CHAPTER XLII
The lodge to which Gilbert Bidaud referred stood close to the gates through which entrance was obtained to the house and grounds. It contained four rooms, two above and two below, and was furnished for residence. There were times when Gilbert himself occupied it, and it was always kept ready for him, the two rooms below affording him all the accommodation he required. Between these two rooms ran a narrow passage, at the back end of which was a door, but seldom used, leading out to the grounds. A staircase at the side of this passage led to the rooms above.
Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor had arrived at the villa late in the day, and it was now night. Dark clouds had gathered, obscuring moon and stars.
"There will be a storm before sunrise," said Gilbert, as they reached the front door of the lodge, which he unlocked and threw open. "Enter, my dear friend."
Chaytor uttered no word, and followed Gilbert into the passage. The old man carefully locked the door, and the two men stood in darkness a moment, listening. Then the master of Villa Bidaud turned the handle of the door of the sitting-room, and stepping towards the window, closed the shutters through which no chink of light could be seen from without. Having thus secured themselves from observation, he struck a match and lit a lamp, which threw a bright light around. In a basket by the sideboard were some bottles of red wine, and glasses and corkscrew were handy. Gilbert uncorked a bottle and put glasses on the table.
"Will you drink?" he asked.
"Have you nothing stronger than this stuff?" asked Chaytor, in reply.
"There is a bottle of brandy somewhere," said Gilbert, opening a door in the sideboard. "Ah, here it is. I am glad that am able to accommodate you. I am always glad to accommodate my friends."
Chaytor half filled a tumbler with the spirit, and drank it neat. His companion took the bottle, and replaced it in the cupboard.
"You are a generous host," observed Chaytor.
"It is not that," said Gilbert, genially. "It is that you need your wits to understand my plain meaning. Will you sit or stand?"
"I will do as I please."
"Do so. Your pleasure is a law to me. Pardon me a moment's consideration. I am debating by what name to address you."
"My name is Basil Whittingham, as you well know."
"How should I well know it? It is not my custom to accept men as they present themselves. I judge for myself. Man is a study. I study him, and each one who crosses my path and enters, for a time short or long, into my life, affords me scope for observation and contemplation. As you have done."
"As I have done," said Chaytor, moodily.
"As you have done," repeated Gilbert.
"I suppose I may make one observation."
"One! A dozen-a hundred. What you say shall be attentively received. Be sure of that."
"I recall," said Chaytor, "a conversation we had. You said you would not pry into my secrets, and expressed a desire that I should not pry into yours."
"I remember. I said also something about our cupboards with their skeletons, and that each should keep his key."
"Yes-and you concluded with these words: 'What I choose to reveal, I reveal; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not step.' I am correct in the quotation, I think?"
"It is freely admitted. You have a retentive memory, and my observations must have made an impression upon you."
"I have not," said Chaytor, "attempted to pry into your secrets. Why do you attempt to pry into mine?"
"My dear friend," said Gilbert, in his blandest tone, "you forget. It is by your invitation we are now conversing, and it is for your safety I proposed we should converse here in secresy. You said to me, 'I want your plain meaning.' If you have changed your mind, we will finish now, this moment, and will return to our dear Annette."
"No," said Chaytor, "we will not finish now. I will hear what you have to say."
"You are gracious. But pray believe me; I have not attempted to pry into your secrets. You have yourself revealed yourself to me by a thousand signs. I am a man gifted with a fair intelligence. I do not say to my mind, Observe, it observes intuitively, without command or direction. What is the result? I learn, not what you are, but what you are not."
"Indeed! And what am I not?"
"Plainly?"
"Quite plainly."
"My dear friend," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a smile and a confident nod, "you are not Basil Whittingham."
"That is your game, is it?" cried Chaytor, but his heart was chilled by the cold assurance of Gilbert's voice and manner.
"Not my game-yours. I did not intrude upon you; you intruded upon me. By your own design you came, and if there is a pit before you, it is you, not I, who have dug it. But you can yet save yourself."
"How?" said Chaytor involuntarily, and was instantly made aware of his imprudence by the amused smile which his exclamation called up to Gilbert's lips. "Curse it! I mean, what have I revealed, as you so cleverly express it?"
"I will tell you. You come to Paris, and play the spy upon us. You take rooms opposite our hotel, and so arrange a foreground of observation, that you can see what passes in our apartments without dreaming that you have laid yourself open to observation."
"Oh, you found that out, did you?" exclaimed Chaytor.
"I found that out; and I found out also that you had been in Paris a long, long time, although you declared to my niece, when you first presented yourself to us, that you had but just arrived by the night train. I take no merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while you were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 'Why this lie? Why this secret espionage?' and since then it is that I found the answer. Naturally we spoke of Australia; naturally I recalled the incidents of my first meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother's plantation. They were incidents it was not possible to forget by either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely ignorant of them; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing what never occurred. In this way did you again reveal to me, not what you are, but what you are not. Finding your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I confess it, a simple, innocent trap, which you, being Basil Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to yourself. In that case it would have been I, not you, who would have had to eat humble pie-is not that your English saying? I invented scenes and incidents in our meeting and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to which you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a comedy, these imaginary conversations and incidents of my conjuring up, and you saying, 'Yes, yes, I remember, I remember.' Fie, fie, dear friend, it was clumsy of you. Again, those English newspapers, with their celebrated case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explanation did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read them so eagerly. There were here to my hand the pieces of a puzzle not difficult to put together. Let me tell you-you deceived not one of us completely. My sister says, 'That man is not Basil Whittingham.' My niece says no word-her grief is too great-she suffers, through you, a martyrdom; but she doubts you none the less. Some strong confirmation-I know not what-of her doubts you presented her with this very night when you spoke so freely of Old Corrie's death."
"Curse you!" cried Chaytor. "You drew me on."
"Could I guess what was coming when his name was introduced? Could I divine what you were about to say? Take this from me, my friend; my niece knows something of Old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and when she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those eyes of yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, you felt as I felt, that she accused you of lying. Even her maid, Emily, who never set eyes on Basil Whittingham, believes not in you. And the fault is all your own. It is you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blustering and denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as we are concerned, the game is up."
"So you mean to say that you withdraw from the marriage contract between me and Annette?"
"It is not I who withdraw; it is she, who will choose death rather. She may consider herself bound-I cannot say; but she and you will never stand side by side at the altar."
"The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce."
"That is, to disappear?"
"You can express it in those words if you choose. Mind, I do not leave your hospitable abode because I am afraid. What is there to be afraid of? I can afford to laugh at what you have said, which is false from beginning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done pretty well out of me; you are a cunning old bird, and you have feathered your nest with my feathers. I calculate that you have at least five thousand pounds of my money in your pocket."
"Of your money?" queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile.
"Of my money."
"No, no; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of Basil Whittingham's money."
"Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. Have you anything else to say to me?"
"Yes. You are not free to go yet."
"What! Will you stop me?"
"No; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. We will have the case in the papers, and you shall have an opportunity of clearing yourself of the accusation I bring against you. Basil Whittingham maybe alive; Old Corrie may be alive; people who know really who you are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought forward to acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, fuss, publicity, you shall have them. There is, however, an alternative."
"Let me hear it."
"Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed forgery by affixing his name to two documents in my possession. Not being Basil Whittingham, you have obtained by fraud the fortune which was his. So apprehensive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have done, but you carry it about with you, in secret pockets, on your person." Chaytor started. "I could put my finger on the precise spots in which Basil Whittingham's fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising your hand-you are doing it unconsciously at this moment-to your side, to your breast, to assure yourself that the money is safe. Shall we make terms?"
"Name them."
"I do not desire to know the amount of your wealth; I think only of myself, and of what the secret in my possession is worth. Shall we say five thousand pounds?"
"You may say five thousand pounds," blustered Chaytor, and then suddenly paused, overwhelmed by the sense of power in his companion's smiling face. "Hang it," he said presently, "give me some brandy."
Gilbert Bidaud produced the bottle, and, as Newman Chaytor gulped the liquor down, repeated, "Shall we say five thousand pounds?"
"I will give you one," said Chaytor faintly. "Five. Decide quickly. Observe, I take out my watch; it wants two minutes to the hour. If at the end of these two minutes you do not agree, I shall double the terms. By this time you know me, and know that you cannot with safety trifle with me."
Chaytor stepped forward and looked at the second-hand, his mind dazed with whirling thought. Should he refuse? Should he show fight? Did he dare to risk the exposure which Gilbert threatened?
"It wants thirty seconds yet," said Gilbert, calmly? "they are precious moments, these that are flying so fast? Twenty-fifteen-ten-five-"
"I consent to be robbed," said Chaytor, hurriedly. He did not dare to fight.
"Good," said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his pocket. "The bargain must be completed to-night, after which without loss of time, I should advise you to disappear. I will make excuses to my niece; she will not be anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight, here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you have purchased safety we will bid each other an eternal farewell. I will have a horse ready for you, on which you can ride to-where you please. Let us now return to the bosom of my beloved family; a longer absence may arouse suspicion."
CHAPTER XLIII
During the visit of Gilbert and Chaytor to Monte Carlo some important action had been taken by Annette's staunch maid, Emily. Loyal to the backbone to her young mistress, she had fully sympathised with her in her unhappiness, and had gone farther than Annette, in her reflections upon the future. She saw that a marriage with a man to whom Annette had pledged herself would result in lifelong misery, and she set her mind to work to consider how the dreadful consequence could be averted. She saw but one way to accomplish this; she and her mistress must fly from the Villa Bidaud. She did not moot this project to Annette, for whenever she commenced to speak upon the subject of the approaching union Annette stopped her, and would not listen to what she had to say. "But at the last moment," thought the faithful maid, "when she sees that there is no other escape for her, she will agree to fly with me from this horrible place. We will go to mother in Bournemouth; she will be safer there than in these wicked foreign countries." Having reached thus far in her deliberations she did not pursue them farther; she was not an argumentative person, and she was comfortably satisfied with the general reflection that, after that, things would be sure to come all right. Such a belief is common with numbers of worthy people when they are considering knotty questions, and if it evidences no deep powers of mental analysis, is at all events a proof of the possession of an inherent dependence upon the goodness of Providence-which, in its way, is a kind of religion not to be despised.
With a certain conclusion in her mind, Annette busied herself as to the means of carrying it out when the proper time arrived. By Gilbert Bidaud's orders the gates were kept locked, and the duty of opening them devolved upon a man who did all the outdoor work in the house and grounds. Emily's advances towards this man met with no response; other means, therefore, must be tried. She had always been successful in making friends outside Gilbert Bidaud's establishment, through whom she obtained her letters from home, and the friend she had made in the village in which the Villa Bidaud was situated was the woman who kept the post-house. It was a matter easily arranged. Annette was a liberal mistress, and Emily was a saving girl; a judicious system of small bribes effected all that Emily desired in this respect. Twice or thrice every week she visited the post-mistress to enquire for letters, and these visits were made in the night, the darkest hours being chosen. The gates being locked she could not get out that way, and she sought another mode of egress. She found it in the lodge in which Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor held their conference. There was a secure lock on the front door, of which Gilbert, or his sister, kept the key, but the lock on the back door was frail, and Emily discovered how to manage it, so that she could get in and out of the lodge without any person being the wiser. Once inside the lodge Emily would creep up the stairs to the first floor, the window of the back room of which almost touched the stone wall which ran round the grounds. This wall was some seven feet in height, but there were dilapidations in it which served for foot-holes, and by means of these luckily-formed steps the courageous girl was enabled to pass to and fro and make the desired visits to the post-mistress. Of course there was the danger of discovery, but Emily was a girl in a thousand, and the extraordinary care she took in these enterprises was a fair guarantee of safety. The lonely situation of the house assisted her; there were nights when, for hours together, not a human being traversed the narrow road into which the front gate opened.
On the night of the secret interview between Gilbert and Chaytor, Emily had planned a visit to the post-mistress. She made her way into the lodge unobserved, crept up the stairs in the dark, and was about to open the back window, when her attention was arrested by a sound below, which, as she afterwards described, sent her heart into her mouth. It was the sound of the unlocking of the front door. Emily's heart went rub-a-dub with the fear that she was discovered, but as the slow minutes passed without anything occurring, her fear lessened, and she became sufficiently composed to give attention to the circumstances. Softly opening the door which led to the staircase, she heard voices in a room below which she recognised as those of Gilbert Bidaud and the man who called himself Basil Whittingham. What had they come there to say? Why could they not have spoken in the house? They must be hatching some plot against her young mistress. At all hazards, she would try to hear what they were saying to each other. Quietly, very quietly, she descended the stairs, setting her feet down with the greatest care, and pausing between each step. A cat could not have trod more noiselessly than she. At length she reached the door beyond which the conversation was taking place, and crouching down she applied her eye to the keyhole. There were the two men, one with a smile on his face, the other, dark and sinister; and Emily observed that they were not standing side by side, but that a broad table was between them. This precaution had been taken by Gilbert, who was quite prepared for any sudden attempt at violence on Chaytor's part.
Emily was too late to hear all that was said, but she heard enough. Had she not exercised control over her feelings she would have screamed with mingled joy and horror; as it was, the tears ran down her face as fast as she wiped them away, for she wanted to see as much as she could. The brave girl thanked God that a fortunate conjuncture had made her a witness of the interview between the two villains. Now, certainly, her dear mistress was saved, and she the instrument to avert the misery with which she was threatened; for it was not alone the projected marriage which was breaking Annette's heart, but the loss of faith in the purity and nobility of Basil's nature. Emily waited very nearly to the end; she saw Gilbert take out his watch and count the moments, she heard the bargain agreed to and the second interview at midnight planned, and then, just in time, she crept up the stairs as softly as she had crept down, and waited in the room above until the two men left the lodge.
What now should she do? Return to the house, and acquaint Annette with what she had heard, or go to the post-mistress to see if there was a letter for her? If she went straight to Annette she might not have another opportunity of getting out that night; besides, she expected a letter from her mother, and was anxious for it. She decided to go first to the post-mistress; Annette knew that she would be away for some little while, and had said, "I shall wait up for you, Emily."
She threw open the window, and climbed on to the wall, and down into the road. It was very dark, and as Gilbert Bidaud had prognosticated, a storm was gathering, but Emily knew her way well to the post-office, and was not afraid of darkness. So she sped along under the waving branches and over black shadows till she arrived at her destination. Once on her way she was startled; she thought she saw something more substantial than shadow moving by the road side, but after pausing to look and listen her alarm subsided; all was quiet and still.
There was no light in the post-house, which was little better than a cottage, but Emily did not expect to see one. She tapped at the shutters, and a woman's voice from within asked if that was "Miss Emily." The girl answering in the affirmative, a woman appeared at the door and bade her enter.
"Have you a letter for me?" said Emily.
"Yes," the woman replied, "she had a letter for her," and produced it.
"Why," cried Emily, "this is not from England?" No, said the woman, it was not from England, and explained that a gentleman had visited her in the evening, and had made enquiries concerning the Villa Bidaud and its inmates. Hearing that Miss Annette Bidaud was there, he had then inquired for the young lady's maid, mentioning her by name, Miss Emily Crawford. The gentleman asked if the post-mistress was likely to see the girl, and whether she could convey a letter to her secretly that night or early in the morning. The post-mistress said she could not promise to do so that night, but she would endeavour to convey the letter in the morning, and added that it was not unlikely Miss Emily would come before them to inquire for letters. "If she does," said the gentleman, "give her this, and ask her to read it here, before she goes back to the villa. It is a letter of the utmost importance, and it must fall into no other hands than Miss Emily's." The post-mistress concluded by saying that the gentleman had paid her well for the service, and that she was sure there was something very particular in the letter.
Emily, although burning with impatience, listened quietly to the tale, holding the letter tight in her hand all the time, and when the woman had done speaking asked only one question.
"Was the gentleman an Englishman?"
"Yes," replied the woman; "he was an Englishman."
Then Emily opened the letter, and read:
"My Dear Miss Emily Crawford,, – The writer of this is Old Corrie, Miss Annette's sincere and faithful friend. He has seen your mother in Bournemouth, and has come here post haste to defeat a plot to ruin your dear young mistress's happiness. He has a gentleman with him little lady will be glad to see. If you get this letter to-night, don't be frightened if Old Corrie speaks to you as you go back to the Villa Bidaud. Not an hour should be lost to unmask the villain and secure little lady's happiness. You are a brave, good girl. If you don't get this letter till the morning, come at once to the back of the school-house, where you will see little lady's true friend,
"Old Corrie."
The letter had been composed partly by Basil and partly by Old Corrie, who had written it himself. Emily's eyes sparkled as she read. She bade the post-mistress good-night, thanked her for the letter, said it contained good news, and went away with a heart as light as a bird's. So light, indeed, that she carolled softly to herself as she stepped very, very slowly along the dark, narrow road, and the words she carolled were:
"I am Emily Crawford, and I have got your letter. Where are you, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?" The song could not have been put into lines that would scan, but blither, happier words with true poetry in them, were never sung by human voice.
"Where are you, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie, dear Old Corrie?" sang the girl, and paused and listened, and went on again, singing.
"Here I am," said a kindly voice, "and God bless you for a true heart!"
"Stop a moment, please," said the girl; who now that the reality was close by her side, could not help feeling startled. "Are you sure you are Old Corrie, my dear mistress's friend from Australia? The gentleman with a bear, you know?"
"You do well to doubt," said Old Corrie, "with what is going on around you in this outlandish country. I am the man I say. Stand still while I strike a light, so that you can see me. We have a bull's-eye lantern with us. Is little lady well?"
"Her heart is breaking," said Emily. "But I have good news for her before she sleeps to-night."
"And so have we, my dear, if you can get us to her."
"Let me hold the lantern, Mr. Corrie, said Emily.
"No, my dear, you might drop it; there is a surprise in store for you and for everyone in the villa yonder with its stone walls. There, the lamp's alight, and you can see my face, dark as the night is. Do you think you can trust me?"
"Yes, I do, and it was only out of curiosity I wanted to look at you." And then Emily cried, "Oh!"
"What is it, my dear?" asked Old Corrie.
"There is another," said Emily, gasping.
"There are two others; we have come prepared."
He whispered something in her ear which caused her to cry "Oh!" more than once, and to clap her hands in wonderment.
"May I see him?" she asked in a whisper.
The answer was given by Basil himself, who came forward and took her by the hand, while the light, directed by Old Corrie, shone upon his face.
"It is wonderful, wonderful!" she exclaimed, and added under her breath, "But I think I should have known."
In the expression of which opinion she paid a higher tribute to her judgment than she could have rightly claimed for it; but this, at such a time and in such circumstances, was a small matter.
Mr. Philpott, who had been standing silently in the rear, now joined the party.
"Don't be frightened, my dear," said Old Corrie; "there are no more of us. What we've got to do now is to decide what is to be done, how is it to be done, and when is it to be done."
"First," interposed Mr. Philpott, to whom, by tacit consent, the command had been given, "Miss Emily will perhaps give us an explanation of certain words she spoke a minute ago. Are we quite private here, Miss Emily?"
"It's hardly likely," replied Emily, "that a living soul will pass along this road till daybreak."
"So much the better. You said just now that Miss Bidaud's heart was breaking, but that you had good news for her before she went to sleep to-night. Did you mean by that that our arrival here was the good news?"
"No, I meant something very different, something that you ought to know before you decide what to do."
"I thought as much. Well, let us hear it, my girl."
Thereupon Emily related all that she had overheard between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor. It was difficult for Basil to curb his excitement, and whenever an indignant exclamation passed his lips, Emily paused in sympathy, but he was too sensible of the value of time to frequently interrupt her, and as she spoke quickly, her tale did not occupy many minutes.
"This story," said Mr. Philpott, with a beaming face, "decides what is to be done, and how and when. The road is prepared for us by the villains themselves. It is a bold move I am about to suggest, but to adopt half-and-half measures with these scoundrels would be ridiculous."
Basil and Old Corrie said they were prepared for any move, however bold and daring, and were only too eager to undertake it.
"We mustn't be to eager," said Mr. Philpott; "cool and steady is our watchword. Now, Miss Emily, can you get us into the grounds of the villa to-night?"
"If I can get in," said the girl, "you can get in."
"And one of us into the lodge where the scoundrels are to meet at midnight?"
"Yes," said Emily, unhesitatingly.
"You are a girl after my own heart," said Mr. Philpott, admiringly. "There is a risk, you know, and you will have a share in it. It wouldn't be right for me to deceive you."
"I don't mind the risk," said the courageous girl. "I want to help to save my dear young lady from these wretches and monsters."
"God bless you, Emily," said Basil, pressing her hand, and Emily felt that she needed no other reward.
Mr. Philpott then described his plan. Guided by Emily, they were all to get into the grounds, when their forces were to be thus disposed of: Basil and Old Corrie were to hide in the grounds as close as possible to the back door of the lodge; they were not to move or speak; Emily was to return to the house, and impart to Annette all that she knew, and in this way prepare her for what was to follow; both Annette and her maid were to be ready to come from the house to the lodge upon a given signal; Mr. Philpott was to conceal himself in one of the upper rooms of the lodge, and no movement whatever was to be made until he blew loudly upon a policeman's whistle. The moment this signal was given, Basil and Old Corrie were to enter the lodge through the back door, which Emily would leave unlocked, but properly closed, so as to excite no suspicion in the minds of Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor-and proceed at once to the lower room, in which these men were located; and Annette and Emily were to leave the house and come immediately to the lodge.
"All this," said Mr. Philpott aside to Basil, "is not exactly lawful, and if Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Chaytor had right on their side we should get into trouble. But we have the whip hand of them and are safe. I anticipate very little difficulty, only neither of our men must be allowed to escape until we have settled with them."
The party proceeded to the villa, Emily walking a little ahead with Basil, to whom she imparted how matters stood with her young mistress.
"Her heart was truly breaking," said the girl, "and she could never have lived through it, never! But she will soon be her dear, bright self again. All, sir, she is the sweetest lady that ever drew breath-and O, how these wretches have made her suffer! But there is happiness coming to her. I could sing for joy, indeed I could, sir!"