 
 attention than he desired.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In the middle of the night Basil awoke. He 
 had had a tiring day, but when he had slept 
 off the first effects of the fatigue he had under- 
 gone, the exciting events of the last two days 
 became again the dominant power. He 
 dreamt of all that had occurred from the 
 interview between himself and Anthony 
 Bidaud, in which he had accepted the guar- 
 dianship of Annette, to the moment of his 
 arrival on Gum Flat. Of Newman Chaytor 
 he dreamt not at all ; this new acquaintance 
 had produced no abiding impression upon him. 
 He lay awake for some five minutes or so in 
 that condition of quiescent wonder which often 
 falls upon men when they are sleeping for the 
 first time in a strange bed and in a place with 
 which they are not familiar. Where was he ? 
 What was the position of the bed ? Where 
 was the door situated : at the foot, or the 
 head, or the side of the bed ? Was there a 
 
 12*
 
 180 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 window in the apartment, and if so, where was 
 it ? Then came the mental question what had 
 aroused him ? 
 
 It was so unusual for him to wake in the 
 middle of the night that he dwelt upon this 
 question. Something must have disturbed 
 him. What ? 
 
 Was it fancy that just at the moment of his 
 awaking he had heard a movement in the 
 room, that he had felt a hand upon him, that 
 he had heard a man's breathing ? It must 
 have been, all was so quiet and still. Sud- 
 denly he sat straight up on the stretcher. He 
 remembered that he was in the township of 
 Gum Flat, sleeping in a strange apartment, 
 and that men with whom he had not been 
 favourably impressed must be lying near him. 
 This did not apply to Newman Chaytor, who 
 had been kind and attentive, and whom he 
 now thought of with gratitude. There was 
 nothing to fear from him, but the other three 
 had gazed at him furtively and with no 
 friendly feelings. He had exchanged but a 
 few words with these men, and those had been 
 words of suspicion. When he entered the 
 store, after attending to his horse, they had 
 not addressed a word to him. It was Chaytor,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 181 
 
 and Chaytor alone, who had shown kindness 
 and evinced a kindly feeling. And now he 
 was certain that someone had been in the 
 room while he slept, and had laid hands on 
 him. For what purpose ? 
 
 He slid from the stretcher, and standing- 
 upright stretched out his hands in the dark- 
 ness. Where was the door ? 
 
 Outside the canvas building stood Chaytor's 
 three mates, wide awake, with their heads 
 close together, as they had been inside on the 
 return of Basil and Chaytor from the stable. 
 They were conversing in whispers. 
 
 " Did he hear you ? " 
 
 "No. If he had moved I would have 
 knocked him on the head." 
 
 " Have you got it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is all right." 
 
 " Pass it round." 
 
 " No ; I will keep it till it's sold ; then we'll 
 divide equally." 
 
 " What do you think it's worth ? " 
 
 " Twenty pounds, I should say." 
 
 "Little enough." 
 
 « Hush ! " 
 
 The sound of Basil moving about his room, 
 groping for the door, had reached them.
 
 182 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " If lie comes out, Jim, you tackle him." 
 
 " Leave him to me. Don't waste any more 
 time. Get the horse from the stable." 
 
 Basil, unable to find the door, stumbled 
 against .the calico portion which divided his 
 room from that in which Chaytor slept. 
 
 " Who's there ? " cried Chaytor, jumping up. 
 
 " Oh, it's }^ou," said Basil, recognising the 
 voice. " Have you got a light ? " 
 
 " Wait a moment." 
 
 But half dressed he presented himself to 
 Basil, with a lighted candle in his hand. 
 
 " What's up ? " he asked. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Basil, " but I am 
 not easy in my mind. Perhaps it is only my 
 fancy, but I have an idea that someone has 
 been in my room." 
 
 " Let us see." 
 
 They proceeded to the three compartments 
 which should have been occupied by the 
 three men. They were empty. 
 
 " It was not fancy," said Basil. " What 
 mischief are they up to ? Come along ; we 
 will go and see." 
 
 Chaytor hesitated. He was not gifted with 
 heroic qualities, and he knew that his three 
 mates were desperate characters.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 183 
 
 " Did you have any money about you ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " None. Why, where's my watch ? " It 
 was gone. There was a hurried movement 
 without ; he heard the sound of a horse's feet. 
 " They are stealing Corrie's horse," he cried, 
 " after robbing me of my watch ! Stand by 
 me, will you ? " 
 
 He rushed out, followed, but not too 
 quickly, by Chaytor. The moment he 
 reached the open a pair of arms was thrown 
 around him, and he was grappling with an 
 enemy. In unfamiliar ground, enveloped in 
 darkness, and attacked by an unseen enemy, 
 he was at a disadvantage, and it would have 
 fared ill with him had he not been strong and 
 stout-hearted. Jim the Hatter, who had 
 undertaken to tackle him, soon discovered 
 that the man they were robbing was not 
 easily disposed of. Down they fell the pair of 
 them, twisting and turning, each striving to 
 obtain the advantage, Basil silent and resolved, 
 Jim the Hatter giving tongue to many an 
 execration. In the midst of the struggle the 
 ruffian heard his mates, the Nonentities, mov- 
 ing off with Basil's horse. His experiences 
 had taught him that " honour among thieves "
 
 184 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 was a fallacious proverb ; anyway, he had 
 never practised it himself, and he trusted no 
 men. With a powerful effort he threw Basil 
 from him and ran after his comrades. During 
 the encounter Chaytor had kept at a safe 
 distance, but now that there was a lull he 
 came close to Basil. 
 
 " They have half throttled me," he gasped, 
 tearing open his shirt and blowing like a 
 grampus. " Are you hurt ? " 
 
 " No," said Basil. " We may catch them 
 yet." 
 
 And he began to run, but the ruffians had 
 got the start of him, and knew the lay of the 
 ground. Guided by his ear he stumbled on, 
 across the plains, through a gully riddled with 
 holes, and finally up a steep range, followed 
 by Chaytor, panting and blowing. He had 
 many a fall, and so had Chaytor (who thought 
 it well to follow suit, and cried out from time 
 to time, " 0, 0, ! "), and thus the flight and 
 the pursuit continued, the sounds from the 
 flying men and old Corrie's horse growing 
 fainter and fainter, until matters came to a 
 sudden termination. 
 
 Half-way up the range, which was veined 
 with quartz, a shaft had been sunk and aban-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 185 
 
 doned. The miners who had done the work 
 had followed a gold-bearing spur some fifty 
 feet down, in the hope of coming upon a 
 golden reef. But the spur grew thinner and 
 thinner, the traces of gold disappeared, and 
 they lost heart. Disappointed in their expec- 
 tations, and out of patience with their profit- 
 less labour, they shouldered their windlass 
 and started off to fresh pastures. Thus the 
 mouth of the shaft was left open and unpro- 
 tected, and into it Basil dropped, and felt 
 himself slipping down with perilous celerity. 
 
 It was fortunate that the shaft was not 
 exactly perpendicular. After following the 
 spur down for twenty feet the miners had 
 found that it took an eccentric turn which 
 necessitated the running in of an adit. This 
 passage was about two yards long, when the 
 spur dipped again, and the shaft was con- 
 tinued sheer into the bowels of the earth. It 
 was this adit which saved Basil's life. When 
 he had slipped down the twenty feet he felt 
 bottom, and there he lay, bruised, but not 
 dangerously hurt. 
 
 He cried out for help at the top of his 
 voice, and his cries were presently answered. 
 
 " Below there ! " cried Chaytor, lying flat
 
 186 BASIL AXD ANNETTE. 
 
 on the ground above, with his ear at the 
 mouth of the shaft. 
 
 " Is that you, Mr. Chaytor ? " cried Basil. 
 
 Chaytor (aside) : " He remembers my 
 name." (Aloud) : " Yes, what's left of me. 
 Where are you ? " ( Which, to say the least 
 of it, was an unnecessary question.) 
 
 Basil : " Down here." 
 
 Chaytor (blind to logical fact) : " Alive ? " 
 
 Basil (perceiving nothing strange in the 
 question, and therefore almost as blind) : 
 " Yes, thank God ! " 
 
 Chaytor : " Any bones broke ? " 
 
 Basil : "I think not, but I am bruised a 
 bit." 
 
 Chaytor : " So am I." 
 
 Basil : " I am sorry to hear it. Have the 
 scoundrels got away ? " 
 
 Chaytor : Ct Yes, they're a mile off by this 
 time." 
 
 Basil (groaning) : " Old Corrie's mare ! 
 What will he think of me ? " 
 
 Chaytor : " It can't be helped." 
 
 Basil : " In which direction have they 
 gone ? " 
 
 Chaytor : Haven't the slightest idea. I 
 warned you against them."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 187 
 
 Basil : " You did. You're a good fellow, 
 but what could I do ? " 
 
 Chaytor : " Neither of us could have 
 prevented it." 
 
 Basil : "I am not so sure. I ought to 
 have stopped up all night, and looked after 
 what wasn't my own." 
 
 Chaytor (attempting consolation) : " Why, 
 you couldn't keep your eyes open." 
 
 Basil (groaning again) : " I ought to have 
 kept my eyes open. I had no right to sleep 
 after your warning." 
 
 Chaytor : " I did what I could." 
 
 Basil : " You did ; you're a true friend." 
 (Chaytor smiled.) "How am I to get up 
 from here ? " 
 
 Chaytor : " That's the question. How far 
 are you down ? " 
 
 Basil : " Heaven knows. It seems a mile 
 or so." 
 
 Chaytor : " There's no windlass." 
 
 Basil : " Isn't there ? " 
 
 Chaytor : " And it's pitch dark." 
 
 Basil : " It's as black as night down here. 
 Can't you go for help ? ' 
 
 Chaytor : " I'll tell you something. There 
 isn't a soul on the township but ourselves."
 
 188 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 Basil : " Not one ? " 
 
 Chaytor : " Not one. We must wait till 
 daylight ; then I'll see what I can do." 
 
 Basil : " There's no help for it ; it must be 
 as you say. You'll not desert me ? " 
 
 Chaytor (in an injured tone): "Can you 
 think me capable of so dastardly an act ? " 
 
 Basil : " Forgive me ; I hardly know 
 what I'm saying. I deserve that you should, 
 for giving utterance to a thought so base." 
 
 Chaytor : "It was natural, perhaps. Why 
 should you trust me, a stranger, whom you 
 have known for only a few hours ? " 
 
 Basil : "I do trust you ; it was an un- 
 natural thought. You are a noble fellow — 
 and a gentleman." 
 
 Chaytor : " I hope so. Can I do anything 
 for you while you are waiting ? " 
 
 Basil : " I am devoured by thirst. Can 
 you manage to get a drink of water to 
 me P " 
 
 Chaytor : " I can do that ; but you must 
 have patience. I shall have to go back to 
 the township to get a bottle and some string. 
 Shall I go ? " 
 
 Basil : " Yes, yes. Be as quick as you 
 can."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 189 
 
 Chaytor : "I won't be a moment longer 
 than I can help." 
 
 Then there was silence. Chaytor departed 
 on his errand, and Basil was left to himself. 
 His right arm was bruised and sore, but he 
 contrived to feel in his pockets for matches. 
 A box was there, but it was empty, and he 
 remembered that he had struck the last one 
 at the end of his long ride from Bidaud's 
 plantation, just before he arrived in Gum 
 Flat. He knew, from feeling the opening of 
 the adit, that it was likely he was not at the 
 bottom of the shaft, and he was fearful of 
 moving, lest he should fall into a pit. He 
 thought of Newman Chaytor. " What a 
 good fellow he is ! I should be dead but for 
 him. It is truly noble of him to stick to me 
 as he is doing. He has nothing to gain by it, 
 and he is saving my life. Yes, I will accept 
 his proposal to go mates with him, for I have 
 no place now on Bidaud's plantation. Poor 
 Annette — poor child ! I hope she will be 
 happy. I hope her uncle and aunt will be 
 kind to her. I must see her again before I 
 go for good, and then we shall never meet 
 again, never, never ! I would give the best 
 twenty years of my life — if I am fated to live
 
 190 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 — to be her brother, with authority to protect 
 her and shield her from Gilbert Bidaud. He 
 is a villain, a smooth-tongued villain, a thou- 
 sand times worse than these scoundrels who 
 have robbed me and brought me to this. 
 What will old Corrie say when he hears I 
 have lost his mare ? Will he think I am 
 lying — will he think I have sold his horse and 
 pocketed the money ? If so, and it gets to 
 Annette's ears, how she will despise me ! I 
 must see her, I must, to clear myself. Gilbert 
 Bidaud will do all he can to prevent it, and 
 he may succeed ; but I will try, I will try. If 
 I had a hundred pounds I would bu}^ another 
 horse for old Corrie, a better one than that I 
 have lost, but I haven't a shilling. A sorry 
 plight. There is only one human being in 
 the world I can call friend, and that is Mr. 
 Chaytor, who has taken such a strange fancy 
 for me. Yesterday there was old Corrie, 
 there was Anthony Bidaud, there was Annette. 
 One is dead, the others may cast me off. It 
 is a cruel world. II ow long Mr. Chaytor is ! 
 It seems an age. Shame on you, Basil, for 
 reviling ! There is goodness, there is sweet- 
 ness, there is faithfulness in the world. Don't 
 whine, old man. All may yet be well, though
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 191 
 
 for the life of me I can't see how it is to be 
 brought about." 
 
 Then he fainted, but only for a few 
 seconds ; when he opened his eyes again he 
 thought hours must have elapsed. 
 
 In truth Chaytor was absent no longer than 
 was necessary, but he was also mentally busy 
 with the adventures of the last few hours. 
 The man whose phantom shadow had haunted 
 him in London was now at his mercy. Basil's 
 life was absolutely at his disposal. To leave 
 him where he was in that desolate spot at the 
 bottom of a deserted shaft would be to ensure 
 for him a sure and certain death, and if he 
 wished to make assurance doubly sure, all he 
 had to do would be to roll a great stone upon 
 him. But that would be a crime, and, har- 
 dened as he was, he shrank from commit ting- 
 it. Not from any impulse of mercy,, but 
 because he had nothing at present to gain 
 from it. There was much to learn, much to 
 do before he nerved himself to a desperate 
 deed which, after all, might by some stroke of 
 good fortune be unnecessary. And indeed it 
 was only the accident which had befallen 
 Basil that darkened his soul with cruel 
 suggestion. The sleeping forces which lurk
 
 192 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 in the souls of such men as Newman Chaytor 
 often leap into active life by some unfortu- 
 itous circumstance in which they have no 
 direct hand. 
 
 He was back at the shaft, leaning over it, 
 with a bottle of water not too tightly corked, 
 to the neck of which was attached a long 
 piece of cord. 
 
 " Are you there ? " he called out. 
 
 " Heaven be thanked ! " said Basil. " What 
 a time you have been." 
 
 " I have not been away an hour." 
 
 " Is that really so ? " 
 
 " It is, but it must have seemed long to 
 you." 
 
 " Weeks seem to have passed." 
 
 " I have a bottle of water which I will send 
 down to you." 
 
 " God bless you ! " 
 
 " When you get it, loosen the string from 
 the neck of the bottle, and I will send down 
 what remains of the flask of brandy. It will 
 do you no harm." 
 
 " I can never repay you for your goodness 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, you can. Look out." 
 
 The bottle of water was lowered, and after-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 193 
 
 wards the flask of brandy. Basil took a Ions* 
 draught of water, half emptying the bottle, 
 and sipped sparingly of the brandy. 
 
 " You have given me life, Mr. Chaytor." 
 " Psha ! I have done nothing worth 
 
 o 
 
 making a fuss about, Oblige me by dropping 
 the Mr." 
 
 "I will. With all my heart and soul I 
 thank you, Chaytor." 
 
 " You are heartily welcome, Basil. There 
 is a light coming into the sky." 
 
 " Sunrise ! How beautiful the world is ! " 
 
 " Listen," said Chaytor ; " I will tell you 
 what I am goin^ to do." 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 " I am listening," said Basil. 
 
 " There is no windlass, as I have told you," 
 said Chaytor, " so I must devise something in 
 its place to pall you up. The mischief is that 
 I am alone, and have no one to help me. 
 However, I must do the best I can. I am 
 going to roll the trunk of a tree to the top of 
 the shaft, then tie a rope firmly round it so 
 that you can climb into the world again. It- 
 must be dreadful down there." 
 
 " It is," groaned Basil. 
 
 " I can imagine it," said Chaytor, compla- 
 cently ; " but you mustn't mind biding a bit. 
 No man could do more than I am doing." 
 
 " Indeed he could not." 
 
 " The tree is six or seven hundred yards 
 off, and I dare say I shall be an hour over the 
 job. I can't help that, you know." 
 
 " Of course you can't. I can't find words 
 to express my gratitude for all the trouble 
 you are taking. And for a stranger, too ! "
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. ly5 
 
 " I don't look upon you as a stranger; I 
 feel as if I had known you all my life. I 
 suppose, though, it is really but the com- 
 mencement of a friendship which will last I 
 hope till we are both old men." 
 
 " I hope so, too." 
 
 " A little while ago I was saying to myself, 
 I will never trust another man as long as I 
 live ; I will never believe in another ; I will 
 never again confide in man or woman. I 
 have been deceived, Basil. ' 
 
 " I am truly sorry to hear it." 
 
 " Yes, I have been deceived. Friend after 
 friend have I trusted, have I helped, have I 
 ruined myself for, to find them in the end 
 false, selfish and unreliable. I was filled with 
 disgust and with shame for my species. ' I 
 renounce you all,' I cried in the bitterness of 
 my soul. But now everything seems changed. 
 Since you came my faith in human goodness 
 and sincerity and truth is restored. I don't 
 know why, but it is so. I can rely upon 
 your friendship, Basil ? " 
 
 " You can. I will never forget your good- 
 ness ; never." 
 
 " I am going, now, to roll the tree to the 
 shaft. Be as patient as you can." 
 
 13*
 
 196 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 He did not go far. The slim trunk that he 
 spoke of lay not six or seven hundred }^ards 
 off, but quite close to the shaft, and he knew 
 that Basil in his pursuit of the robbers could 
 not have observed it. He was master of the 
 situation ; Basil was at his mercy, and every 
 word he had uttered was intended to bind 
 the unsuspicious man more firmly to him. 
 " He is a soft-hearted fool," thought Chaytor, 
 " and I shall be able to bend him any way I 
 please through the gratitude he feels for me. 
 I think I spoke rather well. What is this ? " 
 He stooped and picked up a pocket-book 
 which had slipped from Basil's pocket as he 
 ran after the thieves. 
 
 Eetreating still farther from the shaft, to 
 make assurance doubly sure, Chaytor, with 
 eager fingers and a greedy expectancy in his 
 eyes, opened the book and examined the con- 
 tents. Intrinsically they were of no value, 
 but in their relation to the unformed design 
 which was prompting Chaytor's actions their 
 value was inestimable. There were memo- 
 randa of dates, events, names and addresses, 
 and also some old letters. Any possible use 
 of the latter did not occur to Chaytor, but 
 his examination of the former was almost
 
 BASIL, AND ANNETTE. 197 
 
 instantly suggestive. They were in Basil's 
 handwriting, some being dated and signed 
 "B. W.", and would serve admirably as 
 copies for anyone who desired to imitate the 
 writing. Clear up and down strokes, without 
 twists or eccentric curves, straightforward as 
 Basil himself. " This is a find," thought 
 Chaytor ; " Providence is certainly on my 
 side. In a week I shall be able to write so 
 exactly like Basil that he will be ready to 
 swear my writing is his. There is informa- 
 tion, too, in the book which may prove ser- 
 viceable. I'll stick to him while there's a 
 chance, and I'll contrive so that he shall stick 
 to me. I haven't done badly up to now." 
 
 More than an hour did Chaytor employ in 
 cunning cogitation, smoking the while in a 
 state of comfortable haziness as to the future. 
 Imagination gilded the prospect and clothed 
 it with alluring fancies ; and that the roads 
 which led to it were dark and devious did 
 not deter him from revelling in the contem- 
 plation. Time was up. ranting and blowing, 
 he rolled the tree-trunk to the shaft. 
 
 " Below there ! " he called out. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied Basil ; " you are back 
 again."
 
 198 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " I have had a terrible job," said the hypo- 
 crite, " and almost despaired of accomplishing 
 it, but stout heart and willing hands put 
 strength into a fellow, and the tree is here. 
 Look out for yourself while I roll it across 
 the shaft. The earth may be rotten, and 
 some bits will roll down, perhaps, though I'll 
 do all I can to prevent it." 
 
 " Thank you, a thousand, thousand times. 
 There's a little tunnel here ; I'll get into it 
 while you're at work above." 
 
 With loud evidences of arduous toil Chay- 
 tor placed the trunk in position, and then 
 made the rope secure around it. 
 
 " Now," said Chaytor, " all is ready, Basil, 
 and I'm going to lower the rope. Have you 
 got it ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Basil, in a faint tone. 
 
 " You will have to pull yourself up by it. 
 I will keep the rope as tight and steady as I 
 can, and that is as much as I can do. Do 
 you think you will be able to manage 
 it?" 
 
 " I must try, but I feel very weak. My 
 strength is giving way." 
 
 "Don't let it, old fellow. Pluck up 
 courage ; it's only for a few minutes, and
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 199 
 
 then you will be safe at tlie top. Now then, 
 with a will ! " 
 
 It required a will on Basil's part, he was so 
 weak, and more than once he feared that it was 
 all over with him ; but at length the difficult 
 feat was accomplished, and, with daylight 
 shining once more on him, he reached the 
 top, and was pulled from the mouth of the 
 shaft by Chay tor's strong arms. Then, his 
 strength quite gone, he sank lifeless to the 
 ground. 
 
 Chaytor, gazing upon the helpless form, 
 reflected. He had Basil's pocket-book packed 
 safely away in an inner pocket of his waist- 
 coat, one of those pockets which men who 
 have anything to conceal, or who move in 
 lawless places, have made in their garments. 
 This book contained much that might be 
 useful ; for instance, the correct name and 
 address of Basil's uncle in England, a state- 
 ment of the debts which Basil had paid to 
 keep his dead father's name clear from re- 
 proach, the address of the lawyers who had 
 managed that transaction, the amount of the 
 fortune that Basil's mother had bequeathed to 
 him, and other such matters. JSTow, had Basil 
 anything more upon his person which might
 
 200 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 be turned to account in the future ? If so, 
 this was a favourable opportunity for Chaytor 
 to possess himself of it. There would be no 
 difficulty in satisfactorily explaining the loss 
 of any property which Basil had about him. 
 In the confusion and excitement of the last 
 few hours anything might have happened. 
 
 Having decided the point, Chaytor's un- 
 scrupulous fingers became busy, and every 
 article in Basil's pockets passed through his 
 hands. With the exception of a purse, he 
 replaced everything he had taken out. This 
 purse contained a locket with a lock of hair 
 in it ; at the back of the locket was an in- 
 scription in Basil's writing — " My dear 
 Mother's hair," her Christian name, the date 
 of her death, and her age. There was no 
 money in the purse. Undoubtedly Basil, 
 when he recovered his senses, would miss his 
 purse, but if his pocket-book slipped out 
 of his pocket while running, why not that ? 
 Chaytor was perfectly easy in his mind as he 
 deposited the purse by the side of the pocket- 
 book inside his waistcoat. 
 
 Meanwhile Basil lay motionless. " I'll 
 carry him a little way," thought Chaytor. 
 "Anything might drop from his clothes while
 
 .BASIL AND ANNETTE. 201 
 
 lie is hanging over my shoulder. I'll have 
 as many arrows to my bow as I can manu- 
 facture. When he gets to his senses we will 
 have a hunt for the purse and the pocket- 
 book, and of course shall not find them." 
 With a grim smile he raised Basil to a sitting 
 posture, and gradually lifted him on to his 
 shoulder. Clasping him firmly round the 
 body, Chaytor staggered on. 
 
 Basil was no light weight, and Chaytor, 
 while he was pursuing his dissipated life in 
 London, had not been renowned for strength ; 
 but his colonial career had hardened his 
 muscles, and enabled him now to perform a 
 task which in years gone by would have been 
 impossible. A dozen times he stopped to 
 rest and wipe his brows. The form he 
 carried was helpless and inert, but Basil's 
 mind was stirred by the motion of being 
 carried through the fresh air, and he began 
 to babble. He thought he was upon old 
 Corrie's mare, and he urged the animal on, 
 muttering in disjointed and unconnected 
 words that he must reach the township of 
 Gum Flat that night, and be back again next 
 day. Then he went on to babble about 
 Annette and her father, and to a less intelli-
 
 202 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 gent man than Chaytor — give him credit for 
 that — his wandering talk might have been 
 incoherent and meaningless. But Chaytor's 
 intellect was refined and sharpened by the 
 possibilities of a gilded future. He listened 
 attentively to every word that fell from Basil's 
 fevered lips, and put meaning to them, some- 
 times false, sometimes true. 
 
 " My friend Basil is in a delirium," said 
 he during the intervals of Basil's muttering, 
 " and I shall have to nurse him through a 
 fever most likely. What with that proba- 
 bility, and the weight of him, I am earning 
 my wage. No man could dispute that. He 
 raves like a man in love about this Annette. 
 How old is she ? Is she pretty ? Does she 
 love him ? Will she be rich ? Is that a vein 
 I could work to profit ? I don't intend to 
 throw away the shadow of a chance. An age 
 seems to have passed since last night. But 
 what," he cried suddenly, " if all my labour is 
 being thrown away — what if I am following a 
 will-o'-the-wisp ? " 
 
 He let Basil slip purposely from his arms, 
 and heedless of the sick man's groans, for the 
 fall was violent, he looked down upon him 
 as though a mortal enemy was in his path.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 203 
 
 But one of the strongest elements in greed 
 and avarice is the hope that leads their 
 votaries on, and this and the superstitious 
 feeling that the meeting had been brought 
 about by fate, and was but the beginning of 
 a fruitful end, dispelled the doubt that had 
 arisen. " I will work for it," he muttered ; 
 " it is my only chance. Even if nothing 
 comes of it I shall be no worse off. But 
 something shall come of it — I swear it." 
 
 Eeassured, he took up his burden, and in 
 the course of an hour reached the dwelling 
 they had occupied the previous night. By 
 that time Basil was in a high fever, and 
 Chaytor began to be disturbed by the fear 
 that his double would die. Then, indeed, 
 his labour would be lost and his hopes de- 
 stroyed, for he had much to learn and much 
 to do before the vague design which spurred 
 him on could be developed and ripened. 
 
 Chaytor had a secret store of provisions 
 which he had hoarded up unknown to Jim 
 the Hatter and the Nonentities ; some tins of 
 preserved meat and soup, the remains of a 
 sack of flour, two or three pounds of tea, a few 
 bottles of spirits, and a supply of tobacco. 
 These would have served for a longer time
 
 204 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 than Basil's sickness lasted, and Chaytor com- 
 forted himself with the reflection that he could 
 not have carried them away with him had he 
 been compelled to leave the deserted township. 
 It was really Basil's stout and healthy consti- 
 tution that pulled him through a fever which 
 would have proved fatal to many men. He did 
 not recover his senses for sixteen days, and as 
 he had nothing to conceal he, during that time, 
 revealed to Chaytor in his wild wanderings 
 much of his early life. When at length he 
 opened his eyes, and they fell with dawning 
 consciousness upon the man standing beside 
 his bed, Chaytor was in possession of par- 
 ticulars innocent enough in themselves, but 
 dangerous if intended to be used to a wily 
 and dangerous end. During those sixteen 
 days Chaytor had not been idle, having em- 
 ployed himself industriously in studying and 
 imitating the few peculiarities in Basil's writing. 
 To a past-master like himself this was not 
 difficult, and he succeeded in producing an 
 imitation so perfect as to deceive anyone 
 familiar with Basil's style. He was careful in 
 destroying every evidence of this vile study. 
 
 Basil's eyes fell upon Chaytor's face, and he 
 was silent awhile. Chaytor also. Basil closed
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 205 
 
 his eyes, opened them again, and fell-to once 
 more pondering upon matters. Then Chaytor 
 spoke. 
 
 " Do you know me at last ? " he asked. 
 
 " Know you ! At last ! " echoed Basil. " I 
 have seen you before — but where ? " 
 
 " Here, in Gum Flat township." 
 
 "I am in Gum Flat township. Yes, I 
 remember, I was riding that way on old 
 Corrie's mare." He jumped up, or rather 
 tried to do so, his weak state frustrating his 
 intention. " Where are the robbers ? " 
 
 " That's the question," said Chaytor, " and 
 echo answers. Not very satisfactory." 
 
 " It is coming back to me little by little," 
 said Basil presently. "I arrived here late 
 at night and found the township deserted by 
 all but four men, three of them scoundrels, 
 the fourth a noble fellow whose name was 
 — was — what has happened to me that my 
 memory plays me tricks ? I have it now — 
 whose name was Newman Chaytor." 
 
 " A true bill. He stands before you." 
 
 " You are the man. What occurred next ? 
 He found a stable for old Corrie's mare, gave 
 me food and a bed, while the three scoundrels 
 looked on frowning. I slept like an unfaithful
 
 206 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 steward ; the mare being Corrie's and not 
 mine, and I doubtful of the character and 
 intentions of the scoundrels, I should have 
 kept watch over property that did not belong 
 to me. Instead of doing that I consulted my 
 own ease and pleasure." 
 
 " You could not help it ; you were tired 
 out." 
 
 " No excuse. I made no attempt to guard 
 old Corrie's mare. If I had watched and 
 fallen asleep from weariness at my post it 
 might have been another matter. When I 
 present myself to old Corrie, that is if I am 
 ever able to stand upon my legs again, I 
 shall put no gloss upon my conduct. He 
 shall hear the plain unvarnished truth from 
 the unfaithful steward's own lips. I am un- 
 worthy of confidence or friendship ; I warn 
 you. Newman Chaytor, put no trust in me." 
 
 " I would trust you," said Chaytor, with 
 well-simulated candour, " with my life." 
 
 " The more fool you. Where was I ? Oh, 
 asleep in the comfortable bed you gave me 
 while these scoundrels were planning rob- 
 bery. In the middle of the night I woke up 
 — pitch dark it was forgive me for speak- 
 ing ungratefully to you. My heart is over-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 207 
 
 flowing with gratitude, but I am at the same 
 time filled with remorse." 
 
 " Don't trouble about that, Basil," said 
 Chaytor. "You can't hurt yourself in my 
 esteem. Go on with your reminiscence ; it 
 is a healthy exercise ; it will strengthen your 
 wandering memory." 
 
 " Pitch dark it was. I was not sure then, 
 but I am now, that thieves had been in my 
 room. Have I been lying here long, Chaytor ? " 
 
 " Two weeks and more." 
 
 " And have you been nursing me all that 
 time?" 
 
 "As well as I could. You could have 
 found no other nurse — though easy to find a 
 better — in Gum Flat ; you and I are the only 
 two living humans in the township." 
 
 " Why did you not leave me to die ? " 
 
 " Because I am not quite a brute." 
 
 " Forgive me for provoking such a reply. 
 But why — indeed, why have you been so good 
 to me ? " 
 
 "I will answer you honestly, Basil. Be- 
 cause I love you." 
 
 He lowered his vcice and bent his eyes to 
 the ground as he made the false statement ; 
 and Basil turned his head, and a little sob
 
 203 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 escaped him at the expression of devo- 
 tion. 
 
 " I hope I may live to repay you," he said, 
 holding out his hand, which Chaytor seized. 
 
 " You will. All I ask of you is not to 
 desert me. Stick to me as a friend, as I have 
 stuck to you ; I have been so basely deceived 
 in friendship that my faith in human good- 
 ness would be irrevocably shattered if you 
 proved false." His voice faltered ; tears came 
 into his eyes. 
 
 " That will I never do. My life is yours." 
 
 " I want your heart." 
 
 " You have it. The world contains no 
 nobler man than my friend, Newman 
 Chaytor." 
 
 " I am well repaid. Now you must rest ; 
 you have talked enough." 
 
 "No, I will finish first, Hearing sounds 
 outside the tent I called for your assistance. 
 We went out together and were immediately 
 attacked. Were you hurt much, Chaytor ? " 
 
 " A little," replied Chaytor modestly. " A 
 scratch or two not worth mentioning." 
 
 " It is like you to make light of your own 
 injuries. We pursued the scoundrels through 
 the darkness, but they knew the ground they
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 209 
 
 were travelling, we did not. An uncovered 
 shaft lay in my way, and down I fell. That 
 is all I remember. But I know that my 
 bones would be bleaching there at the present 
 moment if it had not been for you." 
 
 " Try to remember a little more," said 
 Chaytor, anxious that not a grain of credit 
 should be lost to him. " I came up to the 
 shaft sorely bruised, and called out to you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it comes back to me. You 
 brought me some brandy — you cheered and 
 comforted me — you rolled the trunk of a 
 tree over the mouth of the shaft — it was half 
 a mile away — and after hours of terrible 
 agony I was brought into the sweet light of 
 day. But for you I should have died. In- 
 deed and indeed, I remember nothing more. 
 You must tell me the rest." 
 
 This Chaytor did with an affectation of 
 modesty, but with absolute exaggeration of 
 the services he had rendered, and Basil lay 
 and listened, and his heart went out to the 
 man who had proved so devoted a friend, and 
 had sacrificed so much for his sake. 
 
 " My gratitude is yours to my dying day," 
 he said. " No man ever did for another what 
 you have done for me. Give me my clothes." 
 vol. i. 14
 
 210 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " You are not strong enough yet to get up, 
 Basil." 
 
 " I don't want to get up. I want to see 
 what the scoundrels have left in my pockets." 
 He felt, and cried : " Everything gone ! my 
 purse, my pocket-book, everything — even a 
 lock of my mother's hair. They might have 
 left me that ! " 
 
 " They made a clean sweep, I suppose," 
 said Chaytor. 
 
 He had considered this matter while Basil 
 lay unconscious, and had come to the con- 
 clusion that it would be wiser to strip Basil's 
 pockets bare than to make a selection of one 
 or two things, which was scarcely what a 
 thief in his haste would have done. Thus it 
 was that Basil found his pockets completely 
 empty. 
 
 " You have for a friend the neediest beggar 
 that ever drew breath," said Basil bitterly. 
 
 " I'll put up with that," said Chaytor, with 
 great cheerfulness. " Now, don't worry your- 
 self about anything whatever. You shall share 
 with me to the last pipe of tobacco, and when 
 that's gone we will work for more." 
 
 " Ah, tobacco ! Would a whiff or two do 
 me any harm ? "
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 211 
 
 " Do you good. You'll have to smoke out 
 of my pipe ; the villains have stolen yours." 
 
 He rilled his pipe, and, giving it to Basil, 
 held a lighted match to the tobacco. Basil, 
 lying on his side, watched the curling smoke 
 as it floated above his head. Distressed as 
 he was, the evidences of Newman Chaytor's 
 goodness were to some extent a compensat- 
 ing balance to his troubles. And now he 
 was enjoying the soothing influence of a quiet 
 smoke. Those persons who regard the weed 
 as noxious and baleful have a perfect right 
 to their opinion, but they cannot ignore the 
 fact that to many thousands of thousands of 
 estimable beings it serves as a comforter, 
 frequently indeed as a healer. It was so in 
 the present instance. As the smoke wreathed 
 and curled above him an ineffable consolation 
 crept into Basil's soul. Things seemed at 
 their blackest ; the peace and hope of a bright 
 future had been destroyed ; the man who had 
 grown to honour him, and who had assured 
 him of the future, had with awful suddenness 
 breathed his last breath ; the little child he 
 loved, and to whom he was to have been 
 guardian and protector, was thrust into the 
 care of a malignant, remorseless man ; 
 
 14*
 
 212 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 suspicion of foul play had been thrown upon 
 him ; old Corrie had lent him his mare, and 
 he had allowed it to be stolen ; he had been 
 so near to death that but one man, and he a 
 short time since an utter stranger, stood 
 between him and eternity ; and he was lying 
 now on a bed of sickness an utter, utter 
 beggar. Grim enough in all conscience, but 
 the simple smoking of a pipe put a different 
 and a better aspect upon it. There was hope 
 in the future ; he was young, he would get 
 well and strong again ; Anthony 13idaud was 
 dead, but spiritual comfort died not with life ; 
 he would see Annette once more, and would 
 take his leave of her assured of her love, so 
 far as a child could give such an assurance, 
 and in the hope of meeting her again in years 
 to come; he would outlive the injurious 
 suspicion of wrong-dealing which he did not 
 doubt Gilbert Bidaud was spreading against 
 him ; and he would be able to vindicate 
 himself in old Corrie's eyes, and perhaps by- 
 and-by recompense the old fellow for the loss 
 of the mare. Much virtue in a pipe when it 
 can so transform the prospect stretching 
 before a man brought to such a pass as Basil 
 had been.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 213 
 
 " Yes," he said aloud, " all will come right 
 in the end." 
 
 " Of course it will," said Chaytor. " What 
 special mental question are you answering ? " 
 
 " Nothing special. I was thinking in a 
 general way of my troubles, and your pipe 
 has put a more cheerful colour on them. Am 
 I mistaken in thinking you told me you were 
 a doctor ? " 
 
 " No. That is why I have been able to pull 
 you through so quickly." 
 
 " How long will it be before I am able to 
 get about ? " 
 
 " At the end of the week if you will be 
 reasonable." 
 
 " I promise. I feel well already. The 
 moment I am strong enough I must go to 
 Bidaud's plantation." 
 
 " I will go with you." 
 
 " Of course. We are mates from this day 
 forth. The end of the week ? Not earlier ? " 
 
 " Don't be impatient. My plan is to make 
 a perfect cure. No patching. At present I 
 am in command." 
 
 " I obey. But let it be as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 Chavtor congratulated himself. However
 
 214 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 things turned out in the future, all had gone 
 on swimmingly up to this moment. Every 
 little move he had made had been successful. 
 Basil had not the slightest suspicion that it 
 was he who had stolen his pocket-book and 
 purse, and emptied his pockets. 
 
 "If an angsl from heaven," chuckled 
 Chaytor that night, as he walked to and fro 
 outside the store, " came and told him the 
 truth, he would not believe it. I have him 
 under my thumb — under my thumb. How 
 to work his old uncle in England ? How to 
 get hold of that forty thousand pounds ? It 
 must not go out of the family ; I will not 
 submit to it. Would a letter or two from 
 Basil, written by me in Basil's hand, do any 
 good p I don't mind eating any amount of 
 humble pie to accomplish my purpose. Even 
 were it not a vicarious humiliation I am 
 willing to do it, the money being guided into 
 its proper channel, and Basil safely out of the 
 way." 
 
 He paused, with a sinister look in his eyes. 
 Had Basil seen him then he would hardly 
 have recognised him. Dark thoughts flitted 
 through his mind, and animated his features. 
 
 "Nothing shall stop me," he cried,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 215 
 
 " nothing ! " And he raised his hand to the 
 skies as though registering an oath. A sad 
 cloud stole upon the moon and obscured its 
 light. "What is life without enjoyment?' 
 he muttered. " By fair means or foul I mean 
 to enjoy. I should like to know what we 
 are sent into the world for if we are deprived 
 of a fair share of the best things ? " There 
 being no one to answer him, he presently 
 went inside to bed. 
 
 The next day Basil was so much better 
 that without asking permission he got up and 
 dressed himself. Chaytor did not remonstrate 
 with him ; he knew, now that Basil was 
 mending, that he would mend quickly. So it 
 proved ; before the week was out the two 
 men set forth on the tramp to Bidaud's plan- 
 tations.
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 At noon on the second day they were within 
 hail of old Corrie's hut. It was meal time, 
 and the old woodman was cooking his dinner. 
 Balanced on a blazing log was a frying-pan 
 filled with mutton-chops, some half-dozen or 
 so, which were not more than enough for a 
 tough-limbed fellow working from sunrise till 
 sunset in the open air. He looked up as 
 Basil and Chaytor approached, and with a 
 nod of his head proceeded to turn the frizzling 
 chops in the pan. This was his way ; he was 
 the reverse of demonstrative. 
 
 Such a greeting from another man, and 
 that man a friend, would have disconcerted 
 Basil, but he was familiar with old Corrie's 
 peculiarities, and had it not been for his own 
 inward disquiet regarding the mare, he would 
 have felt quite at his ease. 
 
 "Back again," said old Corrie, transferring 
 a couple of chops on to a tin plate. 
 
 " Yes," said Basil.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 217 
 
 " Been away longer than you expected." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " On the tramp ? " 
 
 " Yes. Look here, Corrie " 
 
 "There's no hurry," interrupted old Corrie. 
 " You must be hungry. Go inside, and you'll 
 see half a sheep dressed. Cut off what you 
 want and cook it while the fire serves." 
 
 " But I would rather say first what I have 
 to say. When I've told you all, my mate and 
 I might not be welcome." 
 
 wt Don't risk it, then. Never run to court 
 trouble, Master Basil. I'm an older man than 
 you ; take the advice I give you." 
 
 " It is good advice," said Chaytor, whose 
 appetite was sharp set, and to whom the 
 smell of the chops was well-nigh maddening. 
 
 Old Corrie looked at him with penetrating 
 eyes, and Chaytor bore the gaze well. He 
 was not deficient in a certain quality of 
 courage when he was out of peril and master 
 of the situation, as he believed himself to be 
 here. Old Corrie showed no sign of approval 
 or disapproval, but proceeded quietly with 
 his dinner. Basil took the woodman's advice. 
 He went into the hut, cut a sufficient number 
 of chops from the half body of the sheep
 
 218 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 which was hanging up, and came back and 
 took possession of the frying-pan, which was 
 now at his disposal. Chaytor looked on ; he 
 had not been made exactly welcome, and 
 was in doubt of old Corrie's opinion of him, 
 therefore he did not feel warranted in making 
 himself at home. When the young men 
 commenced their meal, old Corrie had finished 
 his, and now, pipe in mouth, he leant his back 
 against a great tree and contemplated his 
 guests. 
 
 " Little lady ! Little lady ! " 
 
 The sound came from within the hut. 
 Chaytor started, Basil looked up with a piece 
 of mutton between his thumb and knife : forks 
 they had none. 
 
 " Basil ! Basil ! Basil and Annette ! Little 
 lady ! Little lady ! " 
 
 " It's the magpie I told you about," said old 
 Corrie to Basil, " the last time I saw you." 
 
 " Its vocabulary is extended," said Basil. 
 
 " By request," said old Corrie in a pleasant 
 voice, " of the little lady herself." 
 
 Basil glowed. Annette had not forgotten 
 him, even thought kindly of him ; otherwise, 
 why should she wish that the bird old Corrie 
 was training for her should become familiar
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 219 
 
 with his name? Chaytor smarted under a 
 sense of injury. Basil and old Corrie were 
 speaking of something which he did not un- 
 derstand — a proof that Basil had not told 
 him everything. This, in Chaytor's estima- 
 tion, was underhanded and injurious. Basil 
 and everything in relation to him, his ante- 
 cedents, his whole story, belonged by right to 
 him, Newman Chaytor, who had saved his 
 life, who had the strongest claim of gratitude 
 upon him which a man could possibly have. 
 Old Corrie noted the vindictive flash in his 
 eyes, but made no comment upon it. 
 
 " And is that really a bird ? " said Chaytor 
 in a tone of polite inquiry. 
 
 " Go and see for yourself," replied old 
 Corrie ; " but don't go too close. It hasn't 
 
 the best of tempers." 
 
 " I should like to see the bird that could 
 
 frighten me," said Chaytor, rising. 
 
 "Should you?" said old Corrie. "Then 
 
 on second thoughts I prefer that you stay 
 
 where you are." 
 
 Chaytor laughed and resumed his seat. 
 
 The meal proceeded in silence after this, 
 
 and when the last chop was disposed of, 
 
 old Corrie said : " Now we will have our
 
 220 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 chat, Master Basil ; and as we've a few 
 private matters to talk of, our mate here 
 perhaps " 
 
 The hint was plain, though imperfectly 
 expressed. 
 
 " I am in the way," said Chaytor. I'll 
 smoke my pipe in the woods. Coo-ey when 
 you want me, Basil." 
 
 He strode off; exterior genial and placid, 
 interior like a volcano. "He shall pay for 
 it," was his thought. It pleased him to garner 
 up a store of imaginary injuries which were 
 to be requited in the future. Then, when the 
 time arrived for him to deal a blow, it would 
 be merely giving tit for tat. Many men 
 besides Chaytor reason in this crooked way, 
 but none whose natures and motives are 
 honourable and straightforward. 
 
 " Where did you pick him up ? " asked old 
 Corrie when he and Basil were alone. 
 
 " I want to speak to you first about your 
 mare," said Basil. 
 
 " And I want to know first where you 
 picked up your new mate," persisted Corrie. 
 
 "He saved my life," said Basil. "Had it 
 not been for his great and unselfish kindness 
 I should not be here to-day." Then he told
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 221 
 
 the woodman all that he knew of Chaytor, 
 and dilated in glowing terms upon his noble 
 conduct. 
 
 " It sounds well," said old Corrie, " and I 
 have nothing to say in contradiction ; only 
 I have a crank in me. I look into a man's 
 face and I like him, and I look into a man's 
 face and I don't like him. The first time I 
 clapped eyes on you, Master Basil, I took a 
 fancy to you. I can't say the same for your 
 mate, but let it stand. I had it in my mind 
 to make a proposition to you in case you 
 came back in time, but I doubt whether it 
 can be carried out now. Have you entered 
 into a bargain to go mates with him ? " 
 
 " I have, and have no wish to break it. I 
 should be the basest of men if I tried to 
 throw him over." 
 
 " Keep to your word, lad ; I'm the loser, 
 for I thought it likely the two of us might 
 strike up a partnership." 
 
 " Why not the three of us ? " asked Basil, 
 to whom the prospect of working with old 
 Corrie was very agreeable. 
 
 " Because in the first place it wouldn't suit 
 me, and in the second it wouldn't suit him." 
 
 " But if he were willing ? "
 
 222 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 Old Corrie bent his brows kindly upon 
 Basil's ingenuous face. " Ask him, Master 
 Basil." 
 
 " Will you not listen to me first ? I want 
 to speak to you about your mare." 
 
 " A quarter of an hour more or less won't 
 bring her back, will it ? " said old Corrie, 
 with no touch of reproach in his voice. 
 "Go and speak to your mate, and let me 
 know what he says." 
 
 Basil departed and returned. It was as 
 old Corrie supposed : Chaytor was not willing 
 to admit Corrie into their partnership. 
 
 " He says you took a dislike to him from 
 the first," said Basil. 
 
 " Almost my own words," said old Corrie, 
 with a laugh. " He's a shrewd customer." 
 
 " And that he is certain you and he 
 
 would not agree. I would give a finger off 
 each hand if it could have been, for a warmer- 
 hearted and nobler man does not exist than 
 Chaytor ; and as for you, Corrie, I would 
 wish nothing better. But I am bound to 
 him by the strongest ties of gratitude." 
 
 " Say no more, Master Basil, say no more. 
 Mayhap we shall meet by-and-by, and we 
 shall be no worse friends because this has
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 223 
 
 fallen through. We have a lot to say to 
 each other. I'm off the day after to morrow ; 
 I should have been off before if it had not 
 been for you and the little lady." 
 
 " She has been here ? " cried Basil. 
 
 " She has been here four times since you 
 left — the last time yesterday — not to see me, 
 but you. She manages the thing herself, 
 poor little lady, and comes alone, after giving 
 the slip to those about her. Her first grief 
 is over, though she will never forget the 
 good father she has lost — never. It isn't in 
 her nature to forget — bear that in mind, 
 Master Basil. She clings to the friends that 
 are left her. Friends, did I say ? Why, 
 she has only one — you, Master Basil ; I don't 
 count. Besides, if I did it would matter 
 little to her, for there's nothing more unlikely 
 than that, after two days have gone by, I 
 shall ever look upon her sweet face again. 
 She goes one way, I go another." 
 
 " She goes one way ? " repeated Basil ; 
 " will she not remain on the plantation ? " 
 
 " She will not. You see, it isn't for her to 
 choose ; she must do as she is directed. But 
 we are mixing up things, and it will help 
 them right well if I tell you what I've got to
 
 224 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 tell straight on, commencing with A, ending 
 with Z. Let us clear the ground, so that 
 the axe may swing without being caught in 
 loose branches. I'll hear what you've got to 
 say. My mare is lost, I know." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " You would have brought it back with you 
 if it hadn't been. Now then, lad, straight 
 out, no beating about the bush ; it's not in 
 your line. I don't for a moment mistrust 
 you. There's truth in your face always, 
 Master Basil, and I wish with all my heart 
 the little lady had you by her side to guide 
 her instead of the skunk that's stepped into 
 her dead father's shoes. You're a square 
 man, and my mare is lost through no fault of 
 yours, my lad." 
 
 Encouraged by these generous words, Basil 
 told his story straight, and old Corrie listened 
 with a pleasant face. 
 
 " The mare's gone," said old Corrie, when 
 Basil had done, " and bad luck go with her. 
 I know the brands on her : mayhap I shall 
 come across her one of these fine days. 
 Describe the rascals to me." 
 
 Basil did as well as he could, and said old 
 Corrie was not treating him as he deserved.
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 225 
 
 " I am treating you as an honest gentle- 
 man," said old Corrie, " as I know you to be. 
 Jem the Hatter the villain's called, is he ? 
 When a man once gets a nickname on the 
 goldfields it sticks to him through thick and 
 thin ; if we meet he shall remember it. I 
 give you a receipt in full, Master Basil.' , 
 And the good fellow held out his two hands, 
 which Basil shook heartily. " I was sure 
 something serious kept you away." With 
 Basil's hand clasped firmly in his, he gazed 
 steadily into the young man's face. " It is 
 an odd fancy I've got," he said, " but it's 
 come across me two or three times while 
 we've been talking. Is there any relationship 
 between you and your new mate ? " 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Sure of that ? " 
 
 " Sure." 
 
 " And you met for the first time on Gum 
 Flat ? " 
 
 "For the first time." 
 
 "Well, it is odd, and the more I look at 
 you now the odder it becomes. You've let 
 your hair grow since you went away." 
 
 "Obliged to," said Basil, laughing. "I 
 
 had no razor. There are a couple I can 
 vol. I. 15
 
 226 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 claim in Mr. Bidaud's house, as well as a 
 brush or two ; but I daresay I shall not get 
 them now that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is in 
 possession. What is your odd fancy, 
 Corrie ? " 
 
 "Why, that you and your new mate 
 would be as like each other as two peas, 
 if you were dressed alike and trimmed your 
 hair alike. Haven't you noticed it your- 
 self?" 
 
 " I've noticed that we resemble each other 
 somewhat," said Basil, " but not to the extent 
 you mention. I remember now he spoke of 
 it himself, and that is one reason perhaps why 
 he took a liking to me, and nursed me as he 
 did. But I am terribly anxious to hear about 
 the plantation and Annette. What is going 
 to happen there that she is to leave it ? " 
 
 " In my own way, Master Basil," said old 
 Corrie, brushing his hand across his eyes to 
 chase the fancy away, " and to commence at 
 the beginning. When you left me in the 
 wood I was splitting slabs, a job I was doing 
 for poor Mr. Anthony Bidaud. You doubted 
 whether his brother would hold to it, as 
 there was no written bond to show for it, 
 and you were right. I went up to the house,
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 227 
 
 as I said I would, and saw Mr. Gilbert. You 
 
 described him well, Master Basil ; lie's a man 
 
 I would be sorry to trust, I told liim of the 
 
 contract between me and his brother. 
 
 1 Where is it ? ' he asked. ' There was none 
 
 written,' I answered ; ' it was an order given 
 
 as a dozen others have been, and of course 
 
 you'll abide by it.' ' Of course I will not,' 
 
 said he. ' Who are you that I should take 
 
 your word ? And you would fix your own 
 
 price for the slabs ? Clever, Mr. Corrie. 
 
 Clever, Mr. Corrie ! ' I had told him my 
 
 name. ' But I am a cleverer and a sharper.' 
 
 A sharper he is in the right meaning of it, 
 
 but he is not English, and didn't exactly 
 
 know what he was calling himself. ' No, no,' 
 
 he said, ' the moment a man's dead the 
 
 vultures come. You are one. But I am 
 
 equal to you. Burn your slabs.' ' You're a 
 
 pretty specimen,' I said. ' Your brother was 
 
 a gentleman ; it doesn't run in the family.' 
 
 He's a strange man, Master Basil, and if he 
 
 ever loses his temper he takes care not to 
 
 show it. More than what I've told you 
 
 passed between us, a':d once he said quite 
 
 coolly that if I could summon his brother as 
 
 a witness he was willing to abide by his testi- 
 
 15*
 
 228 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 mony. The testimony of a dead man ! And 
 to speak so lightly of one's flesh and blood ! 
 I wouldn't trust such a man out of my 
 sight." 
 
 " Did you see his sister ? " asked Basil. 
 
 " I did, but she said very little, and never 
 spoke without looking at Mr. Gilbert for a 
 cue. He gave it her always in a silent way 
 that passed my comprehension, but they 
 understand each other by signs." 
 
 " And Annette — did you see her ? " 
 
 " Yes, but at a distance. They kept her 
 from me, I think, but I saw her looking at 
 me quite mournfully, and I felt like going 
 boldly up to her ; but second thoughts were 
 best, and I kept away, only giving her to 
 understand as well as I could without speak- 
 ing that I was her friend, ready at any time 
 to do her a service. 'Well,' said I to Mr. 
 Gilbert, ' my compliments to you. Your 
 throwing over the contract your brother 
 made, won't hurt me a bit ; I could buy up a 
 dozen like you ' — which was brag, Master 
 Basil, and he knew it was — ' but I should be 
 sorry to dishonour the dead as you are 
 doing.' He took out a snuff-box, helped 
 himself to a pinch, smiled, and said, ' Senti-
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 229 
 
 merit, Mr. Corrie, sentiment. I treat the 
 dead as I treat the living. Eid me of you.' 
 It was his foreign way of bidding me pack, 
 but I told him I should take my time, that I 
 had plenty of friends among his brother's 
 workmen, and that I should go away very 
 slowly. ' And let me give you a piece of 
 advice,' I said. ' If you or any agent of 
 yours comes spying near my hut I'll mark 
 him so that he shall remember it.' ' Ah, 
 ah,' he said, still smiling in my face, ' threats, 
 eh ? ' ' Yes threats,' said I, ' and as many 
 more of 'em as I choose to give tongue to.' 
 ' Foolish Mr. Corrie, foolish Mr. Corrie,' he 
 said, taking more snuff, ' to lose your temper. 
 Let me give you a piece of advice. Think 
 first, speak afterwards. It is a lesson — take 
 it to heart. You are too impulsive, Mr. 
 Corrie, like another person who also tres- 
 passes here, one who calls himself Basil.' 
 ' Mr. Basil is a friend of mine,' I said, ' say 
 one word against him, and I'll knock you 
 down.' He was frightened, though he didn't 
 show it, and he beckoned to a man, who 
 came and stood by him. You know him, I 
 daresay, Master Basil ; his name is Eocke." 
 " He is my enemy, I am afraid," said Basil
 
 030 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " I found that out afterwards ; lie has been 
 spreading reports about you, either out of his 
 own spite, or employed by cold-blooded Mr. 
 Gilbert Bidaud. So Eocke came and stood 
 by his side, but not too willingly. We've 
 met before, Eocke and me, and he knows the 
 strength of my muscle. I smiled at him, and 
 he grinned at me, and I said, ' We were 
 speaking of Master Basil, and I was saying 
 that if anyone said a word against him I was 
 ready to knock him down. Perhaps you'd 
 like to say something.' 'Not at all,' said 
 Eocke, and his grin changed to a scowl, 'I 
 know when it will pay me best to hold my 
 tongue.' Mr. Gilbert Bidaud shook with 
 laughter. ' Good Eocke,' he said, ' wise 
 Eocke. We'll make a judge of you. Any- 
 thing more to say ? ' This was to me, and I 
 answered, almost as cool iioav as he was 
 himself, ' Only this. You spit upon a dead 
 man's bond, and you are a scoundrel. Don't 
 come near my hut, you or anyone that sides 
 with you.' Eocke understood this. ' But,' 
 said I, ' any friend of Master Basil's is heartily 
 welcome, and I'll give them the best I have. 
 So good day to you, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud.' 
 Then I went among the workmen and chatted
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 231 
 
 with them, and picked up scraps of informa- 
 tion, and turned the current wherever I saw 
 it was setting against you." 
 
 " My hearty thanks for the service, Corrie," 
 said Basil. 
 
 " You're as heartily welcome. If one 
 friend don't stick up for another behind his 
 back we might as well be tigers. You see, 
 Master Basil, you're a stranger here com- 
 pared with me ; I've been chumming with 
 the men this many a year, and never had a 
 word with one except Eocke, and even he 
 has some sort of respect for me. Then 
 you're a gentleman ; I'm not. My lad, there 
 are signs that can't be hidden ; you've got 
 the hall mark on you. Well, when I'd done 
 as much as I could in a friendly way, I 
 turned my back on the plantation, and came 
 back here, and went on with my splitting, as 
 if the contract still held good." 
 
 " Was not that a waste of time, Corrie ? " 
 
 " I took my own view of it. There was 
 the dead man soon to be in his grave; here 
 was I with the blood running free through 
 my veins. If he'd been alive he'd have kept 
 his word ; I was alive, and I'd keep mine. 
 So I finished the contract out of respect for
 
 232 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 Mr. Anthony Bidaud, and there the slabs are, 
 stacked and ready. While I was at work my 
 thoughts were on you ; four days passed, and 
 you hadn't returned. I concluded that 
 something had happened to you, but that 
 you'd appear some time or another, and all I 
 could do was to hope that you'd come back 
 before I left the place. I had a great wish to 
 see the little lady, but I didn't know how to 
 compass it. Compassed it was, however, 
 without my moving in it. Just a week it was 
 after you'd gone that I was at work in the 
 wood ; it was afternoon, a good many hours 
 from sundown, when my laughing jackass 
 began to laugh outrageous. When we're 
 alone together he behaves soberly and 
 decently, contented with quietly laughing 
 and chuckling to himself, and it's only when 
 something out of the way occurs that he 
 gives himself airs. He's the vainest of the 
 vain, Master Basil, and he does it to show off. 
 His tantrums made me look round, and there, 
 standing looking at me and the laughing 
 jackass, without a morsel of fear of me or the 
 bird, was the little lady." 
 
 " Annette ? " cried Basil. 
 
 " The little lady herself," said old Corrie.
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 " Was she alone ? " asked Basil. 
 
 "Yes, quite alone. I dropped my axe, 
 told the jackass to shut up — which it didn't, 
 Master Basil — and took the hand she held 
 out to me. Such a little hand, Master Basil ! 
 I give you my word that as I held it in mine 
 my thoughts went back, more years than I'd 
 care to count, to the time when I was a little 
 'mi myself, snuggling close up to my mother's 
 apron. I can't remember when I'd thought 
 of those days last. They were stowed away 
 in a coffin, and dropped into a grave which 
 stood between me as a boy and me as a man. 
 It's like having lived two lives, one of which 
 was dead and buried. Now, all at once, the 
 dead past came to life, and said, in a manner 
 of speaking, ' I belong to you,' and it didn't 
 seem unnatural. The touch of the little 
 lady's hand was like a magic wand, and if she 
 had said to me, 'Let's have a game of hop- 
 scotch,' I believe I should have done it and
 
 234 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 thought it the proper thing to do. But she 
 said nothing of the sort, only looked at me 
 with melancholy sweetness, and hoped I was 
 not sorry to see her. Sorry ! I was heartily 
 and thankfully glad, and I told her so, and 
 the tears came into her pretty eyes, and I 
 said, without thinking at the moment that 
 she'd lost a dear father, 'Don't cry, don't 
 cry ! there's nothing to cry for ; ' but I set 
 myself right directly by saying, ' I mean, I 
 hope it isn't me that makes you cry.' ' No,' 
 she answered, ' it's only that you speak so 
 kind.' My blood boiled up, for those words 
 of hers showed me that since her father's 
 death she had not been treated with kindness, 
 and if she hadn't been a little lady, rich in 
 her own right, I should have offered to run 
 off with her there and then. But under any 
 circumstances that would have been a 
 dangerous thing to do, for her and me ; it 
 would have brought her uncle down upon 
 me, and he'd have had the law on his side. 
 So instead of offering to do a thing so foolish 
 I said, ' Did you come on purpose to see 
 me ? ' ' Yes,' she answered, ' on purpose. I 
 gave them the slip, and they don't know 
 where I am.' < Don't you be afraid then, my
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 235 
 
 little maid,' I said, ' they won't find you here, 
 because they won't venture within half a mile 
 of me. You've done no harm in coming to 
 see a friend, as you may be sure I am. Can 
 I do anything for you ? ' ' Yes,' she said ; 
 ' you like Basil, don't you ? ' Upon that I 
 said I was as true a friend of yours as I was 
 of hers. ' Will you tell me, please,' she said 
 then, ' why he has gone quite away without 
 trying to see me ? I know it wouldn't be 
 easy, because my uncle and aunt are against 
 him ; but I thought he would have tried. I 
 have been to every one of his favourite 
 places, in the hope of meeting him, and my 
 uncle has said such hard things of him that 
 my heart is fit to break.' Poor little lady ! 
 She could hardly speak for her tears. Well, 
 now, that laughing jackass was making such 
 a chatter, and behaving so outrageous, pre- 
 tending to sob, which made her sob the more, 
 that I proposed to take her to my hut here, 
 where we could talk quietly. She put her 
 little hand in mine and walked along with me 
 to my hut, and the minute we came in the 
 magpie cried out, 'Little lady, little lady.' 
 She looked up at this, and I told her it was a 
 magpie I was training for her. It gave her
 
 236 BASIL AND AKNE'LTE. 
 
 greater pleasure than sucli a little thing as 
 that ought to have done, and though she did 
 not say it in so many words I saw in her face 
 the grateful thought that she still had friends 
 in the world that had grown so sad and 
 lonely. Then I told her all about your last 
 meeting with me — how tenderly you had 
 spoken of her, what love you had for her, 
 and how I had lent you my mare to take you 
 to a place where you hoped to find a doctor 
 and a lawyer who might be able to serve her 
 in some way. The news comforted her, but 
 she was greatly distressed by the fear that 
 you had met with an accident which pre- 
 vented your return. I wouldn't listen to this 
 for the little maid's sake, and said I was 
 positive you would soon be back, and that 
 nothing was father from your mind than the 
 idea of going away entirely without seeing 
 her again. ' He will have to make haste/ 
 said the little lady, with a world of thought 
 in her face, ' or he will never be able to find 
 me.' I asked why, and she answered that 
 she believed, when everything was settled, 
 that her uncle would sell the plantation and 
 take her away to Europe. ' Can't it be pre- 
 vented ? ' she asked, and I said I was afraid it
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 237 
 
 could not ; that her uncle stood now in the 
 place of her father, and could do as he 
 liked. 'If you are compelled to go,' I said, 
 ' you shall take the magpie away with you to 
 remind you of the old place — that is, if you 
 will be allowed to keep it.' ' I shall be/ she 
 said ; and now, child as she was, I noticed in 
 her signs of a resolute will I hadn't given her 
 credit for. • If you give it to me, it will be 
 mine, and they shall not take it from me. I 
 will fight for it, indeed, I will.' I was pleased 
 to hear her speak like that ; it showed that 
 she had spirit which would be of use to her 
 when she was a woman grown. She stopped 
 with me as long as she dared, and before she 
 went away she said she would come again, 
 and asked me if I thought I could teach the 
 bird to speak your name. ' It would be easy 
 enough,' I answered, and that is how it 
 comes about that the magpie — which for 
 cleverness and common-sense, Master Basil, 
 I would match against the cunningest bird 
 that ever was hatched — can call out ' Basil — 
 Basil,' as clearly as you pronounce your own 
 name. It was at that meeting, and at every 
 meeting afterwards she gave me a message to 
 you if you returned You were to be sure
 
 233 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 not to go away again without seeing her ; if 
 you couldn't contrive it, she would ; that 
 proved her spirit again ; and that if it should 
 unfortunately happen that you returned after 
 she was taken away you were never to forget 
 that Annette loved you, and would love you 
 all her life, whatever part of the world she 
 might be in. Those are her words as near as 
 I can remember them, and they're easy 
 enough for you to understand, but it isn't so 
 easy to make }^ou understand the voice in 
 which she spoke them. I declare, Master 
 Basil, it runs through me now, broken by 
 little sobs, with her pretty hands clasping and 
 unclasping themselves, and her tender body 
 shaking like a reed." 
 
 " Dear little Annette," said Basil, and his 
 eyes, too, were tearful, and his voice broken a 
 little ; " dear little Annette." 
 
 " She's worth a man's thoughts, Master 
 Basil," said old Corrie, " and a man's pity, 
 and will be better worth em' when she's a 
 woman grown. You're a fortunate man, 
 child as she is, to have won a love like the 
 little lady's, for if I'm a judge of human 
 nature, and I believe myself to be — which 
 isn't exactly conceit on my part, mind you —
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 239 
 
 it's love that will last and never be forgotten. 
 It's no light thing, Master Basil, love like 
 that ; when it comes to a man he'll hold on 
 to it if he's got a grain of sense in him." 
 
 " You cannot say one word in praise of 
 Annette," said Basil, " that I'm not ready to 
 cap with a dozen. I believe, with you, that 
 she has a soul of constancy, and I hold her in 
 my heart as I would a beloved sister. If I 
 could only help and advise her! But how 
 can I do that when she is to be taken away to 
 a distant land ? " 
 
 " There's no telling what may happen in 
 the future," said old Corrie. " What to-day 
 seems impossible to-morrow comes to pass. 
 To beat one's head against a stone wall be- 
 cause things aren't as we wish them to be is 
 the height of foolishness, but it's my opinion 
 that going on steadily doing one's duty, 
 working manfully and doing what's right and 
 square, is the best and surest way to open out 
 the road we'd like to tread. Your new mate, 
 Mr. Chaytor, hasn't disturbed us, and I must 
 do him the justice to say that he shows sense 
 and discretion." 
 
 " He is one in a thousand," said Basil, 
 " and it is impossible for me to express to
 
 240 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 you how sorry I am that you have not taken 
 kindly to each other." 
 
 " It does happen sometimes, but not often, 
 that men are mistaken in their likings and 
 dislikings, but we'll not argue the point. 
 Now I've got to tell you how things stand at 
 the plantation. There was an inquest on the 
 body of Mr. Anthony Bidaud, doctors and 
 lawyers being called in by Mr. Gilbert, and 
 the verdict was that he died of natural causes. 
 There being no will Mr. Gilbert took legal 
 possession, as guardian to his niece under age. 
 He decides that it will not be good for her to 
 remain where she is ; but must be educated 
 as a lady, and brought up as one. That, says 
 Mr. Gilbert, can't be done on the plantation ; 
 it must be done in a civilised country. Con- 
 sequently the plantation must be sold. With 
 lawyers paid to push things on, three month's 
 work had been done in three weeks. A pur- 
 chaser has been found, deeds drawn up, 
 money paid, and next Monday they're off, Mr. 
 Gilbert Bidaud, his sister, name unknown, and 
 the little lady." 
 
 " Hot haste, indeed," said Basil. 
 
 " To which neither you nor I can have any- 
 thing to say legally."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 241 
 
 " It is so, unhappily. And then to Europe ?" 
 
 " And then to Europe. I am telling you 
 what the little lady tells me. I can't go 
 beyond that." 
 
 " Of course not. But does she not know 
 to what part of Europe ? " 
 
 " She knows nothing more. He keeps his 
 mouth shut ; you can't compel him to open 
 it. There are cases, Master Basil, in which 
 honesty is no match for roguery ; this is one. 
 Mr. Gilbert Bidaud has the law on his side, 
 and can laugh openly at you. Now, the 
 little lady was here yesterday. ' No news of 
 Basil ? ' she asked. ' No news of Basil,' I 
 said. ' Is he dead do you think ? ' she whis- 
 pered, with a face like snow. ' No,' I said 
 stoutly ; ' don't you go on imagining things 
 of that sort. He's alive, and will give a 
 satisfactory account of himself when he comes 
 back.' I spoke confidently to keep up her 
 heart, though I had misgivings of you. ' I 
 shall be here to-morrow,' she said, 'and every 
 day till we leave the plantation.' She has 
 contrived cleverly, hasn't she, to slip them as 
 she does ? " 
 
 " Then I shall see her soon ! " said Basil, 
 eagerly. 
 
 vol. I. 16
 
 242 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " In less than an hour, if she comes at her 
 usual time. Our confab is over. You had 
 best go and seek your mate. I'll make my 
 apologies to him, if he needs 'em, for keeping 
 you so long." 
 
 If Basil had known, he had not far to go to 
 find Newman Chaytor, for that worthy was 
 quite close to him. Being of an inquiring 
 mind Chaytor had resolved to hear all that 
 passed between Basil and old Corrie, and had 
 found a secure hiding-place in the rear, and 
 well within earshot, of the two friends. He 
 stored it all up, being blessed with an excep- 
 tionally retentive memory. Old Corrie went 
 one way, and Basil went another, and Chay- 
 tor emerged from his hiding-place. " I am 
 quite curious about little Annette," he said 
 to himself, as he followed Basil at a safe 
 distance. " Quite a sentimental little body 
 — and an heiress, too ! Well, we shall see. 
 Say that my friend Basil's future is a nut 
 — I'll crack it ; I may find a sweet kernel 
 inside." 
 
 He came up to Basil, and greeted him 
 with a frank smile. " We've been talking 
 about the plantation," said Basil, " and poor 
 Anthony Bidaud's daughter, Annette. She
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 243 
 
 is coming this afternoon to see me. I'll tell 
 you everything by-and-by." 
 
 " I don't want to intrude upon your private 
 affairs, Basil," said Chaytor. 
 
 " You have a right to know," said Basil. 
 " I have no secrets from you, Chaytor." 
 
 Then they talked of other matters, Chaytor 
 with animation, Basil with a mind occupied 
 by thoughts of Annette. " I see," said Chay- 
 tor, patting Basil's shoulder with false kind- 
 ness, " that you are thinking of the little 
 maid. Now, I'm not going to play the churl. 
 Don't mind me for the rest of the day." 
 
 " You're a good fellow," said Basil, as 
 Chaytor walked away ; but he did not walk 
 far. Unobserved by Basil, he kept secret 
 watch upon him, determined to see Annette, 
 determined to hear what she and Basil had 
 to say to each other. As old Corrie had said, 
 " there are cases in which honesty is no match 
 for roguery." Basil posted himself in such a 
 position that he could see any person who 
 came towards the wood from Bidaud's planta- 
 tion. He heard the thud of old Corrie's axe 
 in the forest ; the honest woodman could 
 have remained idle had he chosen, but he was 
 
 unhappy unless he was at work and though 
 
 16*
 
 244 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 lie desired no profit from it he felled and split 
 trees for the pleasure of the thing. Now and 
 again there came to Basil's ears the piping 
 and chattering of gorgeous-coloured birds as 
 they fluttered hither and thither, busy on 
 their own concerns, love-making, nest-mend- 
 ing, and the like ; in their commonwealth 
 many torches of human [passion and sentiment 
 found a reflex. Vanity was there, jealousy 
 was there, hectoring and bullying of the weak 
 were there, and much sly pilfering went on ; 
 entertainments, too, were being given, for at 
 some distance from the three men in the 
 woods, one swinging his axe with a will and 
 wiping his cheerful brows, another with his 
 heart in his eyes watching for a little figure in 
 the distance, and the third, stirred by none 
 but evil thoughts, watching with cunning eyes 
 the watcher — at some distance from these two 
 honest men and one rogue were assembled 
 some couple of dozen feathered songsters in 
 green and yellow coats. They perched upon 
 convenient boughs and branches, forming a 
 circle, with invisible music books before them, 
 and at a given signal from their leader they 
 began to pipe their songs without words, and 
 filled space with melod}^. Their music may
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 2 15 
 
 be likened to the faintly sweet echoes of skilled 
 bell-ringers, each tiny bird the master of a 
 note which was never piped unless in harmony. 
 It was while these fairy bells were pealing 
 their sweetest chord that Basil saw Annette 
 approaching. He ran towards her eagerly, 
 and called her name ; and she with a sudden 
 flush in her face and with her heart palpita- 
 ting with joy, cried, "Basil ! Basil! " and fell 
 into his arms. 
 
 \S — i\
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 He led her to a secluded spot, followed 
 secretly by fox Chaytor. They passed close 
 to where old Corrie was working, and he, 
 hearing footsteps — be sure, however, that 
 Chaytor' s were noiseless — laid down his axe, 
 and went towards them. 
 
 " He has come — he has come ! " cried 
 Annette. 
 
 " What did I tell you ? " said old Corrie. 
 " All you've got to do in this world, little 
 lady, is to have patience." 
 
 She was so overjoyed, having tight hold of 
 Basil's hand, that she would have accepted 
 the wildest theories without question. 
 
 " Mr. Corrie," she said, " may I have the 
 magpie to-day ? r 
 
 " Surely," he replied, " it is quite ready for 
 you, aud you will be able to teach it anything 
 you please. But why so soon ? Aren't you
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 247 
 
 Her face became sad, and she clutched 
 Basil's fingers convulsively : " I am afraid 
 not ; this is the last, last time ! I have heard 
 something, Mr. Corrie, and if it is true my 
 uncle and aunt are going to take me away 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 " In that case," said old Corrie, " I will 
 have the bird ready for you. Now you and 
 Master Basil can talk ; I'll not interrupt you.'' 
 He went away at once, and left them together. 
 For a little while they had nothing of a co- 
 herent nature to say to each other ; but then 
 Basil, recognising the necessity of introducing 
 some kind of system into their conversation, 
 related to Annette all that had happened 
 within his knowledge since the sad morn- 
 ing of her father's death, and heard from 
 her lips all that she had to relate. Much 
 of it he had already heard from old 
 Corrie. The refrain she harped upon was, 
 " And must we, must we part, Basil ? And 
 shall we never, never see each other 
 again ? " 
 
 " Part we must, dear Annette," he said ; " I 
 have no control over you, and no authority 
 that can in any way be established. When 
 I first came to the plantation I was a stranger
 
 248 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 to you and your father, and the law would 
 acknowledge me as no better now." 
 
 " Kext to my dear father and mother," 
 said Annette, " I love you best in all the 
 world. They cannot take that away from 
 me ; what I feel is my own, my very own. 
 Oh, Basil, I sometimes have wicked thoughts, 
 and feel myself turning bad ; I never felt so 
 before my uncle came." 
 
 " Annette, listen to me. You must struggle 
 against these thoughts, and must say to your- 
 self, ' They will make my dear father and 
 mother sorrowful. They have shown me 
 kindness and love, and I will show the same 
 to them.' You cannot see them, Annette, 
 but their spirits are watching over you ; and 
 there is a just and merciful God in heaven who 
 is watching over you, too, and whom you 
 must not offend." 
 
 " I will do as you say, Basil, dear ; I will 
 never, never forget your words. They will 
 keep me good." 
 
 " Let them keep you brave as well, my 
 dear. I promise to remember you always, 
 to love you always, and perhaps when you are 
 a woman — it will not be so long, Annette — 
 we shall meet again."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 249 
 
 " Oh, Basil, that will be true happiness." 
 
 " Time flies quickly, Annette. It seems but 
 yesterday since I was a boy myself, and when 
 I look back and think of my own dear parents, 
 I am happy in the belief that I never did any- 
 thing to cause them sorrow." 
 
 " You could not, Basil." 
 
 " Ah, my dear, I don't know that ; but I 
 had a good mother, and so had you, and my 
 father and yours were both noble men. They 
 are not with us, and that makes the duty we 
 owe them all the stronger. To do what is 
 right because we feel that it is right to do it, 
 not because it is done in the sight of others — 
 that is what makes us good, Annette. My 
 mother taught me that lesson as she lay on 
 her deathbed, and it has brought me great 
 happiness ; it has supported me in adversity. 
 You must not mind my speaking so seriously, 
 Annette " 
 
 " I love to hear you, Basil. I will be like 
 you, indeed I will." 
 
 " Much better, I hope. You see, my dear, 
 this is the last time we shall be together for 
 a long time ; but not so long; after all, if we 
 look at it in the right light, and I should like 
 you to remember me as you would remember
 
 250 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 a brother, who, being older than you, is 
 perhaps a little wiser." 
 
 "I will, Basil. All my wicked thoughts 
 are gone ; they shall never come again ; but 
 I shall still feel a little unhappy some- 
 times." 
 
 " Of course you will, dear, and so shall I. 
 But faith in God's goodness and the perfor- 
 mance of our duty will always lighten that 
 unhappiness. The stars of heaven are not 
 brighter than the stars of hope and love we 
 can keep shining in our hearts." 
 
 '• Kiss me, Basil ; that is the seal. I shall 
 go away happier now." 
 
 " Tell me, Annette. Are your uncle and 
 aunt kind to you ? " 
 
 " They are neither kind nor unkind. They 
 talk a great deal to each other, but very 
 seldom to me, unless it is to order me to do 
 something. Aunt says, ' Go to bed,' and I 
 go to bed ; ' It is time to get up,' and I. get 
 up ; ' Come to dinner,' and I come to dinner. 
 It is all like that ; they never speak to me as 
 my father and mother did, and they have 
 never kissed me." 
 
 " You must be obedient to them, Annette." 
 
 " I will be, Basil."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 251 
 
 " They are jout guardians, and a great deal 
 depends upon them." 
 
 " Yes, I know that ; but I don't think they 
 like me, and, Basil, I don't think uncle is a 
 good man." 
 
 " It will be better," said Basil gravely, " not 
 to fancy that. It may be only that he is a 
 little different from other men, and that you 
 are not accustomed to his ways." 
 
 " I will try," said Annette piteously, " to 
 obey you in everything, but I can t help my 
 thoughts, and I can't help seeing and hearing. 
 He speaks in a hard voice to everybody ; he is 
 unkind to animals ; he has never put a flower 
 on my dear father's grave." 
 
 " There, there, Annette — don't cry. I only 
 want you to make the best, and not the worst, 
 of things." 
 
 " I will, Basil — indeed, indeed I will. When 
 I am far away from you, you will think, will 
 you not, that I am trying hard to do every- 
 thing to please you ? " 
 
 " I promise to think so, and I have every 
 faith in you. It is all for your good, you 
 know, Annette. When you are out of this 
 country where are your aunt and uncle going 
 to live."
 
 252 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 " In Europe." 
 
 " But in what part of Europe ? " 
 
 " I don't know. All that uncle and aunt 
 say is, ' We are going to Europe.' ' But in 
 what country ? ' I asked. ' Don't be in- 
 quisitive,' they answered ; ' we are going to 
 Europe ; ' and they will say nothing more. I 
 am sometimes afraid to speak when they are 
 near me." 
 
 " Poor little Annette ! Now attend to 
 me, dear. Wherever you are you can write 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, Basil, yes. And may I ? Oh, how 
 good you are ! Oh, if ever I should get a 
 letter from you ! It will be the next best 
 thing to having you with me." 
 
 " Eemember what I am saying, Annette. 
 I want you to write to me, wherever you are, 
 and I want to answer your letters. This is 
 the way it can be done. When you are settled 
 write me your first letter — I shall not mind 
 how long it is " 
 
 " It shall be a long, long one, Basil." 
 
 "And address it to ' Mr. Basil Whitting- 
 ham, Post-office, Sydney, New South Wales.' 
 1 shall be sure to get it. Now for my answer. 
 If you are happy in your uncle's house, and
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 253 
 
 tell me so, I will send my answer there ; but if 
 you think it will be best for me not to send it 
 to his house, I will address it to the post-office 
 in whatever town or city you may be living. 
 Some friend in the new country (you are sure 
 to make friends, my dear) will tell you how 
 you may £et my letters. This looks a little 
 like deceit, but it will be pardonable deceit if 
 you are unhappy — not otherwise. Do you 
 understand ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, Basil. I shall have something 
 to think of now ; you have given me some- 
 thing to do. And will you ever come to 
 me ? " 
 
 " It is my hope ; I intend to work hard 
 here to get money, and if I am fortunate, in 
 a few years when you are a beautiful 
 
 woman " 
 
 " I would like to be, Basil, for your sake." 
 " I will come to wherever you may be." 
 " I do not wish for anything more, Basil. 
 I shall pray night and morning for your good 
 fortune. How happy you have made me — 
 how happy — how happy ! I shall keep the 
 stars of love and hope shining in my heart — 
 for you. How beautifully the bell-birds are 
 singing. I shall hear them when I am thou-
 
 254 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 
 
 sands of miles away. But, Basil, you will 
 want something to remember me by." 
 
 " No, dear Annette, I need nothing to 
 remind me of you." 
 
 " You do, Basil, and I have brought it for 
 you. Look, Basil, my locket " 
 
 " But Annette " 
 
 " Have I said ' No ' to anything you have 
 told me — and will you say ' No ' to this little 
 thing ? I think it will not be right if you do, 
 so, dear Brother Basil, you must not refuse 
 me. I wish I had something better to give 
 you, but you will be satisfied with this, will 
 you not ? I have worn it always round my 
 neck, since I was a little, little girl, and you 
 must wear it round yours. Promise me." 
 
 " I promise, dear, if you will not be denied." 
 
 " I will not, indeed I will not — and your 
 promise is made. See, Basil, here it lies open 
 in my hand ; take it. The picture is a portrait 
 of my dear mother ; father had it painted for 
 me by a gentleman who came once to the 
 plantation. Then when you come to me in 
 the country across the sea, you will show it to 
 me and tell me that you have worn it always 
 and always, because you love me, and because 
 I love you."
 
 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 155 
 
 " I have nothing to give you, Annette. I 
 am very, very poor." 
 
 " You have given me a star of hope, Basil. 
 How sorry I am that you are poor ! But my 
 nurse, who has been sent away " 
 
 " Have they done that, Annette ? " 
 
 " Yes, and she cried so at leaving me. She 
 told me that one day I should be very, very 
 rich. So what does it matter if you are poor ? 
 Let me fasten it round your neck. Now 
 you have me and my dear mother next your 
 heart." 
 
 He took the innocent child in his arms, and 
 she lay nestling there a few moments with 
 bright thoughts of the happy future in her 
 mind. Suddenly a loud " Coo-ey " was heard 
 and the sound of hurried footsteps. It was 
 old Corrie's voice that gave the alarm. It was 
 intended as such, for when Basil started to his 
 feet and stood with his arm round Annette, 
 holding her close to him, he looked up, and 
 saw Gilbert Bidaud standing before him. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 PRINTED BY 
 KKLDY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIKI,D 
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