Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

Gilbert Bidaud nodded cheerfully, and said no more, but his cunning mind was busy revolving pros and cons.

Chaytor, after awhile, carried out his resolution of seeing Annette before he presented himself to her. Ascertaining the rooms she and her people occupied, he engaged apartments for a couple of days in an hotel from the windows of which he could observe her movements. He used opera glasses, and so arranged his post of observation that he could not himself be seen. In the petty minutiæ of small schemes, he was a master.

The first time he saw Annette he almost let his glasses fall from his hand. Her radiant countenance, her sparkling eyes, the beauty of her face, the grace of her movements, were a revelation to him. Never had he seen a creature so lovely and perfect. So fascinated was he that he dreaded it might not be Annette--but yes, there was her uncle, Gilbert Bidaud, standing now by her side, and apparently talking pleasantly to her. Chaytor, though he had seen the old man but once in the Australian woods, when he was a concealed witness of the interview between Gilbert, Basil and Annette, recognised him immediately. Gilbert Bidaud was not changed in the least, and Chaytor decided within himself that neither Basil or Annette knew how to manage the old fellow. He, Newman Chaytor, would be able to do so; he would be the master of the situation, and would pull the strings of his puppets according to his moods and wishes. He did not dream that Gilbert Bidaud was aware that he was in their vicinity, that he even knew the number of the rooms he had engaged in the hotel, and the name he had assumed for the purposes of his secret watch. From the moment that Gilbert had set eyes upon him, every step he took, every movement he made, was noted down by agents employed by the old man, who kept a written record for possible use in the future. These two forces were well matched, but the odds were in favour of the elder animal. "It is clear," said Newman Chaytor, "that Basil was mistaken in his estimate of Gilbert Bidaud, and that he poisoned Annette's mind against her uncle. The old man is harmless enough, and he and I will be great friends." Presently Gilbert kissed his niece and left the room, laughing to himself at the comedy scene he had played. His thoughts may also be put into words.

"He is in that room, watching Annette. He has arranged the curtains and the furniture in the manner most convenient for his watch. What is his object, and what do his movements prove? He wishes to convince himself that Annette is a bird attractive enough to follow, to woo, to win. If I knew what has passed between them in the letters they wrote to each other, I should be more certain of my conclusions, but as it is I shall not be far out. He wishes also to observe me secretly, and to make up his mind about me before we come together. Well, he shall have opportunity--he shall see what a kind pleasant uncle I am. We were not the best of friends across the ocean--in good truth, we were as bitter enemies as men could possibly be; and he remembers that we exchanged hard and bitter words. Do I bear animosity? No; here, my dear friend, is my hand: take it." He held it out, and the cunning of his nature was exposed in the expression of his thin lips and his cold blue eyes. "But what do his movements prove? That, setting himself up as a gentleman, above doing a sly action, profuse in his scorn of others and in glorification of himself, he is the personification of low cunning and meanness. He deceived me when we clashed in the forest; expressing scorn of him, and flinging mud upon his motives, I yet believed him to be a gentleman, and was in my soul angry because the belief was forced upon me. Bah! my friend Basil, my self-elected gentleman of honour unblemished and untarnished, you are unmasked. You play your game; I will play mine. We shall see who will win."

While these communings were going on Chaytor continued his watch. His greedy eyes dwelt upon Annette's sweet face--heavens, he thought, how beautiful she is!--his sinful soul gloated upon her grace of form and feature. Would she know him when her eyes fell upon him? Would she see at once that he was Basil, or was there anything in his appearance that would inspire a doubt? That afternoon he examined himself narrowly in the glass; he practised Basil's little tricks of motion, one of the most conspicuous of which was the caressing of his moustache between finger and thumb, and any doubts he may have had disappeared. "I am more like Basil Whittingham than he ever was," he said. "Even in a court of law the chances would be all on my side." When he was in a confident mood nothing more improbable could be conceived than that Basil would ever cross his path. It was not improbable, it was impossible. Basil was dead, and there was an end of the matter; he had all the field to himself.

He continued to observe Annette from his window, and the more he saw of her the more constantly did his thoughts dwell upon her. During these days he went through many rehearsals of the part he was playing, recalling all that Basil had told him of his association with Annette, the scenes they had walked through, the conversations they had indulged in. He was letter perfect in what had passed between Basil and Annette's father, and his retentive memory had preserved all the incidents in the scene in the Australian woods, when Gilbert Bidaud and his sister had surprised them near Old Corrie's hut. "Old Corrie," thought Chaytor, "had a down on me, and came near to spoiling my game, but I've been more than a match for the lot of them. What has become of the old busy-body? Dead, most likely. Everybody's as good as dead who could touch or interfere with me. And Annette, the pretty Annette, is ready to fall into my arms the moment I make my appearance." It will be remembered that on the last meeting between Basil and Annette, she gave him a locket containing her mother's portrait, and that, when Gilbert Bidaud flung it away into the bush, Newman Chaytor picked it up and kept it close. From that day to this he had never parted with it, and now, being about to present himself to Annette, he put it round his neck, conscious that it would be a good card to play under any circumstances.

[CHAPTER XXXIX.]

Annette was at lunch with her uncle and aunt in the public room of the hotel when a gentleman entered, and took his seat at another table close by. Annette, looking up from her plate, flushed rosy red, and in uncontrollable excitement, started to her feet, then sank back into her chair with her eyes fixed upon the newcomer. Gilbert Bidaud had also noted the entrance of the gentleman, although his eyes seemed to be directed to another part of the room; he took no outward notice, but inwardly said, "Ah, ah, friend Basil, you have decided at last to appear. Now for a few clever lies."

"Uncle!" whispered Annette.

"Yes, my niece," said Gilbert, "what do you wish?"