Chapter 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 the 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.

"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."

"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 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 with his name? Chaytor smarted under a sense of injury. Basil and Old Corrie were speaking of something which he did not understand--a proof that Basil had not told him everything. This, in Chaytor's estimation, was underhanded and injurious. Basil and everything in relation to him, his antecedents, 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 possible 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 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 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?"

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 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 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.

"I am treating you as an honest gentleman," 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 on 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 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 yourself?"

"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, as I said I would, and saw Mr. Gilbert. You described him well, Master Basil; he's a man I would be sorry to trust. I told him of the contract between me and his brother. '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, and once he said quite coolly that if I could summon his brother as a witness, he was willing to abide by his testimony. 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 speaking 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, 'Sentiment, Mr. Corrie, sentiment. I treat the dead as I treat the living. Rid 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 trespasses 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 Rocke."

"He is my enemy, I am afraid," said Basil.

"I found that out afterwards; he has been spreading reports about you either out of his own spite, or employed by cold-blooded Mr. Gilbert Bidaud. So Rocke came and stood by his side, but not too willingly. We've met before Rocke 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 Rocke, 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 Rocke,' he said, 'wise Rocke. We'll make a judge of you. Anything more to say?' This was to me and I answered, almost as cool now 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.' Rocke 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 with them, and picked up scraps of information, 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 compared with me; I've been chumming with the men this many a year, and never had a word with one except Rocke, 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 hallmark 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 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.