"I would give more than its weight in gold," said Basil, laying his hand upon the album, "for the portrait of Miss Bidaud. You can have no idea of the value it would be to me, and how much I should esteem your kindness. Let me have it, I entreat you."
"I don't like to part with it," said Mrs. Crawford, looking admiringly at Basil, "but I can't refuse you. Take it, sir."
Basil quickly availed himself of the permission, and put a sovereign on the table, saying, "For little Genie. Buy her a pretty frock with it." Then wishing her good day, and thanking her again he left her to rejoin Old Corrie and Mr. Philpott on the beach, and communicate the good news to them. Half-an-hour later Old Corrie paid a visit to Mrs. Crawford, and received her profuse excuses for the abrupt manner in which he had behaved to him.
"Nobody can blame you, ma'am," said Corrie, "for fighting shy of a bear. It's a wonder to me now how I came to be mates with the creature. But he was a worthy comrade, ma'am, rough as his outside was--a deal worthier than some men I've met with. And I shall never forget it, ma'am, because in the first place it brought me straight to you, and in the second place it's taking me straight to a little lady."
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had established his position as Basil Whittingham, he had obtained possession of Basil's fortune, he was on a familiar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings respecting the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, no difficulty whatever. The evidence in his possession, proving himself to be the man he represented himself to be, was complete; and there being no grounds for suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, and on the high road.
He went to London, and remained there only a few days. He made no attempt to see his parents, and was careful to avoid the neighbourhood in which they lived. With a large fortune at his disposal, and being fertile in methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself; but his character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is supposed he ever allowed himself to yield to the dictates of humanity. He knew that his parents were in direst poverty--his mother's last letter to him made this very clear--but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion for the mother who idolised him or the father he had brought to ruin. Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled every action of his life. His own ease, his own pleasures, his own safety--these were paramount, and pioneered him through the crooked paths he had trod since boyhood. The correspondence he had kept up with Annette rendered it an easy matter for him to find her. He had apprised her that he was starting for home, and had directed her not to write to him again to Australia. In this last letter he informed her that he had come into a great fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by business matters for a few weeks that he would not be able to see her immediately he arrived in England. He gave her instructions how to communicate with him at home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her heart for him. It is hard to say how many times Annette read this letter. Basil was on his way home--coming home, coming home, coming home--she kept on repeating the magic words; and there was a light in her eyes, music in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last he was coming, the friend whom she could trust, the man her dear father had loved and honoured. She would see him soon, for he would not linger over the business he had to transact; her hand would be in his, his eyes on her face--and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had she changed since he last saw her? Would he know her again, or would she have to say, "Basil, I am Annette?" No! that would not be necessary; she had sent him her portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would pick her out of a thousand women. She had changed--yes, she was aware of that, and aware, too, that she was very beautiful. What woman is not who has grace and beauty for her dower; and is there a woman in the world who is not proud of the possession, and who does not smile and greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon the bright reflection of a brighter reality? Annette was innocently glad that she was fair, and all through her gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked her for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The quality of vanity there was in this thought was human and natural. The name of Basil represented to her all that there was of nobility, goodness, and generosity. In Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in life. She worshipped an ideal. He had asked her to keep a corner in her heart for him. Was not her whole heart his? And he was coming home--home! The word assumed a new meaning. It would be truly home when Basil was with her.
"You are excited, Annette," said Gilbert Bidaud, who, although he seldom indulged in long conversations with his niece, noted every sign and change in her. Only in one respect had he been baffled; he had not succeeded in discovering how the correspondence between Basil and Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, Emily, but that shrewd young person was so extraordinarily careful and astute that he could not lure her, for all the traps he set, into betraying herself. He hinted once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no farther.
"Emily is my maid," said Annette, "and no one but I have a right to discharge her."
"And you do not mean to do so?" said Gilbert Bidaud.