Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]

Newman Chaytor first met Annette in Paris. She wrote to him to London, saying that her uncle intended to make a stay there of a few weeks, and telling him the name of the hotel they stopped at. Chaytor's business in London was by that time transacted and he was nervous to get away with his spoil. Bold as he had been, and little as he believed he had to fear, there were moments when he was seized with panic. What if Basil should not be dead? What if, recovering, and being rescued from the tomb into which Chaytor had plunged him, some suspicion should cross his mind of the treachery which had been practised towards him? What if, after that, bent upon revenge, he should find his way home, and there discover how he had been wronged and robbed? Newman Chaytor was bathed in cold sweat, and his limbs shook as he contemplated this contingency. In his calmer moments he strove to laugh himself out of his fears, but he never entirely got rid of them, and he deemed it safer to live most of his time out of England. For reasons of safety, also, he converted Basil's fortune into cash, and carried a large portion of it upon his person in Bank of England notes. He had clothes made after his own design, and in his waistcoats and trousers were inner pockets in which he concealed his treasure. There were five bank notes of a thousand pounds each, twenty of five hundred each, and the rest in hundreds and fifties. They occupied but little space, and during the first month or two of his coming into possession of the money, he was continually counting it in the secresy of his room, with doors locked and windows shaded. The passing of a cloud, the fluttering of a bird's wings across his window, the sound of breathing or footstep outside his door, drove him into agonies of apprehension as he was thus engaged. He would stop suddenly and listen, and creep to door or window, and wait there till the fancied cause for fear was gone; then he would resume his operations and pack the money away in the lining of his clothes. The dread of losing it, of his being robbed, of its being wrested from him, was never absent. When he entered a new hotel he examined the doors of his rooms, tried the locks and fastenings, and peered about in every nook and corner, until he was satisfied that there was no chink or loophole of danger. But as fast as his fears were allayed in one direction they sprang up in another. The hydra-headed monster he had created for himself left him no rest by day or night. He slept with his clothes under his bolster, and waking up, would grope in the dark with his hands to assure himself that they had not been taken away. There were nights which were nothing less than one long terror to him. The occupants of the apartments to the right and left of him were talkative; he could not catch the sense of their words, but they were, of course, talking of him. They were quiet; of course they were so to put him off his guard. He would jump from his bed and stand, listening, and whether he heard sounds or heard none, every existent and non-existent sign became a menace and a terror. As time wore on it could not be but that these fears became less strong and vivid, but they were never entirely obliterated, and were occasionally revived in all their original force. There was, however, one new habit which he practised mechanically, and of which he never got rid. This was a movement of the left hand towards those parts of his clothing in which the money was concealed. He was quite unconscious of the frequency of this peculiar motion, and took as little notice of it as any man takes of the natural movements of his limbs.

When he received Annette's letter informing him that they were in Paris he immediately resolved to go there. "I am wondering," wrote Annette, "whether we shall see you here, or whether we shall have to wait because your business is not finished. You must forget all that I have said about Uncle Gilbert; we did not understand each other, but we do now, and he is very very kind to me; and although he cannot be as anxious to see you as I am, he is ready to give you a warm and hearty welcome."

"She is an affectionate little puss," thought Chaytor, "and does not seem to conceal anything from her dear Basil, but if she thinks I am going to tie myself to her apron strings she is mistaken. I will feel my way with her, and--yes, a good idea! will have a peep at her somehow without her seeing me, before I introduce myself. Judging from the photograph she sent me in Australia"--he was so accustomed to think of himself as Basil that he often forgot he was Newman Chaytor--"she is as pretty as a picture; but then portraits are deceitful--like the originals. They are so touched up by the photographers, that a very ordinary-looking woman is transformed into an angel. If that is the case with Annette she will see very little of me. Give me beauty, bright eyes, white teeth, a good figure, a pretty, kissable mouth, and I am satisfied. So, my little Annette, it all depends upon yourself. As for Uncle Gilbert, it is a good job that he is changed; it will make things easier for me. I don't want to quarrel, not I, and if I take a fancy to Annette, and he can help to smooth the way for me, why, all the better."

From the day he set foot on the vessel which brought him to England, Chaytor had been most painstaking and careful about his appearance. He spent hours before the glass arranging his hair after the fashion of Basil's hair, as our hero had worn it in England; and, being a bit of an artist, he succeeded perfectly. The resemblance was marvellous, and Chaytor congratulated himself and chuckled at his cleverness. "Upon my soul," he said, "we must have been changed at our birth. I am Basil, and he----" He paused. No shudder passed through him, he was visited by no pang of remorse at the thought of Basil lying dead at the bottom of the shaft. It must have been very quick and sudden! Death must have ensued instantaneously. Had he not listened and lingered, without a sound of suffering, without even a sigh reaching him? "No man could do more than that," he thought. "There's no telling what I should have done if he had groaned or cried for help. But as he was dead and done for, what was the use of my loitering there?" Across the many thousands of miles of sea and land, his mental vision travelled with more than lightning swiftness, and he saw at the bottom of a dark shaft the form of his victim huddled up and still. And as he gazed, the form unfolded itself, and rising to its feet, glided towards him. The vision had presented itself once before, and he acted now as he had acted then. Almost frenzied he dashed the phantom aside, with as much force as if Basil had stood bodily before him, and, finding that this was of no avail, threw himself upon the ground, and grovelled there with closed eyes until reason re-assumed its sway and whispered that he was but the fool of fevered fancies. "I shall go mad if I don't mind," he muttered. "I know what's the matter with me; I am keeping myself too solitary. I want friends, companionship." It is a fact that he would not make friends with any one; the fewer questions that were asked of him the better. He was in constant dread of meeting with some person of whom Basil had not spoken who would begin to speak of old times. Out of England this was not so likely to occur. Man of pleasure as he was he had never been a heavy drinker, but now he flew to brandy to deaden his fears. Altogether, despite his success, he was not greatly to be envied. The lot of the poorest and most unfortunate of men is to be preferred to that of a man of evil heart, whose Nemesis is ever by his side throwing its black shadow over every conscious hour.

On the Continent Chaytor experienced some relief. He had always been fond of Paris, and now he threw himself with zest into the pleasures of that gay city. "This is life," he said enthusiastically; "it is for this I have worked. Eureka! I have found the philosopher's stone--freedom, light, enjoyment." He was in no hurry to go to Annette; he would have his fling first--but, that, he said to himself, he would always have, Annette or no Annette. His misfortune was that he could not rule circumstance. Gilbert Bidaud set eyes on him as he was driving with some gay companions, for here in Paris Chaytor was not so bent upon avoiding society as in England. "Surely," mused the elder fox, as he slipped into a carriage and gave the driver instructions to follow Chaytor and his companions, "that is my old friend Basil, for whom my foolish niece is looking and longing. He presented himself to me in the Australian wilderness as a model of perfection, a knight without a stain upon his shield, but in Paris he appears to be very human. Very human indeed," he repeated with a laugh, as he noted the wild gaiety of the man he was following. Be sure that he did not lose sight of his quarry until he learnt as many particulars concerning it as he could gain. So fox watched fox, and the game went on, Annette waiting and dreaming of the Bayard without flaw and without reproach who reigned in her heart of hearts.

"Have you heard from our friend Basil?" asked Gilbert Bidaud.

"Not for ten days," replied Annette. "He said he feared he would not have time to write again till he came to Paris, he was so beset with lawyers and business men."

"Yes, yes," said Gilbert; "he must have much to do. He will come to us, I hope, the moment he reaches Paris."

"Oh, yes, uncle; he will not wait a day, an hour; he will come straight here."