Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"No, uncle, I do not mean to do so."

"Even though I expressed a wish that she should go."

"Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving me. I am fond of her. If she goes, I go too."

"You go! where?"

"Where you would not find me, uncle."

Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She might fall into other hands, and herself and fortune be lost to him. He was not quite sure of his position in respect to Annette, and his best safety lay in not disturbing the waters. His brother's affairs in Australia had been administered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here in Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for him. He had Annette's fortune absolutely in his control; he had used her money for his own purposes, for he had none of his own; he had kept no accounts; in worldly matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become wiser so long as she was in his charge. She was obedient and docile in most ways, the only exceptions being her feeling for Emily, and the secret correspondence she was carrying on with Basil. These matters were not important; they did not trench upon his authority or position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, sentimental girl would write, and Basil's letters were probably harmless enough. Besides, he was at a safe distance. Time enough to fight when the enemy was in view. "He will marry," thought Gilbert Bidaud, "he will forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is safest." So time went on, outwardly calm, till Annette received Basil's letter announcing his intended return to England. It was then that Gilbert noted the change in her. They were on the continent at the time; of late years Gilbert seldom visited England; there was more enjoyment and greater security for him in his own country and in others more congenial to him. He purchased, with Annette's money, a villa in Fernex, which he called Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his own name; he had come to regard Annette's fortune as his; if troublesome thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to his own cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might present themselves.

"You are excited, Annette," he said.

She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was impossible; her restless movements, her sparkling eyes, her joyous face, were sufficient confirmation of her uncle's statements. But to admit it would lead to questions which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was silent.

"My dear niece," said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth voice, "there is not that confidence between us which I should wish to exist. Why? Have I oppressed you? Have I treated you harshly? You can scarcely so accuse me. Have I not allowed you to have your own way in all things? You have had perfect liberty, have you not? Be frank with me. I have at heart only your interests. I wish only to secure your happiness. When your poor father--my dear brother--died, you were almost a baby, a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. I said to my heart--it is my habit, my dear niece, to commune with myself--I said to my heart, 'Annette is a child, an infant, with strong affections and attachments. You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. She will not regard you with favour; she will not understand you.' And so it was. It was my unhappy duty to be stern and hard with some you regarded as friends; it was my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we commenced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you are, stood aloof from you and exercised the duties of guardian and uncle without showing that my heart was filled with love for you. Thus have we lived, with a spiritual gulf dividing us. My dear niece, you are no longer a child, you are a woman who can think for herself, who is open to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you the hand of amity, of love. Take it, and tell me how I can minister to your happiness."

It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he had ever made to her, and she was deceived by his specious frankness. She could not refuse the hand he held out to her, and as she placed hers within it, she reflected, "When Basil arrives they must meet. They were not friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing accomplished if they can be made friends here, through me. Then Basil can come freely, with uncle's consent, and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke to me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as well as he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great love for me, but may it not have been partly my own fault. If they have wounded me, may I not have wounded them?"