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?"

"Surely," he replied, "it is quite ready for you, and you will be able to teach it anything you please. But why so soon? Aren't you coming again?"

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 coherent 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 morning 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 to you and your father, and the law would acknowledge me as no better now."

"Next 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 yourself, '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."

"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 anything 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 death bed, 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 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 sometimes."

"Of course you will, dear, and so shall I. But faith in God's goodness and the performance 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."

"They are your 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 everything 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."

"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 inquisitive,' 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."

"Remember 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 Whittingham, Post-office, Sydney, New South Wales.' I shall be sure to get it. Now for my answer. If you are happy in your uncle's house, and 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 get 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 something 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 bellbirds are singing. I shall hear them when I am thousands 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."

"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.