Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"But, Basil, if the harvest I have gathered has been worthless to me and to others, some good may result from it in the future. Not at my hands, at yours. You are my sole heir, and you will worthily use the money I leave you. I look forward to the years to come, and I see you in a happy home, with wife and children around you, and it may be then that you will give me a kind thought and that you will place a flower on my grave.

"I am greatly relieved by this confession. Good-bye, my lad, and God bless you.

"Your affectionate Uncle.

"Bartholomew Whittingham."

"Sentimental old party," mused Newman Chaytor, as he replaced the letter in its envelope. "If this had fallen into Basil's hands it would have touched him up considerably. The old fellow had to give in after all, but it was my letters that worked the oracle. The credit of the whole affair is mine, and Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham ought to be very much obliged to me for soothing his last hours." He laughed--a cruel laugh. "As for the harvest he has gathered, I promise him that it shall be worthily spent. He sees in the future his heir in a happy home, with wife and children around him. Well!--perhaps. If all goes smooth with the charming Annette, we'll see what we can do to oblige him. Now let me read the little puss's letter; there may be something interesting in it."

"My dear Basil" (wrote Annette), "I have something to tell you. Uncle Gilbert has discovered that we have been corresponding with each other, and there has been a scene. It came through aunt. The day before yesterday they went out and left me and Emily together. From what they said I thought they would have been gone a good many hours, and I got out my desk and began to read your letters all over again. Do you know how many you have written me? Seven; and I have every one of them, and mean to keep them always. After reading them I sat down to write to you--a letter you will not receive, because this will take its place, and because I had not written a dozen words before aunt came in suddenly, and caught me bending over my desk. Seeing her, I was putting my letter away (I never write to you when she is with me) when she came close up to me and laid her hand on mine. 'What is that you are writing?' she asked. 'A letter,' I replied. It was not very clever of me, but I did not for the moment know what other answer to give. 'To whom?' she asked. 'To a friend,' I said. 'Oh, you have friends,' she said; 'tell me who they are.' 'I have only one,' I said, 'and I am writing to him.' 'And he has written to you?' she said. 'Yes,' I said, 'he has written to me.' 'Who is this only friend?' she asked; 'do I know him?' 'Yes,' I said, 'you knew him slightly. There is no reason for concealment; it is Basil, my dear father's friend.' 'Oh,' she said, 'your dear father's friend. Is he in England, then?' 'No,' I answered, 'he is in Australia.' 'His letters should have been addressed to the care of your uncle,' she said, 'and that, I am sure, has not been the case, or they would have passed through our hands. How have you obtained them?' 'It is my secret,' I replied. Fortunately Emily was not in the room, and I do not think they have any suspicion that she has been assisting me; if they had they would discharge her, though I should fight against that. 'Your answers are evasive,' she said. 'They are not, aunt,' I said; 'they are truthful answers.' 'Are you afraid,' she asked, 'if the letters had been addressed to our care, as they ought to have been, that they would not have been given to you?' I did not answer her, and she turned away, and said she would inform Uncle Gilbert of the discovery she had made. I did not go on with my first letter to you when she was gone; I thought I would wait till Uncle Gilbert spoke to me. He did the same evening. 'Your aunt has informed me,' he said, 'that you have been carrying on a correspondence with that man named Basil, who so very nearly imposed upon your father in Australia.' 'That man, uncle,' I said, 'is a gentleman, and he did not try to impose upon my father.' 'It will be to your advantage, my dear niece,' said Uncle Gilbert, very quietly, 'not to bandy words with me, nor say things which may interfere with your freedom and comfort. I am your guardian, and dispute it as you may, I stand in your father's place. To carry on a clandestine correspondence with a young man who is no way related to you is improper and unmaidenly. May I inquire if there is any likelihood of your correspondent favouring us with a visit?' 'I hope I shall see him one day,' I said. 'There is a chance of it then,' he said, 'and you can probably inform me when we may expect him.' 'No, I cannot tell you that,' I said. 'Your aunt believes,' he said, 'that you are not speaking the truth when you answer questions we put to you.' 'All my answers are truthful ones,' I said. 'You refuse to tell us,' he said, 'by what means this secret correspondence has been carried on.' 'I refuse to tell you,' I answered. 'I will not press you,' he said, 'but it will be my duty to discover what you are hiding from me. I shall succeed; I never undertake a task and fail. I always carry it out successfully to the end. In the meantime this correspondence must cease.' 'I will not promise,' I said, 'anything I do not mean to fulfil.' 'That is an honest admission,' he said, 'and I admire you for it. Nevertheless, the correspondence must cease, and if you persist in it I shall find a way to put a stop to it. Your reputation, your good name is at stake, and I must guard you from the consequences of your imprudence. My dear niece, I fear that you are bent upon opposing my wishes. It is an unequal battle between you and me--I tell you so frankly. You are under my control, and I intend to exercise my authority. We will now let the matter drop.' And it did drop there and then, and not another word has been spoken on the subject.

"There, Basil, I have told you everything as far as I can recollect it. I might be much worse off than I am. But it would be different if I did not have you to think of, if I did not feel that I have a dear, dear friend in the world, though he is so many thousands of miles away, and that some day I shall see him again. It is something to look forward to, and not a day passes that I do not think of it. You remember the books you used to tell me of on the plantation. I have read them all again and again, and they are all delightful. If the choice were mine, and you were to be near me, or with me as my dear father wished, I should dearly like to live the old life on the plantation; but there would be a difference, Basil; I could not live it now without books, and I do not see how anybody could. Often do I believe them to be real, and when I have laid down one which has made me laugh and cry I feel as if I had made new friends with whom I can rejoice and sympathise. There will be plenty to talk of when we meet, for that we shall meet some day I have not the least doubt. Only if you would grow rich, and come home soon, it would be so beautiful. Really and truly, Basil, I want a friend, a true friend to talk to about things. 'About what things, Annette?' perhaps you ask. How shall I explain? I will try--only you must remember that I am older than when we were together on the plantation, and that, as Uncle Gilbert implied, in a year or two I shall be a woman.

"Basil, when that time comes I want to have more freedom than I have now; I do not want to feel as if I were in chains; but how shall I be able to set myself free without a friend like you by my side? I do not think I am clever, but one can't help thinking of things. I understand that when my dear father died Uncle Gilbert was doing what he had a right to do in becoming my guardian and taking care of the money that was left. Emily says it is all mine, but I do not know. If it is, I should be glad to give half of it to Uncle Gilbert if he would agree to shake hands with me and bid me good-bye. We should be ever so much better friends apart from each other. I did venture timidly to speak to him once about my dear father's property, but he only said, 'Time enough, time enough; there is no need to trouble yourself about it; wait till you are a good many years older.' But, Basil, I want to be free before I am a good many years older, and how is that to be managed without your assistance? That is what I mean when I say I want a true friend to talk about things."

"I must leave off soon; Emily says the mail for Australia leaves to-day, and this letter has to be posted. I am writing it very early in the morning in my bedroom, before uncle and aunt are up; it is fortunate that they do not rise till late. But to be compelled to write in this way--do you understand now what I mean when I say that I do not want to feel as if I were in chains? Emily says she will manage to post the letter for me without uncle and aunt knowing, and I hope she will be able to. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to suppose that Emily and I can be a match for Uncle Gilbert, for I am certain he is watching me, though there is no appearance of it. The way he talks and the way he looks sometimes puts me in mind of a fox.

"Good-bye, Basil. Do not forget me, and if you do not hear from me for a long time do not think I have forgotten you. I can never, never, do that. Oh, how I wish time would pass quickly!