Basil and Annette

"My task is all the easier for your explanation. The service I am about to ask of you is no light one, and may be agreeable to you because it will open out a future which few men would turn their back upon. I do not say this to tempt you, for I know that you will be guided entirely by your own feelings, by your own sense of right and wrong, and that worldly advantage will weigh for nothing in the scale. You are fond of Annette."

"I love the child; I never met with a sweeter and more sympathetic nature than hers. She has strength of character, too."

"Do you think so?" asked Bidaud, anxiously.

"I am sure of it. Even now she rules me."

Bidaud shook his head with a sad smile. "That is not a proof. You are content to be ruled, and what passes between you springs from affection. The strength of character required to battle with the world is of a different kind from that which Annette exhibits towards you. The service I ask you to render me concerns Annette."

"Why, then," said Basil, gaily, "it is rendered before you ask for it."

"You must know its nature before you consent. It is nothing more nor less, Basil, than that you should stand to my child in the light of guardian."

Basil started. The tone in which this was spoken was that of a man who was convinced that the world was slipping from him.

"Surely you are alarming yourself unnecessarily," said the young man.

"I am not. There are warnings which it would be criminal to neglect, especially where there is such a vital interest at stake as the happiness of an only and beloved child. I have received these warnings and must be prepared. Say that the spiritual whisper which tells me that my end is approaching is false, is no faith to be placed in the doctor's decree that my hours are numbered? A man may have morbid fancies, but the teachings of experience and science are not to be lightly set aside and disregarded. If my fears prove groundless, so much the better for Annette; if they are confirmed-which they will be, Basil, nothing can alter it-so much the worse for her unless needful preparation is made for the crisis in her young life. Will you now consent?"

"Let me hear more fully what you have to say," replied Basil, gravely, "before I fully pledge myself. You speak of a brother and sister in your own country, and you have written to one who may appear at any moment. The claim she has upon Annette, and the authority with which the laws of nature have invested her, are stronger than those of any stranger. I am a young man, and the idea of becoming guardian to so tender and sweet a flower as Annette startles me. I ask myself, am I equal to a responsibility so serious, and the question reveals to me my own deficiencies, of which I am generally somewhat painfully aware. It is really as though the most serious page in my life was about to be opened."

CHAPTER III

"I have no fears," said Anthony Bidaud, with a gentle smile, "on the score of your deficiencies. I have been no inattentive observer since the fortunate day upon which I first formed acquaintance with you. That you have had a disappointment in life counts for very little, and such small difficulties as befall a newcomer in this new land are scarcely to be accounted among the real difficulties of life. You do not yet know your own strength, but already, in a position of serious responsibility, you have acted in a manner which few men would have had the courage to do. Your past is honourable, and contents me. You have a kind heart, and that adds to my content. Should the worst happen, my Annette will have by her side a true and honest counsellor. Reflect a moment. Say that I were to die to-morrow-nay, do not argue with me; death is the only certain thing in life, and it may come at any unexpected moment to the strongest-say that I die to-morrow, what would be the position of my dear child? I have an estate worth thousands of pounds; she is a mere child, and could not manage it. She would become the prey of schemers, who would undoubtedly not deal fairly by her. I have a hundred servants on this plantation, and not a friend among them. By accident you enter into our lives. I use the term accident, but I believe it to be a providence. We are drawn to each other. I have observed you closely, and am satisfied to deliver into your hands a sacred charge, the charge of a young girl's future. At such moments as these there comes to some men a subtle, unfathomable insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe that there is a link between you and my child which, if you do not recognise it now, you will be bound to recognise in the future. It may be broken in the present, but the threads will be joined as surely as we stand here side by side. Apart from this mysticism, to which I do not expect you to subscribe, there is a worldly, practical side which it is right and necessary you should understand. You ask for fuller information of my brother and sister. I will give it to you. That my brother and I did not part friends, and that his attitude towards me influenced my sister, was not my fault. I loved a young girl in my own station in life, and she loved me and afterwards became my wife. That my brother Gilbert loved her also was to be deplored; we were not to be blamed for it, though Gilbert was furious-with me for loving her, with her for returning my love. I endeavoured to remonstrate with him: he would not listen to me. 'You have stepped in the way of my happiness,' he said; 'you shall rue it.' It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, but it is the truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in not placing her affections upon him. He would have broken her heart. He was a spendthrift and a libertine, and would stop at little for the gratification of his selfish pleasures. He was furious against me, not so much because he loved Annette's mother, but because he could not have his own way. He was clever in crooked things, and in cunning shrewdness there were few to beat him. Educated as a doctor, he could have earned a good name if he had chosen to be industrious; but he preferred to lead an idle, dissolute life. These evil courses caused him to be deeply in debt at the time of my father's death. A portion of my father's fortune, which was not very large, was left to me, and Gilbert endeavoured to rob me of it, saying he was the elder, as he was by a year. With wedded life in view I resisted the attempt, and this angered him the more. He swore that he would never forgive me, and that he would be revenged upon me. It was strange that my sister leaned more towards him than towards me, but that does sometimes happen with the scapegrace of the family. I am not endeavouring to blacken Gilbert's character for my own glorification. In drawing his picture I have dealt more than justly by him; were he not my brother I should speak of actions of his which made me wonder how he and I could have been born of the same mother. It is that I wish you to understand why I did not write to him to come here and take charge of my dear child, and to understand why I said that I would as soon give her into the care of a wolf. I succeeded in obtaining my share of my father's fortune, and soon afterwards married. Even then Gilbert did not cease from persecuting me. He would come and take up his quarters in our house, and insult my wife, and revile me, unto our life became intolerable. It was then that we resolved to emigrate, chiefly to escape his persecutions. Then he showed us plainly that his love had changed to hate. He said to me before I left Switzerland, 'One day I will be even with you. Remember my words-dead or alive, I will be even with you!' Since that day I have never seen him, never heard from him, and I do not know whether he is still living. Upon our arrival in this colony fortune smiled upon us almost from the first. We were happy, very happy, and as you see I have been prosperous. But I have not been wise. I should have provided my child with a suitable companion at the death of my wife, though heaven knows where I should have found one; but I should have tried. To marry again was impossible; I loved my wife too well, and I could not be false to her memory. I have been worse than unwise: I have neglected a serious duty. Up to this day I have shrunk from making a will, so that my affairs would get into confusion should anything happen to me. I have resolved to make instant amends for this neglect of duty. To-night I shall write to a lawyer to come to me without an hour's delay, and he shall draw out my will before he departs. In this will it is my desire to appoint you manager of my estate and guardian of my child till she arrives at the age of twenty-one. It is not a bad prospect I hold out to you. At the end of seven years you will still be a young man, and if you elect to leave Annette you can do so. She will by that time have learned from you all that is necessary to continue the management of the estate herself; but she will also then be free to act as she pleases: either to remain upon it, or to sell it and go elsewhere. I do not think there is anything more I can tell you to enable you to arrive at a decision. I do not urge you to comply with my desire because of any personal advantage that may accrue to yourself, but I beg of you as a friend to render me as great a service as it is in the power of one man to render to another. If you wish for time to consider this proposal take it, but decide before the arrival of the lawyer. One way or another, my will must be made before a week has passed."

But Basil did not ask for time; he was deeply touched by the confidence reposed in him by Anthony Bidaud, and while the father spoke he had made up his mind. He had been very happy on the plantation; he knew that it was a desirable home, and that within its domains could be found much that would make a man's life agreeable and useful He had come to the colony, as had thousands of other colonists, with the intention of making his fortune and returning to England. He could not hope to make a fortune in a day, though wild ideas of gold-seeking-successful gold-seeking, of course-had floated through his mind. Suddenly, when his fortunes were at the lowest ebb, there was presented an opportunity which, unworldly as he was, he could not disguise from himself it would be folly to throw away. But it was due to Anthony Bidaud that the matter should not be concluded without something more being said.

"I need no time to consider," he said. "Your proposition is flattering and advantageous to myself. But you speak of not being wise. Are you wise in placing a trust so delicate and important in the hands of a stranger?"

"I am content to do so," said Bidaud, "and I beg you to believe that the obligation will be on my side."

"After all," suggested Basil, with a little touch of shrewdness "it may be with you a choice of evils."

"It is a choice of good," observed Bidaud. "I have told you," continued Basil, "that I have not been educated into an understanding of business matters, and that my mission in life" – here he smiled deprecatingly-"was to go through life in a gentlemanly way, without working for my living."

"But you came to the colony to work?"

"Yes. I am only endeavouring to prove to you how utterly unfit I am for the position you would assign to me."

"I am entirely convinced," said Bidaud, with a look of affection at the young man, "of your fitness for it."

"Think of my inexperience."

"Experience will come to you as it came to me. You will learn as I did."

"Then there is another view," said Basil, and now he spoke with a certain hesitation. "You and Annette are here as father and daughter. It is not to be supposed that I could supply your place. I am a young man; in a very few years Annette will be a young woman. Will not our relative positions then be likely to wound her susceptibilities-"

"Do not finish," said Bidaud, pressing Basil's hand warmly. "Leave all to time. Nothing but good can spring from what I propose. If Annette were now a young woman-"

And here he himself purposely broke off in the middle of a sentence. Certainly his manner could not be mistaken. A flush came into Basil's face, and he did not speak again for a few moments.

"Has the letter," he then said, "you wrote to your sister been returned to you?"

"No."

"Then it must have been delivered."

"Not necessarily. I am not sure whether undelivered letters addressed to Switzerland are returned to the colonial post-offices. If you have stated your principal objections I see nothing in them to cause you to hesitate. You will consent?"

"Yes," said Basil, "I accept the trust."

"With all my heart I thank you," said Anthony Bidaud; then he placed his hands on Basil's shoulders, and said in a solemn tone, "Guard my child."

"Whatever lies in my power to do," said Basil, "shall be done."

Bidaud nodded and turned away; his heart was too full to say more. Basil turned in another direction, with the intention of seeking Annette, in fulfilment of a promise he had made to join her in the woods. He knew where to find her.

CHAPTER IV

Traversing a narrow, winding bridle track, he soon reached the river. A broad belt of white sand stretched on either side for some little distance, the water glistening like polished mirrors in its smooth, deep reaches. Here and there it broke into a thousand tiny silver-crested waves, created by the inequalities in the ground. Farther on the main stream twisted into great clusters of dark green river oaks, and was lost to view. The white sands narrowed, and were replaced by rocks, covered with moss and lichen, and here a bark canoe was moored. Stepping on a large boulder, Basil jumped into the canoe, and loosening the rope, paddled down stream. The water ran like a mill race, and presently divided into two streams, beautified by waterfalls and fairy islands adorned with luxuriant vegetation. This dividing of the waters extended only some three or four hundred yards, at the termination of which they were united in one dark lagoon. A strange stillness reigned upon the surface of the water, but this sign of peace was insincere, the current in reality running hard and strong. Round about the canoe floated masses of white and mauve water lilies; in parts the huge leaves formed a perfect carpet, which easily supported the light weight of the lotus birds as they skipped from shore to shore. At the lower end of the lagoon the stream became so narrow that a man could jump across it, and here Basil left his canoe, and plunged into the woods to find Annette.

She was sitting on a great patch of velvet moss, idling with some flowers of the wax plant and the yellow hibiscus. Her back was towards Basil, who stepped softly, intending to surprise her, but the crackling of the leaves betrayed him. She turned quickly, and jumping up, ran to meet him.

"I have been waiting for you ever so long," she said, and she slipped her hand into his.

Basil made no excuse for being late; an age seemed to have passed since he had last seen her, though scarcely three hours separated "then" from "now." But short as was really the interval it had effected an important alteration in their relations towards each other, and the contemplation of this change made him silent. Neither was Annette as talkative as usual, and they strolled idly along for some distance without exchanging a word. Basil had hitherto accepted Annette's beauty in a general sense; she was pretty, she was bright, she was full of vivacity-that was all. Had she been a woman he would have subjected her to a closer and more analytical observation, for he had an artist's eye for beauty, and loved to look at it in animate and inanimate nature; but Annette was only a child, and he had paid her just that amount of attention which one pays to small wild-flowers that grow by the wayside. But now, looking down upon her as she walked by his side, he observed that her eyes were hazel, and he said to himself that hazel eyes, in girl and woman, were the most beautiful eyes in the world. The hazel colour in the eyes he was gazing upon was brilliant, and Basil said to himself that it was the brilliant hazel eyes that are the most beautiful in the world. Annette's features were not exactly regular, but formed as fair a picture of human loveliness as a man would wish to see, her lips sweetly curved, her teeth white and shapely, her ears like little shells, her golden brown hair gathered carelessly about the gracefully shaped head. Yes, Annette was beautiful even now as a child; how much more beautiful was she likely to be when her springtime was fully set in!

Raising her head suddenly she saw that Basil was gazing at her more earnestly and closely than he was in the habit of doing. "I was looking at your eyes, Annette," he said, rather guiltily. "I never noticed their colour till to-day."

"They are hazel. Do you like hazel eyes?"

"Very much."

"I am glad of that. My eyes are like my mother's. Will you come with me?"

"Where?"

"To her grave."

He had visited it before with Annette, and they now walked towards the canoe, gathering wild flowers as they walked. Once Annette slipped, and he caught her and held her up; there was an unusual tenderness in the action, and Annette nestled closer to him, and smiled happily. In the canoe her skilful fingers were busily at work, weaving the flowers they had gathered into garlands to lay upon her mother's grave. She had a special gift in such-like graceful tasks, but then her heart was in her fingers. The loving homage was reverently rendered when they reached the spot, and Basil assisted her in clearing the dead leaves and in planting some fresh roots she had brought with her from the woods.

Her task accomplished, Annette sat beside the grave, with a wistful expression on her face which made Basil wonder what was stirring in her mind. He waited for her to break the silence, and presently she spoke.

"What makes you so quiet, Basil?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it is because you have said so little, Annette."

"I have been thinking."