CHAPTER 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 care to count, to the time when I was a little 'un 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 hopscotch,' I believe I should have done it and 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 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, pretending 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 greater pleasure than such 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 prevented 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 farther 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 prevented?' she asked, and I said I was afraid it 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 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 you 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-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 because 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 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 civilized country. Consequently the plantation must be sold. With lawyers paid to push things on, three months' work had been done in three weeks. A purchaser 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 anything to say legally."
"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 whispered, 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.
"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 exceptionally retentive memory. Old Corrie went one way, and Basil went another, and Chaytor 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 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 Chaytor, patting Basil's shoulder with false kindness, "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 plantation. 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 he 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-mending, and the like; in their commonwealth many touches of human passion and sentiment found a reflex. Vanity was there, jealousy was there, hectoring and bullying of the weak was 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 melody. Their music may 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 palpitating with joy, cried, "Basil! Basil!" and fell into his arms.
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.