Chapter XXXVII

We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had established his position as Basil Whittingham, he had obtained possession of Basil's fortune, he was on a familiar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings respecting the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, no difficulty whatever. The evidence in his possession, proving himself to be the man he represented himself to be, was complete; and there being no grounds for suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, and on the high road.

He went to London, and remained there only a few days. He made no attempt to see his parents, and was careful to avoid the neighbourhood in which they lived. With a large fortune at his disposal, and being fertile in methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself; but his character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is supposed he ever allowed himself to yield to the dictates of humanity. He knew that his parents were in direst poverty--his mother's last letter to him made this very clear--but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion for the mother who idolised him or the father he had brought to ruin. Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled every action of his life. His own ease, his own pleasures, his own safety--these were paramount, and pioneered him through the crooked paths he had trod since boyhood. The correspondence he had kept up with Annette rendered it an easy matter for him to find her. He had apprised her that he was starting for home, and had directed her not to write to him again to Australia. In this last letter he informed her that he had come into a great fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by business matters for a few weeks that he would not be able to see her immediately he arrived in England. He gave her instructions how to communicate with him at home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her heart for him. It is hard to say how many times Annette read this letter. Basil was on his way home--coming home, coming home, coming home--she kept on repeating the magic words; and there was a light in her eyes, music in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last he was coming, the friend whom she could trust, the man her dear father had loved and honoured. She would see him soon, for he would not linger over the business he had to transact; her hand would be in his, his eyes on her face--and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had she changed since he last saw her? Would he know her again, or would she have to say, "Basil, I am Annette?" No! that would not be necessary; she had sent him her portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would pick her out of a thousand women. She had changed--yes, she was aware of that, and aware, too, that she was very beautiful. What woman is not who has grace and beauty for her dower; and is there a woman in the world who is not proud of the possession, and who does not smile and greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon the bright reflection of a brighter reality? Annette was innocently glad that she was fair, and all through her gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked her for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The quality of vanity there was in this thought was human and natural. The name of Basil represented to her all that there was of nobility, goodness, and generosity. In Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in life. She worshipped an ideal. He had asked her to keep a corner in her heart for him. Was not her whole heart his? And he was coming home--home! The word assumed a new meaning. It would be truly home when Basil was with her.

"You are excited, Annette," said Gilbert Bidaud, who, although he seldom indulged in long conversations with his niece, noted every sign and change in her. Only in one respect had he been baffled; he had not succeeded in discovering how the correspondence between Basil and Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, Emily, but that shrewd young person was so extraordinarily careful and astute that he could not lure her, for all the traps he set, into betraying herself. He hinted once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no farther.

"Emily is my maid," said Annette, "and no one but I have a right to discharge her."

"And you do not mean to do so?" said Gilbert Bidaud.

"No, uncle, I do not mean to do so."

"Even though I expressed a wish that she should go."

"Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving me. I am fond of her. If she goes, I go too."

"You go! where?"

"Where you would not find me, uncle."

Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She might fall into other hands, and herself and fortune be lost to him. He was not quite sure of his position in respect to Annette, and his best safety lay in not disturbing the waters. His brother's affairs in Australia had been administered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here in Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for him. He had Annette's fortune absolutely in his control; he had used her money for his own purposes, for he had none of his own; he had kept no accounts; in worldly matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become wiser so long as she was in his charge. She was obedient and docile in most ways, the only exceptions being her feeling for Emily, and the secret correspondence she was carrying on with Basil. These matters were not important; they did not trench upon his authority or position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, sentimental girl would write, and Basil's letters were probably harmless enough. Besides, he was at a safe distance. Time enough to fight when the enemy was in view. "He will marry," thought Gilbert Bidaud, "he will forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is safest." So time went on, outwardly calm, till Annette received Basil's letter announcing his intended return to England. It was then that Gilbert noted the change in her. They were on the continent at the time; of late years Gilbert seldom visited England; there was more enjoyment and greater security for him in his own country and in others more congenial to him. He purchased, with Annette's money, a villa in Fernex, which he called Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his own name; he had come to regard Annette's fortune as his; if troublesome thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to his own cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might present themselves.

"You are excited, Annette," he said.

She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was impossible; her restless movements, her sparkling eyes, her joyous face, were sufficient confirmation of her uncle's statements. But to admit it would lead to questions which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was silent.

"My dear niece," said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth voice, "there is not that confidence between us which I should wish to exist. Why? Have I oppressed you? Have I treated you harshly? You can scarcely so accuse me. Have I not allowed you to have your own way in all things? You have had perfect liberty, have you not? Be frank with me. I have at heart only your interests. I wish only to secure your happiness. When your poor father--my dear brother--died, you were almost a baby, a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. I said to my heart--it is my habit, my dear niece, to commune with myself--I said to my heart, 'Annette is a child, an infant, with strong affections and attachments. You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. She will not regard you with favour; she will not understand you.' And so it was. It was my unhappy duty to be stern and hard with some you regarded as friends; it was my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we commenced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you are, stood aloof from you and exercised the duties of guardian and uncle without showing that my heart was filled with love for you. Thus have we lived, with a spiritual gulf dividing us. My dear niece, you are no longer a child, you are a woman who can think for herself, who is open to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you the hand of amity, of love. Take it, and tell me how I can minister to your happiness."

It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he had ever made to her, and she was deceived by his specious frankness. She could not refuse the hand he held out to her, and as she placed hers within it, she reflected, "When Basil arrives they must meet. They were not friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing accomplished if they can be made friends here, through me. Then Basil can come freely, with uncle's consent, and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke to me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as well as he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great love for me, but may it not have been partly my own fault. If they have wounded me, may I not have wounded them?"

Gilbert Bidaud saw that she was reflecting upon the new view he had presented to her, and he did not disturb her meditations. Presently she said:

"Uncle, I have had some good news." "It delights me," said Gilbert Bidaud. "In your own good time you shall confide it to me."

"I will confide it to you now. Basil is coming home."

"See now," said Gilbert, in a tone of great good-humour, "how you have misjudged me. Here have you, my ward, over whom I have the right to exercise some authority, been corresponding with a young gentleman between whom and myself there are differences of opinion. Candidly I admit that I did not look upon him with love. Know now for the first time that on the plantation I was warned against him, that he had enemies who spoke of him as an adventurer. How was I to know that those who spoke thus spoke falsely? You may answer, being a woman who has cherished in her heart a regard for her Australian friend, 'You should have asked me; I would have told you the truth about him.' Ah, but consider. What were you? A mere infant, innocent, guileless, unsuspecting. I venerate childhood, and venerate it the more because it has no worldly wisdom. Happy, happy state! Would that we could live all our lives in ignorance so blissful! Then there would be no more duplicity, no more cheating and roguery. But it is otherwise, and we must accept the world. Therefore the young gentleman and I crossed swords on the first day we met, and from that time have misunderstood each other. In my thoughts, perhaps, I have done him wrong; in his thoughts, perhaps, he has done me wrong. And my niece, the only child of my dear brother, sided with the stranger against me. I was wounded, sorely wounded; and when I discovered that you and he were writing to each other secretly, I spoke harshly to you; I may even have uttered some foolish threats. What man, my child, can be ever wise, can ever say the right words, can ever do the right things? None, not one, and I perhaps, who have peculiar moods and temper, less than many. But see, now, what came of those harsh words, those foolish threats? You still correspond with your friend Basil, and I stood quietly aside and interfered not. Could I not have stopped the correspondence, if I had been seriously determined to do so? Doubt it not, my child. At any moment I could have done so. But I said, 'No, I will not spoil Annette's pleasure; it is an innocent pleasure; let it go on; I will not interfere. One day my niece will do me justice. And it may be, that one day her friend Basil and I will better understand each other.' Is it not so?"

"Indeed, uncle," said Annette, timidly, "it is I who have been in the wrong."

"No, no," said Gilbert, interrupting her, "I will not have you say so. The fault was mine. What say the English? You cannot put an old head on young shoulders. I expected too much. From to-day we commence afresh. Eh, my dear child?"

"Yes, uncle."

"So be it," he said, kissing her. "We misunderstand each other never again. It is agreed. Our friend Basil--I will make him my friend if he will let me; you shall see--is coming home. He shall be welcome."

"Uncle, you remove a weight from my heart."

"It is what I would do, always. A weight is also removed from mine. How long will our friend Basil be before he appears."

"I do not know exactly. He will write."

"He will write," echoed Gilbert merrily, pinching Annette's cheek. "We have our secret post-office--ah, ah! Tell him it must be secret no longer. Write openly to him; he shall write openly to you. He has been many years in Australia. Has he grown rich on the goldfields? Did he find what they call a golden claim?"

"He does not say; but I think he did not get rich there."

"Not get rich there. Did he get rich anywhere, or does he come poor?"

The picture of a needy adventurer rose before him, and had he not been a master in cunning he would have betrayed himself.

"He writes," said Annette, "that his uncle has left him a large fortune."

Gilbert drew a long breath of relief. Easier to cope with Basil rich than poor. If Basil wanted Annette, and Annette wanted him, why, he would make a bargain with the young man, who, being wealthy, would not be greedy for Annette's money. Gilbert Bidaud was a keen judge of character, and he knew Basil to be a manly, generous-hearted honourable fellow, who would be more likely to despise than to covet money with the girl he loved. If that were so, Gilbert saw a road to immunity for the past and a life of independence in the future. There was a striking resemblance in certain features of his character and that of Newman Chaytor, as there is in the natures of all purely selfish men.

"That is a pleasant thing to hear," he said. "I congratulate him from my heart." He would have added, "And I congratulate you," but he restrained himself; it was delicate ground, and it would be better to wait. Subsequently, in a conversation with his sister, he expressed himself more freely. Basil would be received and welcomed--yes, but he would be carefully sounded and observed, and she was to play her part both with Annette and her lover. It pleased Gilbert to call him so, but it did not please the girl's aunt.

"You have foolish ideas," she said. "Annette was thirteen years when we took her from the plantation. What kind of love could a man have for such a child?"

"You will see, you will see," said Gilbert. "This Basil is what we call an eccentric, and it is because he is so that I have settled upon the plan of bringing them together under our noses. Remember, my idiot of a brother left me not a coin. We have our future to look to, and gentleman Basil is the man to make it sure for us. Would you wish to have to slave for your bread as you used to do--and often not get it?"

"No; but if I have an enemy I like him at a distance."

"Foolish woman! If I have an enemy I like him here, close to me, where my hand can reach him. I will have him--if I have the choice--as I have now--in the light, not in the dark."

Annette also had a conversation with her trusty maid Emily concerning this new revelation in Gilbert Bidaud's character. Annette was very enthusiastic about it, and very self-reproachful concerning the past, but Emily looked grave and shook her head.

"I'd rather agree with you than not, miss," she said, "but I don't think I can about your uncle."

"You must not be obstinate and prejudiced, Emily," said Annette, with mild severity.

"I'll try not to be, miss, but if an animal is born a donkey, a donkey he remains all the days of his life."

Annette laughed, and said, of course, but what _did_ Emily mean?

"It's a roundabout way of explaining myself," said Emily. "And there's different kinds of donkeys, some mild, and that'll take the whip as patient as a wooden dummy; others that'll kick out and let fly at you with their heels. The same with horses, the same with dogs, the same with cats."

"What _do_ you mean, Emily?"

"Only when vice is in an animal you can't wheedle it out of him. No more you can out of a man or a woman. I don't say they can help it, but what's born in 'em _must_ come out. If I'm born sly I keep sly, and the chances are I grow slyer as I grow older. I don't believe in sudden changes, miss, and if you'll excuse me I'll wait a little before I make up my mind about your uncle."