Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"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.