Basil and Annette. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

Rocke had got it into his head-which was not an intellectual head-that Anthony Bidaud entertained the notion of creating a general supervisor and manager of the estate, and that he, Rocke, was the man to be appointed; and since Basil's arrival his ambitious dream was disturbed by the conviction that Basil would step into the shoes he wished to wear.

      "I don't know that it is any business of yours," said Basil to Rocke, "only I thought you might have seen these persons."

      "Well, I haven't," said Rocke.

      Basil nodded cheerfully, and proceeded towards the house. He was not a man of paroxysms; except upon very special occasions his temperament was equable. As to whether Rocke had spoken the truth or no he did not speculate; it was not in Rocke he was interested, but in the man and woman with whom he had spoken on his way to the river.

      Anthony Bidaud was an early riser, and Basil went to the room in which the master of the plantation was in the habit of transacting his private business. He knocked twice or thrice at the door without receiving an answer, and then, turning the handle, he entered the room.

      Anthony Bidaud was reclining in the chair in which he usually sat when engaged in correspondence. His back was towards Basil, and before him on the table writing materials were spread. He sat quite still, and for a moment or two the young man was uncertain what to do. Then he called Bidaud by name. No answer came, and Basil, surprised at the stillness, advanced to Bidaud, and stood immediately behind him. Still no notice was taken of Basil. Then he laid his hand upon Bidaud's shoulder. The occupant of the chair did not move, and Basil leaned anxiously forward to look into his face. At first Basil believed him to be asleep, but a closer examination sent the blood rushing to the young man's heart in terror. Bidaud's arm hung listlessly by his side, and upon his face dwelt an expression of acute suffering. Again Basil called him by name, and shook him roughly, but no responsive word or movement greeted him from the quiet figure in the chair. Basil thrust his hand into Bidaud's shirt over the region of his heart, and trembled to meet with no pulsation there. He raised Bidaud's arm and released it. It dropped lifeless down.

      "Merciful heavens!" cried Basil, looking helplessly around. "Can this be death?"

      The question he asked of himself was heard by another man. The stranger he had met on the banks of the river had noiselessly opened the door, and now advanced to the chair.

      "Who speaks of death?" asked the stranger. "Ah, it is you, who are a guest in this house. And I find you and him " – he stretched a long bony finger at the recumbent figure of Anthony Bidaud-"here together, alone. You with a face of fear, terror, and excitement; he quite still, quite still!"

      He was perfectly composed, and there was a malicious smile on his lips as he confronted Basil. Dazed by the situation, Basil could find no words to reply.

      "You are confounded," continued the stranger. "It needs explanation. Who is this man sitting so quietly in his chair?"

      "M. Anthony Bidaud," said Basil, with white lips, "the master of this house."

      "Ah, M. Anthony Bidaud, the master of this house," said the stranger, echoing Basil's words, but whereas Basil's voice was agitated, his had not a tremor in it. "I will see if you are speaking the truth." He lowered his face, and his eyes rested upon the face of the motionless figure. "Yes, it is he, Anthony Bidaud, worn, alas! and wasted. Sad, sad, sad!" Grief was expressed in the words but not in the tone of the speaker. "What was it you asked a moment ago? Can this be death? I am a doctor. I will tell you."

      Lifting the lifeless form in his arms he laid it upon a couch, and tearing open the shirt and waistcoat, placed his ear to Anthony Bidaud's heart; then took his pulse between finger and thumb. He proceeded with his examination by taking from his pocket a little leather case containing a small comb and a narrow slip of looking-glass. Rubbing the surface of the glass dry with a handkerchief that had dropped to the ground, he passed it over the mouth of Anthony Bidaud; then held it up to the light.

      "Yes," he said, looking Basil full in the face, "it is death. It is lucky I travelled hither in the night, and did not allow myself to be delayed by fatigue. Fortune, I thank you. You have treated me scurvily hitherto; at length you relent, and smile upon me. Being a lady, I kiss my hand to you."

      There was something so inexpressibly heartless in the action that Basil cried indignantly, "Who are you, and by what right have you intruded yourself into this room?"

      The stranger did not immediately reply. He felt in his pocket for a snuff-box, and producing it regaled himself with a pinch. He offered the box to Basil, who pushed it aside. He smiled and placed the box in his pocket, and was also about to replace the leather case, when an amusing thought occurred to him. He dressed his hair with the comb, and gazed at himself in the glass with an affectation of vanity. His smile broadened as he noticed the look of horror in Basil's face.

      "You wish to know," he said slowly, "who I am, and by what right I intrude myself into this room. You have presumption, you, M. Anthony Bidaud's guest, to use the word 'intrude' to me! I am this dead gentleman's brother. My name is Gilbert Bidaud. Eh? Did you speak?"

      CHAPTER VII

      So many conflicting emotions had been pressed into the last few minutes that Basil was utterly bewildered. The cold, sardonic face before him, wreathed into mocking smiles even in the presence of death, added to his bewilderment. He passed his hand across his eyes, wondering whether he was dreaming, but removing his hand from his forehead he saw the dead form of Anthony Bidaud on the sofa, and heard the light laugh of the man who called himself Anthony's brother. This laugh recalled him to himself; he was in full possession of his senses, and understood what had occurred, and to some extent what it portended.

      Gilbert Bidaud! And the woman with him was not his wife, but his sister, to whom Annette's father had written six months ago, imploring her to come to him, and promising to provide for her and her family. That being so, she was here by authority. She was but an instrument in the hands of Gilbert Bidaud, whose lightest word she was constrained to obey.

      Gilbert Bidaud!

      "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."

      It was but last evening that these words were spoken by lips that would never speak again, and now this spendthrift and libertine was within touch of him, was standing with a smiling face by the dead body of the brother he would have wronged. There came to Basil's mind the image of Annette, the sweet confiding girl, who was to have been given into his care to guard and protect. All that was over now. Inexorable death had stopped the fulfilment of the fond father's wish. And Annette herself, how would it fare with her? She was ignorant as yet of the crushing, terrible blow which had so suddenly fallen upon her. Who would impart the cruel news to her? Who would comfort her in her bereavement? Even as these reflections crossed his mind he heard the young girl's voice singing outside as she tripped downstairs from her bedroom. He glided to the door, and softly turned the key. Just in time. Annette lingered at the door, tried the handle gently with the intention of kissing her father good-morning, and, finding the door fast, passed on gaily and continued her song.

      "That is Annette?" questioned Gilbert Bidaud. Basil nodded. "A sweet voice, the voice of a child, whose nature is not yet moulded. We will mould it, my sister and I. We will instil into her virgin soul, principles. She will be grateful that we have come, being of her blood. I have a number of your English sayings at my fingers' ends. Blood is thicker than water. I represent the one, you the other. She is not a woman-yet. The mind of a child is like a slate! fancies, likings, are easily rubbed off. It is more serious when we grow older. The child forgets, the woman remembers. Do you catch my meaning?"

      "I should be sorry to say I did," replied Basil.

      "Ah, you would pay me a compliment, gilding me with virtues to which I do not aspire, to which I have never aspired. I am a plain man, I; honest to the backbone; with my heart on my sieve, transparent. It has not paid up to this time, but my hour has come. Why did you lock the door?"

      "Does not that answer you?" pointing to the dead body of Annette's father.

      "Ah,