Basil and Annette. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ VI

      A sudden excitement was observable in the stranger. He paused in his undressing, and laid his hand on Basil's arm, clutching with nervous fingers.

      "You are very intimate with M. Anthony Bidaud?" he said.

      "We are friends."

      "Friends? Ah! You are not related? No, you cannot be, for you are English. Yet there are other ties. His wife is dead, you say, and as I know. Yes, dead. But he may be looking for another, may be already married again." He spoke in feverish haste. ("A touch of the jackal here," thought Basil.) "Tell me, you friend of M. Anthony Bidaud."

      "He is not married again," said Basil, "and to my knowledge is not seeking another wife."

      The stranger drew a long breath of relief, followed immediately by the exhibition of a new suspicion. "His daughter, Annette-if he spoke truth a child. But men lie sometimes, very often, you, I, all men. He married long, long ago, and this Annette may well be a young woman of twenty." He scowled as he looked at Basil's handsome face. "Is she married, or going to be?

      "Absurd," said Basil, but a little touch of colour came into his face which the sharp eyes of the stranger noted, "she is scarcely fourteen years of age."

      "Good, good. Time, let us hope, to prevent mischief. But, pardon me, if you live in the house of M. Bidaud, there must be a reason. You do not look like a common labourer; you are something better, a gentleman-eh?" And again all his thin pointed features seemed, foxlike, to converge to one point.

      "I am a gentleman," said Basil, "and I am staying with M. Bidaud as a guest." He referred to the present, not feeling warranted in speaking of the future. The arrangement he had entered into with Anthony Bidaud had yet to be carried into effect.

      "Ah, ah, as a guest, only as a guest, but with an eye to the future, perhaps. M. Anthony Bidaud is rich, and in two years his daughter, his only child, will be sixteen and nearly ripe. There is a saying, is there not, among you English that welcomes the coming and speeds the parting guest? I have been in your country, and know something of its literature, and in my own land my education was not neglected. That saying about the coming and parting guest is a good omen, for I have but just arrived, and you-"

      But Basil did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence. Annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken he turned on his heel, and left the stranger to enjoy his bath. He walked slowly to his own, rather ruffled by the interview.

      "Who can he be?" he thought, as he prepared for his swim. "He seems to be acquainted with M. Bidaud and with his personal history. What on earth made me answer his interminable questions? His pertinacity, I suppose, and a kind of magnetism in him which it was hard to resist. But I might have been courteous without being communicative. I said nothing, however, of my own prompting, and his questions followed each other naturally. What he learnt from me he could have learnt from a dozen others, and after all there is no harm done. He certainly has the knack of rubbing the wrong way; an extraordinarily annoying fellow, but neither loutish nor ignorant. That is why I was constrained to follow his lead. This is his destination; his business then, must be with M. Bidaud. Important business, he said-and with Annette's father. I did not like his references to Annette. Will it be right or wrong for me to convey my impressions of this stranger to M. Bidaud? Wrong. I will merely mention that I met with such a man, who was coming to the house upon business. He spoke of having walked a long way. He must be poor, or he would have chosen another mode of conveyance, especially as he seems to be in somewhat feverish haste. Being poor is nothing against him; I am poor myself. Psha! What a worry I am making of nothing!"

      He could not dismiss the subject, however, and the currents of his thoughts ran on even as he swam.

      "The woman I met on my way to the river; how skilfully he evaded my inquiries as to the relationship between them! His tone when he spoke of her showed that he had power over her. I have not the least doubt he is the kind of man who can make himself intensely disagreeable. Poor woman! There is a resemblance in their features; I have heard that husband and wife frequently grow like each other in face. She was hungry, but she declined the offer of a good meal. Acting, I should say, under her husband's instructions, and too frightened of him to disobey him. Faithful creatures, women. Patient as camels some of them and as docile. A hard tramp she seems to have had of it, and he has not spared her. Well, she can rest here a few days. Would I like them to remain on the plantation? No. He would keep me in a continual state of irritation. His allusions to Annette were in the worst of taste. I dare say before the day is out I shall know the nature of his business. M. Bidaud will tell me. Confound the fellow! I'll not think of him any more."

      As a contribution towards this end he plunged half a dozen times into the deepest parts of the river, and finally emerged, glowing. The disturbing impressions produced by the stranger were dissipated, and Basil thought it would look churlish if on his road back to the house he did not go to see whether he could be of any service to him. He saw nothing, however, of the man or the woman, and greatly refreshed, he proceeded to the house. The sun was now high in the heavens, and the labourers were at work on the plantation. He exchanged greetings with a few of the better sort, and inquired whether they had seen anything of the strangers. They replied in the negative; they had seen nothing of them.

      "Have you, Rocke?" he asked of one who was regarding him with a scowl.

      "No," said Rocke. "What business is it of mine?"

      It was Rocke's misfortune to always wear a scowl on his face, but in this scowl there were degrees. To produce an amiable smile was with Rocke an impossibility; nature had been cruel, and his parents, one or both of them, had transmitted to him a sour temper as an inheritance; but the state of his feelings could be correctly judged by the kind of scowl he wore; a nice observer could scarcely make a mistake as to whether he tolerated, disliked, or hated the man he was gazing on. There could be no mistake made now; he hated Basil.

      There was a reason. Every man has his good points, even the worst of men, and Rocke's good point was that he conscientiously performed the duties for which he was engaged. However hard the work before him, done it was with a will-and a scowl. Now, this was a distinct virtue, and Anthony Bidaud gave him credit for it, and appreciated the conscientious worker, as any other master would do of a man who gave him full value for his wage. So far, so good; master and man were satisfied. But before Basil's arrival on the plantation 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. СКАЧАТЬ