Basil and Annette

"I will answer you honestly, Basil. Because I love you."

He lowered his voice and bent his eyes to the ground as he made the false statement; and Basil turned his head, and a little sob escaped him at the expression of devotion.

"I hope I may live to repay you," he said, holding out his hand, which Chaytor seized.

"You will. All I ask of you is not to desert me. Stick to me as a friend, as I have stuck to you; I have been so basely deceived in friendship that my faith in human goodness would be irrevocably shattered if you prove false." His voice faltered; tears came into his eyes.

"That will I never do. My life is yours."

"I want your heart."

"You have it. The world contains no nobler man than my friend, Newman Chaytor."

"I am well repaid. Now you must rest; you have talked enough."

"No, I will finish first. Hearing sounds outside the tent I called for your assistance. We went out together and were immediately attacked. Were you much hurt, Chaytor?"

"A little," replied Chaytor, modestly. "A scratch or two not worth mentioning."

"It is like you to make light of your own injuries. We pursued the scoundrels through the darkness, but they knew the ground they were travelling, we did not. An uncovered shaft lay in my way, and down I fell. That is all I remember. But I know that my bones would be bleaching there at the present moment if it had not been for you."

"Try to remember a little more," said Chaytor, anxious that not a grain of credit should be lost to him. "I came up to the shaft sorely bruised, and called out to you."

"Yes, yes, it comes back to me. You brought me some brandy-you cheered and comforted me-you rolled the trunk of a tree over the mouth of the shaft-it was half a mile away-and after hours of terrible agony I was brought into the sweet light of day. But for you I should have died. Indeed and indeed, I remember nothing more. You must tell me the rest."

This Chaytor did with an affectation of modesty, but with absolute exaggeration of the services he had rendered, and Basil lay and listened, and his heart went out to the man who had proved so devoted a friend, and had sacrificed so much for his sake.

"My gratitude is yours to my dying day," he said. "No man ever did for another what you have done for me. Give me my clothes."

"You are not strong enough yet to get up, Basil."

"I don't want to get up. I want to see what the scoundrels have left in my pockets." He felt, and cried: "Everything gone! my purse, my pocket-book, everything-even a lock of my mother's hair. They might have left me that!"

"They made a clean sweep, I suppose," said Chaytor.

He had considered this matter while Basil lay unconscious, and had come to the conclusion that it would be wiser to strip Basil's pockets bare than to make a selection of one or two things, which was scarcely what a thief in his haste would have done. Thus it was that Basil found his pockets completely empty.

"You have for a friend the neediest beggar that ever drew breath," said Basil bitterly.

"I'll put up with that," said Chaytor, with great cheerfulness. "Now, don't worry yourself about anything whatever. You shall share with me to the last pipe of tobacco, and when that's gone we will work for more."

"Ah, tobacco! Would a whiff or two do me any harm?"

"Do you good. You'll have to smoke out of my pipe; the villains have stolen yours."

He filled his pipe, and, giving it to Basil, held a lighted match to the tobacco. Basil, lying on his side, watched the curling smoke as it floated above his head. Distressed as he was, the evidences of Newman Chaytor's goodness were to some extent a compensating balance to his troubles. And now he was enjoying the soothing influence of a quiet smoke. Those persons who regard the weed as noxious and baleful have a perfect right to their opinion, but they cannot ignore the fact that to many thousands of thousands of estimable beings it serves as a comforter, frequently indeed as a healer. It was so in the present instance. As the smoke wreathed and curled above him an ineffable consolation crept into Basil's soul. Things seemed at their blackest; the peace and hope of a bright future had been destroyed; the man who had grown to honour him, and who had assured him of the future, had with awful suddenness breathed his last breath; the little child he loved, and to whom he was to have been guardian and protector, was thrust into the care of a malignant, remorseless man; suspicion of foul play had been thrown upon him; Old Corrie had lent him his mare, and he had allowed it to be stolen; he had been so near to death that but one man, and he a short time since an utter stranger, stood between him and eternity; and he was lying now on a bed of sickness an utter, utter beggar. Grim enough in all conscience, but the simple smoking of a pipe put a different and a better aspect upon it. There was hope in the future; he was young, he would get well and strong again; Anthony Bidaud was dead, but spiritual comfort died not with life; he would see Annette once more, and would take his leave of her assured of her love, so far as a child could give such an assurance, and in the hope of meeting her again in years to come; he would outlive the injurious suspicion of wrong-dealing which he did not doubt Gilbert Bidaud was spreading against him; and he would be able to vindicate himself in Old Corrie's eyes and perhaps by-and-by recompense the old fellow for the loss of the more. Much virtue in a pipe when it can so transform the prospect stretching before a man brought to such a pass as Basil had been.

"Yes," he said aloud, "all will come right in the end."

"Of course it will," said Chaytor. "What special mental question are you answering?"

"Nothing special. I was thinking in a general way of my troubles, and your pipe has put a more cheerful colour on them. Am I mistaken in thinking you told me you were a doctor?"

"No. That is why I have been able to pull you through so quickly."

"How long will it be before I am able to get about?"

"At the end of the week if you will be reasonable."

"I promise. I feel well already. The moment I am strong enough I must go to Bidaud's plantation."

"I will go with you."

"Of course. We are mates from this day forth. The end of the week? Not earlier?"

"Don't be impatient. My plan is to make a perfect cure. No patching. At present I am in command."

"I obey. But let it be as soon as possible."

Chaytor congratulated himself. However things turned out in the future, all had gone on swimmingly up to this moment. Every little move he had made had been successful. Basil had not the slightest suspicion that it was he who had stolen his pocket-book and purse, and emptied his pockets.

"If an angel from heaven," chuckled Chaytor that night, as he walked to and fro outside the store, "came and told him the truth, he would not believe it. I have him under my thumb-under my thumb. How to work his old uncle in England? How to get hold of that forty thousand pounds? It must not go out of the family; I will not submit to it. Would a letter or two from Basil, written by me in Basil's hand, do any good? I don't mind eating any amount of humble pie to accomplish my purpose. Even were it not a vicarious humiliation I am willing to do it, the money being guided into its proper channel, and Basil safely out of the way."

He paused, with a sinister look in his eyes. Had Basil seen him then he would hardly have recognised him. Dark thoughts flitted through his mind, and animated his features.

"Nothing shall stop me," he cried, "nothing!" And he raised his hands to the skies as though registering an oath. A sad cloud stole upon the moon and obscured its light. "What is life without enjoyment?" he muttered. "By fair means or foul I mean to enjoy. I should like to know what we are sent into the world for if we are deprived of a fair share of the best things?" There being no one to answer him, he presently went inside to bed.

The next day Basil was so much better that without asking permission he got up and dressed himself. Chaytor did not remonstrate with him; he knew, now that Basil was mending, that he would mend quickly. So it proved; before the week was out the two men set forth on the tramp to Bidaud's plantations.

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.