CHAPTER XVII
A malicious smile played about the old man's lips as he glanced at Basil and Annette. For a few moments he did not speak, but stood enjoying the situation, feeling himself master of it; and when he broke the silence his voice was smooth and suave. The malignancy of his feelings was to be found in his words, not in the tone in which he uttered them.
"Ah, Mr. Basil Whittingham once more? Mr. Basil Whittingham, the English gentleman, ready at a moment's notice to give lessons in manners, conduct, and good breeding. But then it is to proclaim oneself a fool to take a man at his own estimate of himself. I find you here in the company of my niece. Favour me with an explanation, Mr. Basil Whittingham."
"There is nothing to explain," said Basil, still with his arm round Annette. "I have been absent some time, and happening, fortunately, to return before Miss Bidaud left the country, have met her here, and was exchanging a few words of farewell."
"Of course, of course. Who would venture to dispute with so reproachless a gentleman? Who would venture to whisper that in these last few words of farewell there was any attempt to work upon a child's feelings, and to make the spurious metal of self-interest shine like purest gold? On one side a young girl, as yet a mere child, whose feelings are easily worked upon; on the other side a grown man versed in the cunning of the world, and using it with a keen eye to profitable use in the future. Not quite an equal match, it appears to me, but I may be no judge. If I were to hint that this meeting between you and my dear niece and ward has anything of a clandestine nature in it, you would probably treat me to a display of indignant fireworks. If I were to hint that, instead of so advising this child that she should hold out her arms gladly to the new life into which she is about to enter, you were instilling into her a feeling of repugnance against it, and of mistrust against those whose duty it will be to guide her aright and teach her-principles" – his eyes twinkled with malignant humour as he spoke this word-"you, English gentleman that you are, would repudiate the insinuation with lofty scorn. But when you exchange confidences with me you are in the presence of a man who has also seen something of the world, and who, although it has dealt him hard buffets, retains some old-fashioned notions of honour and manliness. I apply the test to you, adventurer, and you become instantly exposed. Ah! here is my sister, this sweet young child's aunt, who will relieve you of your burden."
He took the hand of the unresisting girl and led her to her aunt, whose arm glided round Annette's waist, holding it as in a vice.
"I will not answer you," said Basil, with an encouraging smile at Annette, whose face instantly brightened. "Annette knows I have spoken the truth, and that is enough."
"Yes, Basil," said Annette, boldly, "you have spoken the truth, and I will never, never forget what you have said to me to-day."
"Take her away," said Gilbert Bidaud to his sister; "the farce is played out. In a week it will be forgotten."
"Good-bye, Basil," said Annette "and God bless you."
"Good-bye, Annette," said Basil, "and God guard you."
"How touching, how touching!" murmured Gilbert Bidaud. "It is surely a scene from an old comedy. Take her away."
"Just one moment, please," said Old Corrie, joining the group. "Here is something that belongs to the little lady, that she would like to take with her to the new world. It will remind her of the old, and of friends she leaves in it."
It was the magpie in its wicker cage, whose tongue being loosened by company, or perhaps by a desire to show off its accomplishments to an appreciative audience, became volubly communicative.
"Basil! Basil! Basil and Annette! Little lady! Little lady!"
In his heart Gilbert Bidaud was disposed to strangle the bird, but his smile was amiability itself as he said to Annette, "Yours, my child?"
"Yes, mine," she answered. "Mr. Corrie gave it to me."
"But Mr. Corrie is not rich," said Gilbert Bidaud, pulling out his purse; "you are. Shall we not pay him for it?"
"No," said Annette, before Old Corrie could speak. "I would not care for it if he took money for it."
"Well said, little lady," said Old Corrie; "the bird is friendship's offering, and for that will be valued and well cared for, I don't doubt. It is your property, mind, and no one has a right to meddle with it."
"Friendship's offering!" said Gilbert Bidaud, with a long, quiet laugh. "We came out to the bush to learn something, did we not, sister? Why, here we find the finest of human virtues and sentiments, the smuggest of moralities, the essence of refined feeling. It is really refreshing. Do not be afraid, Mr. Corrie. Although I would not take your word about that wood-splitting contract, I have some respect for you, as a rough specimen of bush life and manners. We part friends, I hope."
"Not a bit of it," said Old Corrie. "If ladies were not present I'd open my mind to you."
"Thank heaven," said Gilbert Bidaud, raising his eyes with mock devotion, "for the restraining influence of the gentler sex. You do not diminish my esteem for you. I know rough honesty when I meet with it."
"You shift about," interrupted Old Corrie, "like a treacherous wind. I'm rough honesty now, am I? You're the kind of man that can turn white into black. Let us make things equal by another sort of bargain. I've given little lady the bird. You'll not take it from her?"
"Heavens?" cried Gilbert Bidaud, clasping his hands. "What do you think of me?"
"That's not an answer. You'll not take it from her?"
"I will not. Keep it, my child, and be happy."
"Do you hear, little lady? Let us be thankful for small mercies. Shake hands, my dear. When you're a woman grown, don't forget Old Corrie."
"I never will-I never will," sobbed Annette.
"And don't forget," said Old Corrie, laying his hand on Basil's shoulder, "that Master Basil here is a gentleman to be honoured and loved, a man to be proud of, a man to treasure in your heart."
"I will never forget it," said Annette; with a fond look at Basil.
"And this, I think," said Gilbert Bidaud, with genial smiles all round, "is the end of an act. Let the curtain fall to slow music."
But it was not destined so to fall. As Annette's aunt turned to leave with her niece, her eyes, dwelling scornfully on Basil for a moment, caught sight of the chain attached to the locket which Annette had put round his neck. Quick as lightning she put her hand to the child's neck, and discovered the loss.
"He has stolen Annette's locket!" she cried, pointing to the chain.
As quick in his movements as his sister, Gilbert Bidaud stretched forth his hand and tore the locket and chain from Basil's neck. It was done so swiftly and suddenly that Basil was unable to prevent it; but the hot blood rushed into his face as he said:
"Were you a younger man I would give you cause to remember your violence. Annette, speak the truth."
"I gave it to you, Basil," said Annette, slipping from her aunt's grasp, and putting her hand on Gilbert Bidaud's. "It is false to say he stole it. It belonged to me, and I could do what I pleased with it. I gave it to Basil, and he did not want to take it at first, but I made him."
She strove to wrench it from her uncle's hand, but it was easy for him to keep it from her.
"I will have it!" cried Annette. "I will, I will! It is Basil's, and you have no right to it."
"A storm in a teapot," said Gilbert Bidaud, who seldom lost his self-possession for longer than a moment, "Sister, you should apologise to the young gentleman. Take the precious gift."
But instead of handing it to Basil he threw it over the young man's head, and Newman Chaytor, who during the whole of this scene had been skulking, unseen, in the rear, and had heard every word of the conversation, caught it before it fell, and slunk off with it.
"I shall find it, Annette," said Basil. "Good-bye, once more. May your life be bright and happy!"
Those were the last words, and being uttered at the moment Newman Chaytor caught the locket and was slinking off, were heard and treasured by him.
The whole of that day Basil, assisted by Old Corrie and Chaytor, searched for the locket, of course unsuccessfully. He was in great distress at the loss; it seemed to be ominous of misfortune.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The story of the lives of Basil and Chaytor during the ensuing three years may be briefly summarised. So far as obtaining more than sufficient gold for the bare necessaries of life were concerned, ill-luck pursued them. They went from goldfield to goldfield, and followed every new rush they heard of, and were never successful in striking a rich claim. It was all the more tantalising because they were within a few feet of great fortune at least half-a-dozen times. On one goldfield they marked out ground, close to a claim of fabulous richness, every bucket of wash-dirt that was hauled from the gutter being heavily weighted with gold. This was the prospectors' claim, and the shaft next to it struck the gutter to the tune of twelve ounces a day per man. The same with the second, and Basil and Chaytor had every reason, therefore, to congratulate themselves, especially when the men working in the claim beyond them also struck the lead, and struck it rich. But when at length the two gold diggers in whom we are chiefly interested came upon the gutter, they were dismayed to find that instead of ten ounces to the tub, it was as much as they could do to wash out ten grains. It was the only poor claim along the whole of the gutter; on each side of them the diggers were coining money, and they were literally beggars. It is frequently so on the goldfields, the life on which very much resembles a lottery, riches next door to poverty; but the hope of turning up a lucky number seldom dies out in the heart of the miner. He growls a bit, apostrophises his hard luck in strong language, is despondent for a day, and the next shakes off his despondent fit, and buckles to again with a will, going perhaps to another new rush, jubilant and full of hope, to meet again with the same bad fortune. The romance of the goldfield is a rich vein for novelists, some few of whom have tapped it successfully; but the theme is far from being worn out, and presents as tempting material to-day as it did years ago, when gold was first discovered in Australia.
"It is maddening, Basil," said Chaytor, as he gazed gloomily at the "prospect" in his tin dish-two or three specks which would not have covered a pin's head. "Here we are upon the gutter again, and the stuff will wash about half a pennyweight to the tub."
"It's jolly hard," said Basil, proceeding to fill his pipe with cut cavendish, "but what can we do? Grin and bear it."
"Ah, you're philosophical, you are," growled Chaytor, "but I'm not so easy minded. Just think of it, and bring a little spirit to bear upon it, will you?"
"Off you go," said Basil. "I'm listening."
"Here we are on Dead Man's Flat, and here we've been these last three weeks. Just four days and three weeks ago we struck our claim in Mountain Maid Gully, having got two ounces and three pennyweights for our month's hard work. That contemptible parcel of gold brought us in barely eight pounds, the gold buyer pretending to blow away sand before he put it in the scale, but blowing away more than two pennyweights of the stuff, and reducing it to a little over two ounces. We weighed it in our own gold scales before we took it to him, and it was two ounces three pennyweights full weight. You can't deny that."
"I've no intention of denying it. Don't be irritable. Go on, and let off steam; it will do you good."
"I want to point out this thing particularly," fumed Chaytor, "so that we can get to the rights of our ill luck, get to the bottom of it, I mean, and find out the why and the wherefore. Eight pounds we receive for our gold, when we should have received eight pounds ten; not a sixpence less; but the world is full of thieves. Now, that eight pounds gives us a little under twenty shillings a week a man. I would sooner starve."
"I wouldn't-though I've had bitter blows, Chaytor."
"Not worse than I have."
"It is the pinching of our own shoes we feel, old fellow. We're a selfish lot of brutes. Thank you for pulling me up. I'm sorry for you, Chaytor."
"And I'm sorry for you. Thinking our claim worthless we leave Mountain Maid Gully, and come here to Dead Man's Flat. We are ready to jump out of our skins with joy, for we come just in time-so we think. Here's a new lead struck, with big nuggets in it, and we mark out our claim exactly one hundred and twenty feet from the prospector's ground. They get one day twenty ounces, the next day twenty-eight, the next day forty-two-a fortune, if it lasts."
"Which it seldom does."
"It often does, and even if it lasts only six or seven weeks it brings in a lot. 'We're in luck this time,' I say to you, and I dream of nuggets as big as my head. The gutter, we reckon, is forty feet down, and we reach it in three weeks. Everybody round us is making his pile-why shouldn't we? But before we strike the lead a digger comes up, and says, 'Hallo, mates, have you heard about the claim you left in Mountain Maid Gully?' 'No,' say we, 'what about it?'-'Oh,' says the digger, 'only that two new chums jumped in after you'd gone away and found out it was the richest claim on the goldfield. They took a thousand ounces out of it the second week they were at work.' What do you say to that, Basil?"
"Jolly hard luck, Chaytor."
"Cursed hard luck, I say."
"Strong words won't better it."
"They're a relief. You take it philosophically, I admit; I growl over it like a bear with a sore head. I'd like to know why there's this difference between us."
"I'll try and tell you presently, when you've finished about the two claims."
"All right. I shouldn't be much of a man if the news about the ground we ran away from didn't rile me. I was so wild I could hardly sleep that night. But when I heard that in the next claim to the one we're working now a nugget weighing a hundred and fifty ounces was found I thought perhaps we'd got a richer claim than the one we'd deserted. So I bottled up my bad temper, and went on working with a good grace. And now we're on the gutter again, and here's the result." He held out the tin dish, and gazed at the tiny specks of gold with disgust. "Why it's the very worst we've struck yet."
"Not quite that. We've had as bad. What shall we do? Stick to it, or try somewhere else?
"We daren't go away. Stick to it we must. If we left it and I heard afterwards the same sort of story we were told about our claim on Mountain Maid, I should do somebody a mischief. You agree with me, then, that we remain and work the claim out?"
"I agree to anything you wish, Chaytor. I will stay or go away, just as you decide."
Chaytor looked at him with an eye of curiosity. "Were you ever a fellow of much strength of character, Basil?"
"I think so, once; not in any remarkable degree, but sufficient for most purposes."
"And now?"
"And now," replied Basil, taking his pipe from his mouth, and holding it listlessly between his fingers, "the life seems to have gone out of me. The only tie that binds me to it is you. I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude, old fellow, and I wish I could do something to repay it. But in tying yourself to me you are tied to a log that keeps dragging you down. The ill luck that pursues us come from me. Throw me off and fortune will smile upon you."
"And upon you?"
"No. The taste of all that's sweet and beautiful has gone out of my mouth; I'm a soured man inside of me; you're a thousand times better than I am. What is bitterness in you comes uppermost; it pleases you to hide the best part of you; but you cannot hide it from me, for I've had experience of you and know you. Now I'm the exact reverse. Outwardly you would think I'm an easy-going, easy-natured fellow, willing always to make the best of things, and to look on the brightest side. It is untrue; I am a living hypocrite. Inwardly I revile the world; because of my own disappointments I can see no good in it. Good fortune or bad fortune, what does it matter to me now? It cannot restore my faith, it cannot destroy the shroud which hangs over my heart. That is the difference between us. You are a thoroughly good fellow, I am a thoroughly bad one."
"It was not always the same with you. How have you become soured?"
"Thorough experience. Look here, Chaytor, it is only right you should be able to read me. You have bared your heart to me, and it is unfair that I should keep mine closed. There have been times when business of your own has called you to Sydney. We were never rich enough to go together, so you had to go alone, while I remained, in order not to lose the particular luckless claim we happened to be working in, and out of which we were always going to make our fortune. On the occasions of your visits you have executed a small commission for me, entailing but little trouble, but upon the successful result of which I set great store. It was merely to call at the Post-Office, and ask for letters for Basil Whittingham. The answer was always the same: there were none. Every time you returned and said, 'No letters for you, Basil,' I suffered more than I can express. There was less light in the world, my heart grew old. I believe I did not betray myself; at all events, I took pains not to do so."
"I never knew till now, Basil," said Chaytor falsely, and in a tone of false pity, "that you thought anything at all of not receiving letters. You certainly succeeded in making me believe that it did not matter one way or another."
"That is what I have grown into, a living hypocrite, as I have said. Why should I inflict my troubles upon you? You have enough of your own, and I have never been free from the reproach that evil fortune attends you because you persist in remaining attached to me. But the honest truth is, I suffered much, and each time the answer was given there was an added pang to make my sufferings greater. I'll tell you how it is with me, or rather how it was, for were you torn from me, were I pursuing my road of life alone, I should feel like a ghost walking through the world, cut off from love, cut off from sympathy. Not so many years ago-and yet it seems a lifetime-it was very different. I know I loved my dear mother, and perhaps in a lesser degree, but still with a full-hearted love, I loved my father. You know the whole story of my life; I cannot recall an incident of any importance in my career in the old country and in others through which I travelled which I have omitted to tell you. Partly it was because you took so deep an interest in me, partly because it gratified me to dwell upon matters which gave me pleasure. Yes, although my shot was pretty well expended when I left England for Australia, there is nothing in my history there which causes me regret. Until the death of my father everything looked fair for me. It was a good world, a bright world, with joyous possibilities in it, some of which might in the future be realised. I spent my fortune in paying my father's debts, and though it alienated my uncle from me and ruined my prospects, never for one moment did I regret it. There was no merit due to me in doing what I did; any man of right feeling would have done the same; you would have been one of the first to do it. Well, I came out to the Colonies with a light heart and nearly empty pockets. I had my hardships-what mattered? I was young, I was strong, I was hopeful, I believed in human goodness. So I went on my way till I came to Anthony Bidaud's plantation. There the sun burst forth in its most brilliant colours, and all my petty trials melted away. Had my nature been soured, it would have been the same, I think, for love is like the sun shining upon ice. I met a man and a friend in Anthony Bidaud; we understood and esteemed each other. I met a little maid to whom my heart went out-you know whom I mean, little Annette. You never saw her, Chaytor. When she came to Old Corrie's hut on the day we left Gum Flat, after you snatched me from a cruel death and nursed me to strength, you were wandering in the woods, and did not join us till she had gone. If you had met her you might have some idea of the feelings I entertained towards her, for although she was but a child at the time, there was a peculiar attraction and sweetness about her which could not have failed to make an impression upon you. You are acquainted with all that passed between me and Annette's father, of the project he entertained of making me guardian to his little daughter, and of his strange and sudden death; and you are also acquainted with the unexpected appearance of Gilbert Bidaud upon the scene, and what afterwards transpired, to the day upon which he and his sister and Annette left the colony for Europe. The little maid promised faithfully to write to me from Europe, and I gave her instructions, which she could scarcely have forgotten, how to communicate with me. Her letters were to be directed to the Sydney Post-office, and she was to let me know how to communicate with her. Well, unreasonably or not, I fed upon the expectation of these promised letters, but they never came. We must have some link of affection to hold on to in this world if life is worth living, and this was the link to which I clung. From old associations in England I was absolutely cut away, not one friend was left to me; and when I arrived at Anthony Bidaud's plantation and made Annette my friend, I felt as if all the sweetness of life dwelt in her person. It was an exaggerated view perhaps, but so it was. Since that time three years have passed, and she is as one dead to me, and I suppose I am as one dead to her. For some little while after she left I used to indulge in hopes of wealth, in hopes of striking a golden claim and becoming rich. Then I used to say to myself, I will go home and wait till Annette is a woman, when I will take her from the hateful influence of Gilbert Bidaud, and-and-but, upon my honour, my thoughts got no farther than this; my dreams and hopes were unformed beyond the point of proving myself her truest and best friend. But her silence has changed my nature, and I no longer indulge in hopes and dreams, I no longer desire riches. The future is a blank: there is no brightness in it. If it happens that we are fortunate, that after all our ill luck we should strike a rich claim, I will give you my share of the gold freely, for I should have no use for it."
"I would not accept it, Basil," said Chaytor; "we will share and share alike. Have you no desire, then, to return to England?"
"I shall never go back," replied Basil. "My days will be ended in Australia."
"Where you will one day meet with a woman who will drive all thoughts of Annette out of your head."
"That can never be."
"You think of her still, then?"
"As she was, not as she is. I live upon the spirit of the past."
He spoke not as a young man, but as one who had lived long years of sad and bitter experiences. In this he was unconsciously doing himself a great wrong, for his heart was as tender as ever, and in reality he had intense faith in the goodness of human nature; but the theme upon which he had been dilating always, when he reflected upon or spoke of it, filled his soul with gloom, and so completely dominated him with its melancholy as to make him unintentionally false to his true self.
"The question is," said Chaytor, "whether it is worth while to brood upon such a little matter. The heart of a child-what is it? A pulse with about as much meaning in it as the heart of an animal. There is no sincerity in it. I have no doubt you would be amazed if you were to know Annette as she is now, almost a woman, moulded after her uncle's teaching, and therefore repulsive in nature as he was. You are wise in your resolve to make no attempt to shatter an ideal. I have suffered myself in love and friendship, and I know better than you how little dependence is to be placed in woman. Let us get back to the claim. We'll not give it up till we've proved it quite worthless."