Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

These letters annoyed Chaytor, and he thought it horribly hard that his mother should write them. "It is a try on," he thought; "the old man has put her up to it. I ought to know the ins and outs of such transparent tricks. 'Now, write this,' says the old man; 'Now write that. We must manage to screw something out of him: work upon his feelings, mother.' That's the way it goes. I'll bet anything they've got a smoking dinner on the table all the time, but Newman's at a distance, and can't see it. Oh, no, I can't see anything; a baby might impose upon me." He never thought of the night he saw his mother begging in the roadway with a box of matches in her hands. Some men are gifted with the power of shutting out inconvenient memories, as there are others who never lose sight of a kindness they have received or of a debt that is justly due. Long before this the reader has discovered to which class Chaytor belonged.

Nevertheless he replied to the letters, cantingly regretting that he was unable to send his dear old mother the smallest remittance to help her on in her struggles. "How is it possible," he wrote, "when I am myself starving? It is months since I have had to work sixteen hours a day breaking stones on the road for a piece of dry bread. The hardships I have endured, and am still enduring, are frightful. This is a horrible place for a gentleman to live in. I should not have been here if father had not driven me away. It almost drives me mad to think that if he had not been so hard to me, if he had allowed me to stop at home and manage his affairs, I could have pulled them straight, and that we should all of us be living now in comfort and plenty in the only country in the world where a man can enjoy his days. You have no idea what kind of place this colony is. Men die like lambs in the snow, and the sufferings they endure are shocking to contemplate. I do not suppose I shall live to write you another letter, but if you can manage to send me a few pounds it may arrive just in time to save me." And so on, and so on. He took a keen delight in the duplicities he was practising, and he would read his letters over with a feeling of pride and exultation in his cleverness. "How many men are there in the world," he would ask himself, "who could write such a letter as this? Not many. Upon my word I'm wasted in this hole and corner. But there's by-and-by to come; when I get hold of that forty thousand pounds I'll have my revenge. No galley slave ever worked harder than I am working for a future I mean to enjoy." That may have been true enough, but the work of a galley slave was honest labour in comparison with that to which Newman Chaytor was bending all his energies.

Lastly, there were the letters Annette wrote to Basil. They arrived at intervals of about four months, so that Chaytor was in possession of seven or eight of them. Proceeding as they did from a pure and beautiful nature, these letters, had Basil received them, would have been like wine to him, would have comforted and strengthened him through the hardest misfortunes and troubles, would have kept the sun shining upon him in the midst of the bitterest storms. He would have continued to work with gladness and hope instead of with indifference. It would have made the future a bright goal to which his eyes would ever have been turned with joy. Evidences of kindness and sympathy, still more, evidences of unselfish affection and love, are like the dew to the flower. They keep the heart fresh, they keep its windows ever open to the light. But of this blessing Basil was robbed by the machinations of a scoundrel: hence there was no sweetness in his labour, no hope for him in the future. So much to heart did Basil take Annette's silence that, had his nature been inclined to evil instead of good, mischief to others would probably have ensued, but as it was he was the only sufferer. In his utterances, when he was drawn to speak of the shock he had received, he was apt to exaggerate matters and to present himself in the worst light, but there had fallen to his share an inheritance of moral goodness which rendered it impossible for him to become a backslider from the paths of rectitude and honour. Except that he was unhappy in himself, and that Annette's silence took the salt out of his days, he was as he ever was, straightforward in his dealings and gentle and charitable towards his fellow-creatures.

"My dear, dear Basil" (thus ran Annette's first letter, written about five months after their last meeting in the Australian woods), "I have tried ever so hard to write to you before, but have not been able to because of uncle and aunt. I was afraid if they found out I was writing to you that they would take the letter away or do something to prevent it reaching you, and I wanted, too, to tell you how you could write to me, but have never been able till now. You will be glad to hear that if you write and address your letters exactly as I tell you, I am almost sure of receiving them. But first I must say something about myself and how I am. Uncle and aunt are not unkind to me, but they are not kind. They leave me to myself a good deal, but I know I am being watched all the time. I don't mind that so much, but what I do miss is my dear father's voice and yours, and the birds and flowers and beautiful scenery I always lived among till I was taken away. I would not mind if you were with me, for I love you truly, dear Basil, and can never, never forget you. That last time we were together by Mr. Corrie's hut, how often and often do I think of it! I go through everything that passed except the unkind words spoken by Uncle Gilbert, which I try not to remember. I must have a wonderful memory, for everything you said to me is as fresh now as though you had just spoken them. Yes, indeed. Perhaps it is because when we were on board ship I used to sit on the deck, with my face turned to Australia--the captain always pointed out the exact direction--and go through it all in my mind over and over and over again, till I got letter perfect. Shall I prove to you that it is really so? Well, then, when I told you I was afraid I was turning hard and had since Uncle Gilbert came to the plantation--the dear old plantation!--you chided me so gently and beautifully, and I promised never to forget your words, knowing they would keep me good. Then you said, '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.' Well, Basil dear, I am waiting for that time. I know it will not be yet, perhaps not for years, but I can wait patiently, and I shall always bear your words in mind. 'The stars of heaven are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can keep shining in our hearts.' Do you remember, Basil? And then I asked you to kiss me, and said that was the seal and that I should go away happier. It comes to my mind sometimes that your words are like flowers that never die, and that grow sweeter and more beautiful every day. You could not have given me anything better to make me happy. But I must not keep going on like this or I shall not have time to tell you some things you ought to know.

"Well, then, Basil dear, we are not settled anywhere, and if you were to come home now (you call it home, I know, and so will I) you would not know where to find me unless you went to a place I will tell you of presently. First we came to London and stopped there a little while, then we went to Paris, then to Switzerland, and now we have come back to London, where we shall remain two or three weeks, and then go somewhere else, I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert never tells me till the day before, when he says, 'We are going away to-morrow morning; be ready.' So that by the time you receive this letter we shall be I don't know where. Uncle Gilbert is very fond of theatres, but he has not taken me to one because he says they are not proper places for girls. I daresay he is right, and I don't know that I want to go, but aunt has been very dissatisfied about it, as she is as fond of theatres as Uncle Gilbert is. He used to go by himself, and aunt would stop with me to take care of me, but a little while ago, a day or two before we came back to London, they had a quarrel about it. They did not notice that I was in the room when they begun, and when they found it out they stopped. But I think it is because of the quarrel that when we were in London a young woman was engaged to travel with us and to look after me when uncle and aunt are away. I am very glad for a good many reasons. I am not very happy when they are with me, and I breath more freely--or perhaps I think I do--when they are gone. The young woman they have engaged is kind and good-natured, and I have grown fond of her already, and she has grown fond of me, so we get along nicely together. Her name is Emily Crawford, and she has a mother who lives in Bournemouth, a place by the sea somewhere in England. Her mother is a poor woman, and that is why Emily is obliged to go to service, but she is not a common person, not at all, and she has a good heart. She can read and write very well, and she picks up things quicker than I can. Of course you want to know why I speak so much of Emily, when I might be writing about myself. Well, it is very, very important, and it is about myself I am speaking when I am speaking of her.

"Basil, dear, it does one good to have some one to talk to quite freely and to open one's heart to. All the time I have been away, until this week, I have not had any person who would listen to me or who cared to speak of the happy years I spent on our dear plantation. Whenever I ventured to say a word about the past Uncle Gilbert put a stop to it at once by saying, 'There is no occasion to speak of it, you are living another life now. Forget it, and everybody connected with it.' Forget it! As if I could! But I do not dare to disobey him. He is my guardian, and I must be obedient to him. Aunt is just the same, only she snaps me up when I say anything that displeases her, while uncle speaks softly, but he is as determined as she is although they do speak so differently. I do not know which way I dislike most--I think both. So one night this week when uncle and aunt were away, and I was reading, and Emily was sewing, she said to me, 'You have come from Australia, haven't you, miss?' Oh, how pleased I was! I answered yes, and then we got talking about Australia, and I told her all about the plantation and the life we led there, and all sorts of things came rushing into my mind, and when I had told her a great deal I began to cry. It was then I found out Emily's goodness, for there she was by my side wiping my tears away and almost crying with me, and that is how we have become friends. After that I felt that I could speak freely to her, and I spoke about you, of course. She promised not to say a word to uncle or aunt, and I know I can trust her. Now, Basil, dear, she has told me how you can write to me and how I can obtain your letters without uncle or aunt knowing anything about it. Emily writes home to her mother and receives letters from her. If you will write and address your letters to the care of Mrs. Crawford, 14, Lomax Road, Bournemouth, England, Mrs. Crawford will enclose them to Emily, who will give them to me. Mrs. Crawford will always know where Emily is while she remains with me, which will be as long as she is allowed, Emily says, and I am sure to get your letters. I feel quite happy when I think that you will write to me, telling all about yourself. You said I was certain to make friends in the new country I was going to, through whom we should be able to correspond, and although I would sooner do it through uncle and aunt (but there is no possibility of that because they do not like you), I feel there is nothing very wrong in our writing to each other in the way Emily proposes. So that is all, and you will know what to do. I can hardly restrain my impatience, but it is something very sweet to look forward to.

"I hope you found the locket with the portrait of my dear mother in it. When we see each other I shall expect you to show it to me. If you see Mr. Corrie tell him that the magpie is quite well, and that I can teach him to say almost anything. Both uncle and aunt have grumbled a good deal about the bird, and would like me to get rid of it, but that is the one thing--the only thing--that I have gone against them in. 'I will be obedient in everything else,' I said, 'but I must keep my bird. You promised me.' So they have yielded, and I have my way in this at all events. It means a great deal to me because I take care it shall not forget your name. I keep it in my own room, where they see very little of it, and it is only when we are travelling that it is a trouble to them.

"Now I must leave off, Basil dear. With all my love, and hoping with all my heart that we shall see each other when I am a little older,--I remain; for ever and ever, your loving friend,

"Annette."

This letter interested and amused Newman Chaytor. "She is a clever little puss," he thought, "and will not be hard to impose upon, for all her cunning. I wonder, I wonder"--but what it was he wondered at did not take instant shape; it required some time to think out. He replied to the letter, addressing Annette as she directed. Although he knew it was not likely that Annette could be very familiar with Basil's handwriting, he was as careful in imitating it as he was in his letters to Basil's uncle; and as in the case of his letters to that old gentleman, he kept a copy of the letters he wrote to Annette. He was very careful in the composition of his correspondence with the young girl. He fell into the sentimental mood, and smiled to think that the sentiments he expressed to Annette were just those which would occur to Basil if he sat down to write to her. "Basil would be proud of me," he said, "if he read this letter. It is really saving him a world of trouble, and he ought to be grateful to me if it ever come to his knowledge--which it never shall. I will see to that." During the first year of the progress of the vile plot the full sense of the dangerous net he was weaving for himself did not occur to him, and indeed it was only by degrees that he became keenly conscious of the peril attending its discovery. It made him serious at first, but at the same time more fixed in his resolve to carry it out to the bitter end. Whatever it was necessary to do he would do ruthlessly. Everything must give way to secure his own safety, to insure the life of ease and luxury he hoped to enjoy, if all went well.