The Second Dandy Chater
by Tom Gallon · English · Gutenberg #47271 · 481,780 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Second Dandy Chater
Author: Tom Gallon
Release date: November 2, 2014 [eBook #47271]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND DANDY CHATER ***
THE SECOND DANDY CHATER
BY
TOM GALLON
_Author of_
“Tatterly,”
“The Kingdom of Hate,”
et cetera.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
Dodd, Mead & Company
_Copyright, 1900_,
By TOM GALLON.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET 1
II. ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW 14
III. BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED 27
IV. A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED 40
V. AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN 53
VI. AT THE SIGN OF “THE THREE WATERMEN” 66
VII. MASTER AND SERVANT 80
VIII. TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD 93
IX. A SUMMONS FROM SHYLOCK 106
X. A BODY FROM THE RIVER 120
XI. MISS VINT HEARS VOICES 133
XII. WANTED—A DEAD MAN! 146
XIII. INSPECTOR TOKELY IS EMPHATIC 159
XIV. BETTY SIGGS DREAMS A DREAM 173
XV. SHADY ’UN AS A MORAL CHARACTER 186
XVI. WHO KILLED THIS WOMAN? 199
XVII. CLARA FINDS A LODGING 212
XVIII. A CHASE IN THE DARK 224
XIX. HAUNTED 238
XX. NEPTUNE TO THE RESCUE 252
XXI. DR. CRIPPS IS INCOHERENT 265
XXII. OGLEDON PLAYS HIS LAST CARD 279
XXIII. DANDY CHATER COMES FROM THE GRAVE 293
XXIV. A RACE FOR A LIFE 306
XXV. GOING—GOING—GONE! 320
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Second Dandy Chater
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET
If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary and
disconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it is
that part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of the
Thames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, by
anything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads and
fields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, to
play a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else which
rises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if he
happen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks more
sullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, and
glad to get to bed; there, the few travellers who have been so unwise,
or so unfortunate, as to be left out of doors, are surly in
consequence, and give but grudging greeting to any one they meet.
On just such an evening as this a solitary man, muffled to the eyes,
fought a desperate battle with the various winds, something to his own
discomfiture, and very much to the ruffling of his temper, on the way
to the small village of Bamberton. The railway leaves off suddenly,
some six miles from Bamberton, and the man who would visit that
interesting spot must perforce pay for a fly at the Railway Inn, if he
desire to enter the place with any ostentation, or must walk.
In the case of this particular man, he desired, for purposes of his
own, to attract as little notice as possible; and was, therefore,
tramping through the mud and a drizzling rain, as cheerfully as might
be. He was a tall, well-built man, of about eight-and-twenty years of
age; with strong, well-defined features, rendered the more so by the
fact that his face was cleanly shaven; possibly from having led a
solitary life, he had a habit of communing with himself.
“A cheery welcome, this, to one’s native land—to one’s native place!”
he muttered, bending his head, as a fresh gust of wind and rain drove
at him. “Why—if the devil himself were in league against me, and had
made up his mind to oppose my coming, he couldn’t fight harder than
this! ’Pon my word, it almost looks like a bad omen for you, Philip
Crowdy—a devilish bad omen!”
Despite the wind and the rain and the gathering night, however, the man
presently seated himself on a stone, near the roadside, and within
sight of the twinkling lights of the village, as though he has
something weighty on his mind, which must be thrashed out before he
could proceed to his destination. Despite the wind and the rain, too,
he took the matter quite good-humouredly, in putting a suppositious
case to himself—even doing it with some jocularity.
“Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no getting
away from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will not
be welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of the
respected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from that
point of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and know
exactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me better
than daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater as
possible, and observe him.”
The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment or
two, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hear
the sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of the
village; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure but
himself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on his
shoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet.
Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by that
light, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and,
although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air of
grace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’s
eyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite still
before him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him to
speak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdy
spoke.
“What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.
The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too,
although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces of
tears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knew
that he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no start
of surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought she
saw in him the person she wanted.
“Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touch
of the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me again
to-night.”
The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention of
the name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time to
collect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her.
“Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer!
Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?”
“I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously.
“You know why I can’t go. You promised to meet me to-night, in the
little wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?”
“Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in this
sudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—to
give such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was,
and what her errand might be. “What then?”
“Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a little
nearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my good
name—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”
How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in her
eyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her,
felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real Dandy
Chater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have been
so innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he had
too much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously.
“I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I have
promised,” he replied slowly.
“You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And you
are going to take me to London—aren’t you?”
This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and Philip
Crowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he had
still much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he took
it half laughingly.
“To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?”
She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon you
forget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the old
place—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the old
place at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you say
we might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thought
of it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy and
gratitude—and then—we are to be married!”
“There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy to
himself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of the
girl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, if
he’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible,
at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quite
forgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——”
“Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man and
wife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!”
“Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—I
hope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to the
girl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say we
were to meet in the wood?”
“At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have time
to walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the last
train, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?”
“Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; till
then—good-bye!”
He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towards
the village, when the girl called piteously after him.
“Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?”
The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, he
put an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towards
hers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was no
change in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.
“That was a trial!” he muttered, when he had started again towards the
village, and had left her standing in the road looking after him. “The
likeness must be greater even than I suspected. Now to find Mr. Dandy
Chater—or rather—to keep out of his way, until I know what his
movements are.”
Coming, in the darkness, into the little village—a place consisting of
one long straggling street of cottages, running up a hill—he found the
road flanked on either side by a small inn. On the one side—the right
hand—was the Chater Arms; on the other—the Bamberton Head. Standing
between them, and looking up the long straggling street, Mr. Philip
Crowdy could discern, in the distance, perched on rising ground, the
outlines of a great house, with lights showing faintly here and there
in its windows.
“That’s Chater Hall—evidently,” he said softly to himself. “Now the
question is, where is Mr. Dandy Chater? Shall I go up to the Hall, and
reconnoitre the position, or shall I try one of the inns? I think I’ll
try one of the inns; if I happen to drop into the wrong one, and he’s
there, I must trust to making a bolt for it; if he’s _not_ there, I
think the likeness will serve, and I may hear something which will be
useful. Now, then—heads, right—tails, left!”
He spun a coin in the air—looked at it closely—returned it to his
pocket—and turned to the left, into the Bamberton Head. Knowing that
any sign of hesitation might mean his undoing, he thrust open a door
which led into the little parlour, and boldly entered it. There were
one or two men in the room, and a big surly-looking giant of a fellow,
who appeared to be the landlord. The men exchanged glances which, to
the man keenly watchful of every movement, seemed to be glances of
surprise; the surly landlord put a hand to his forehead.
“Evenin’, Muster Chater,” said the man. “’Tain’t of’en as we sees
anything o’ you this side the way, sir.”
“Wrong house,” thought Philip Crowdy. “So much the better, perhaps; I
am less likely to meet the real man, until I wish to do so.” Aloud he
said, with a shrug of the shoulders—“Oh—anything for a change. Bring
me some brandy, it can’t be worse than that at the other shop—and it
may be better.”
“A deal better, Muster Chater, take my word for ’t,” replied the
landlord, hurrying away to execute the order.
During the time that the stranger sat there, and had leisure to look
about him, he became aware of one unpleasant fact. He saw that, however
great might be their respect for the mere position of the man they
supposed him to be, there was a curious resentment at his presence, and
a distrust of him personally, which was not to be disguised. When,
having leisurely drunk his brandy, he left the place, to their evident
relief, and came again out into the darkness of the village street, he
expressed the opinion to himself, in one emphatic phrase, that Dandy
Chater was a bad lot.
In the strangeness of his position, and in his uncertainty as to what
future course he was to take, his interview with the girl, on the road
outside the village, had gone, for the time, clean out of his mind;
when he looked at his watch, he discovered, to his dismay, that it was
nearly eight o’clock. More than that, he did not even know where the
wood of which she had spoken was situated, and he dared not ask the way
to it.
Trusting to blind chance to guide him, and looking about anxiously over
the flat landscape, for anything at all answering the description of a
mill, or even of a wood, he lost more valuable time still; and at last,
in sheer desperation, remembering that the last train for London
started at a few minutes to the hour of nine, he set off, at a rapid
rate, for the railway station—running along the road now and then, in
his anxiety not to miss it.
“If the real Dandy Chater has kept his promise to the girl, even so far
as taking her to London is concerned,” he muttered, as he ran on,
“they’ve met in the wood long ago, and are well on their way to the
station. I’ll follow them; that’s the best course. Besides—I don’t
like the look of that business with the girl; her eyes seem to haunt me
somehow. If I miss them at the station, I can at least go on to that
place she mentioned at Woolwich, and keep my eye on the man.”
The wind and rain were less heavy and boisterous than they had been,
and the moon was struggling faintly through driving clouds. As the man
hurried along, seeing the lights of the station in the distance before
him, a figure suddenly broke through the low hedge beside the road,
scarcely more than a hundred yards in advance, and ran on in front, in
the same direction. Philip Crowdy, hearing the warning shriek of the
train, hurried on faster than before.
At the very entrance of the station-yard was a gas lamp, which served
to light feebly the dreary-looking muddy roads converging upon it. And,
beneath this lamp, the figure which had broken through the hedge, and
run on before, had stopped, and was carefully scraping and shaking some
heavy wet clay from its boots. Catching a glimpse of the face of the
figure, as he hurried past, Crowdy, with an exclamation, drew his hat
down well over his face, and pulled his coat collar higher.
There was no time even to get a ticket; Crowdy raced across the
booking-office, and reached the platform just in time; wrenched open a
door, and jumped in. He heard a shout, and, looking out, saw a porter
pulling open another door, while the man who had been so particular
about his boots sprang into the train. Then, the door was slammed, and
the train, already in motion, steamed out of the station.
Philip Crowdy leant back in the compartment in which he found himself
alone, and whistled softly. “This is a new move,” he muttered, “Dandy
Chater himself—and without the girl. Well, most respectable Great
Eastern Railway Company,” he added, with a laugh, apostrophising the
name of the Company staring at him from the wall of the carriage—“it
isn’t often that you carry, in one train, two such queer people as you
carry to-night!” Then, becoming serious again, he said softly—“But I’d
like to know what’s become of the girl.”
When the train reached Liverpool Street, Philip Crowdy remained in the
carriage as long as possible, in order to avoid meeting the other man;
and, on getting out, discovered to his annoyance that the other man had
vanished—swallowed up in the restless crowds of people who were moving
about the platforms. However, having one faint clue to guide him, he
set off for Woolwich.
The Three Watermen is a little old-fashioned gloomy public-house,
situated at the end of a narrow street, which plunges down towards the
river, and on the very bank of that river itself. Indeed, it is half
supported, on the riverside, by huge baulks of timber, round which the
muddy water creeps and washes; and it is the presiding genius, as it
were, over a number of tumble-down sheds and out-houses, used for the
storage of river lumber of one sort or another, or, in some cases, not
used at all. And it is the resort of various riverside men; with
occasionally some stranger, who appears to belong to salter waters, and
to have lost his way there, in getting to the sea.
Outside this place, Philip Crowdy waited, for a long time, in the
shadow of a doorway, debating with himself what to do. Being
practically in strange quarters, he had had to enquire every step of
the way, both as to his journey by train to Woolwich, and afterwards,
when he had reached the place. In consequence, he had lost a very
considerable amount of time; and was well aware that, if the man he
pursued had come to the place at all, he had had all the advantage,
from the fact of knowing the way clearly, and being able to make
straight for his destination. Under these circumstances, it was quite
impossible for Crowdy to know whether the man was in the place, or, if
so, how long he had been there—or even if he had not already left the
house.
Turning over all these points in his mind, Crowdy wandered, half
aimlessly, down a little alley, which led beside the Three Watermen
towards the river. He had just reached the end of it, and was shivering
a little, at the melancholy prospect of dark water and darker mud
before him, when a man, rushing hurriedly from the direction of the
water, almost carried him off his legs; snapped out an oath at him; and
was gone up the alley, and into the street, before Crowdy had recovered
his breath.
“People seem in a hurry about these parts,” he murmured to himself.
“Now, I wonder what on earth that fellow was running away from?”
Impelled, half by curiosity, and half by the restlessness which
possessed him, he turned and walked some little distance, over a kind
of dilapidated wharf, in the direction from which the man had come. The
place was quite lonely and deserted, and only the skeleton-like frames
of some old barges and other vessels, which some one, at some remote
period, had been breaking up, stood up gaunt against the sky. Some
darker object, among some broken timbers at the very edge of the water,
attracted his attention; he went forward quickly, and then, with a
half-suppressed cry, threw himself on his knees beside it.
It was the body of a man, who had apparently fallen just where he had
been struck down; the hand which Philip Crowdy touched was quite warm,
although the man was stone dead. But that was not the strange
part—that was not the reason why the living man, bending close above
the dead, stared at the face as though he could never gaze enough.
The faces that stared so grimly, in that desolate spot, into each
other—the dead and the living—were alike in every particular, down to
the smallest detail; it was as though the living man gazed into a
mirror, which threw back every line, even every faint touch of
colouring, in his own face.
“Dandy Chater!” whispered Crowdy to himself in an awed voice. “So, I’ve
found you at last!”
CHAPTER II
ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW
The man’s first impulse was to shout for assistance; his second, to
dash hot foot after the murderer; his last, to keep perfectly still,
while he thought hard, with all his wits sharpened by the crisis of the
moment. For hours, he had been racing across country, and hiding and
dodging, in pursuit of this man; and he came upon him lying dead, the
victim of he knew not what conspiracy. Instinctively he glanced about
him, with the dread of seeing other murderous eyes watching;
instinctively sprang to his feet, the better to face whatever danger
might threaten.
The thing was so awful, and so unexpected, that the man, for a moment,
had no power to face it; indeed, he had started to run from the place,
in an agony of fear, when a sudden thought swept over him—arresting
his flight, and holding him as motionless as though some mortal hand
had gripped him, and brought him to bay.
“Dandy Chater dead!” he gasped. “This puts a new light on things
indeed! Dandy Chater dead—and out of the way! Let me think; let me
hammer something out of this new horror—let me find the best road to
travel!” He sat down among the rotting timbers, and propped his chin in
his palms, and stared at the dead man.
“Who am I? Who—in all this amazing world, will believe my story, if I
tell it? Dandy Chater out of the way!——My God!—that serves my
purpose; that was what I wanted. The game’s in my hands; the
likeness——”
He started to his feet again, and looked round wildly—looked round,
like a hunted man who seeks desperately for some way of escape; ran a
few paces, and stood listening; came slowly back again.
“Great heavens!” he muttered softly—“they’ll think I murdered him!”
That was a sufficiently sobering thought; he stood still, the better to
work out the new problem which faced him.
“Think, Philip Crowdy: you’ve come across the world, to find this
man—to wrest from him that which is your right. His real murderer is
by this time far away; you are alone with his body, in a place to which
you have tracked him. If Dandy Chater has been lured here, and struck
down, as is more than likely in such a neighbourhood, for the mere
purpose of robbery, there is not the slightest chance—or a very faint
one, at best—of finding the man who struck the blow. On the other
hand—how do you stand? Tell your story to the world, and, if they
believe it, what must inevitably be said: that by this man’s death you
benefit—therefore, by logical reasoning, you must have compassed his
death. Philip Crowdy—you’re in a remarkably tight place!”
Looking at the matter from one standpoint and another, he came to a
desperate resolution—even smiled grimly a little to himself, as he
bent again over the dead man. Turning the body over, he found that
Dandy Chater had been struck down from behind, apparently with a heavy
piece of timber which lay near at hand; he must have been wandering at
the very edge of the river at the time, for the rising tide was now
actually lapping the edges of his garments. Philip Crowdy bent above
him and began to search rapidly in the pockets, for whatever they might
contain.
“Papers—watch and chain—keys—a very little money,” he whispered to
himself quickly, as he made his search. “The money I’ll leave; some
river shark will get that; the rest I’ll take. The keys I shall
want—also the papers.”
Carefully stowing away the things in his own pockets, he rose to his
feet, and looked about him. It was very late, and there seemed to be no
sign of life, either on land or water, save for the distant muffled
sound of the steady beat of a tug, working heavily down stream.
“I can’t leave him here; for the body to be discovered would spoil
everything. And it wouldn’t be particularly nice for Philip Crowdy to
be discovered, with Dandy Chater’s private possessions in his pockets.
Now—what’s to be done?”
The perplexing question was answered for him, in an unexpected way. The
beat of the tug sounded nearer and louder, and he saw the gleam of the
light which hung from its funnel. Behind it, towering high in the
darkness, was a great vessel, which it was dragging manfully down the
river. While the man stood there, idly and mechanically watching it,
with his dead likeness lying at his feet, there came a sudden
disturbance in the water; a great wash from the river swamped up all
about him, so that he turned, and ran back hurriedly a few paces, out
of the way of it.
When he looked again at the spot where he had stood, the body was gone.
Some of the timbers, too, among which it had lain, were washing about,
and crashing together, at some little distance from the shore. The man
ran to the very edge of the water, and strained his eyes eagerly, in
search for something else beside timbers; but the darkness was too
profound for him to see anything clearly; and, although he ran along
the muddy bank—first to right, and then to left—he could discover
nothing. He stood alone, in that desolate place, and the dead man was
undoubtedly being hurried, with the timbers among which he had fallen,
down the river towards the sea.
Presently, the man seemed to realise the full significance of what had
happened; touched the papers in his pocket; and stood staring
thoughtfully at the ground for a long time.
“There is some strange fate in this,” he muttered to himself.
“To-night, by accident, I took the place of the real Dandy Chater for a
few hours; now I’ll take his place—not by accident, but by design.
Dandy Chater is dead and gone! Yes—Dandy Chater is dead—but long live
Dandy Chater!”
With these words, the man turned quickly, hurried up the alley way into
the street, and set off as rapidly as possible in the direction of
London.
It was so late, that all public vehicles had ceased running, and the
railway station was closed. He did not care to excite attention, by
chartering a cab to take him to London, and he stood for some time in
one of the main streets—now almost deserted—wondering what he should
do. The appearance of a small coffee-house, on the other side of the
street, with the announcement swinging outside that beds were to be let
there, attracted his attention; the proprietor of it had already closed
one half of the double doors, and was standing outside, leaning against
the side of the window, and contemplating the street, before retiring
from the public eye for the day. Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s
hesitation, crossed the street, and accosted the man.
“Can I have a bed here?” he asked.
The man looked him up and down for a moment in silence; removed the
pipe he was smoking from his lips—blew a long stream of smoke into the
air; and finally ejaculated—“’Ave yer pick of the w’ole bloomin’ lot,
if yer like. It’s my private opinion that there ain’t anybody a
sleepin’ in beds these times, ’cept me, an’ the missis, and the Queen,
an’ a few of sich like nobs; leastways, they don’t come my way. Walk
in, guv’nor.”
Crowdy followed the man into the shop—a small and very dingy-looking
eating-house, fitted up with boxes along each side. The sight of the
boxes reminded him that he had had nothing to eat for many hours;
discussing the matter with the proprietor of the establishment, he
found that he could be supplied with a light meal within a short space
of time. Accordingly, he ordered it, and sat down to await its coming.
He picked up a stained newspaper, and tried to read; but before his
eyes, again and again, came the image of the dead face, which had
stared into his that night. So much had happened—so much that was wild
and strange—within the past few hours, that it all seemed like some
horrible unruly nightmare. Yet he knew that it was something more than
that; for his fingers touched the papers in his pocket, and the watch
that had belonged to the dead man. For a moment, as his hands closed
upon them, a sweat of fear broke out upon his forehead, and he glanced
about him uneasily.
“It’s a desperate game,” he muttered. “If the body should be found, and
recognised—or if the likeness be not so complete as I have
thought—what shall I say—what shall I do? Why—I don’t even know what
manner of man this Dandy Chater was—or what were his habits, his
companions, the places to which he resorted; I know absolutely nothing.
Every step of the way I must grope in the dark. And I may betray myself
at any moment!”
He dropped the paper from before his eyes, and found, to his
astonishment, and somewhat to his discomfiture, that he was being
steadily regarded, by a man who sat at the other side of the table.
More than that, the man, having his back towards the little inner room
where the meal was being prepared, nodded his head quickly, in a
familiar fashion, and bent forward, and whispered the following
astounding remark—
“Wot—give the Count the slip—’ave yer?”
Philip Crowdy’s position, at that moment, was not an enviable one. He
was utterly alone, in the sense that, whatever battles lay before him,
he had to fight them as best he could, and dared not trust any living
soul; worse than all, he must fight them in the dark, not knowing, when
he took one step, where the next might lead. Moreover, the man before
him was one of the most repulsive looking ruffians it is possible to
imagine—a man who, from his appearance, might have been one of those
unfortunates described by the proprietor of the place as never sleeping
in a bed. His clothes, which had once been black, were of a greenish
hue, from long exposure to the weather, and were fastened together, in
the more necessary places, by pins and scraps of string. His face, long
and thin and cadaverous, had upon it, besides its native dirt, a week’s
growth of beard and moustache; his hair—thin almost to baldness on the
top—hung long about his ears, and was rolled inwards at the ends, in
the fashion of some thirty years ago.
Crowdy, after eyeing this man for a few moments in silence, grunted
something inaudible, and took up the paper again.
“No offence, Dandy,” said the man, somewhat more humbly, and in the
same hoarse whisper as before. “Seed yer outside—an’ came in arter
yer. Agin the rules—an’ well I knows it; but there ain’t no one ’ere
to twig us—is there?”
“Well—what of that?” asked the other, taking his cue from the fellow’s
humility. “Can’t you let a man alone, even at this hour? What the devil
do you want now?”
“Don’t be so ’asty, Dandy,” replied the man, in an injured tone. “It
ain’t for me ter say anyfink agin the Count—’cos ’e’s your pal. But
you’re young at this game, Dandy, and the Count is a bit too fly. If
you wants a fren’, as ’ll _be_ a fren’, don’t fergit the Shady
’un—will yer?” This last very insinuatingly.
“Oh—so you’re the Shady ’un—are you?” thought Crowdy. Aloud he
said—“Thanks—I can take care of myself.”
“Ah—you wos always ’igh an’ mighty—you wos,” replied the other, with
a propitiatory smile. “It ain’t fer me ter say anyfink agin the
Count—on’y ’e’s a deep ’un, that’s all. An’ ’e’s got some new move on;
’e was a stickin’ like wax to you to-night—yer know ’e wos.”
Philip Crowdy caught his breath. Here, surely, was some faint clue at
last; for it was possible that the man who had been “sticking like wax”
to the unfortunate Dandy Chater that night, might have stuck to him to
the very last, down by the river’s muddy brink. Crowdy was breathlessly
silent, waiting for more; he left his meal untouched, where it had been
placed, and kept his eyes narrowly on his neighbour.
But that neighbour had evidently made up his mind to say nothing more;
after a pause, he shuffled to his feet, and started to leave the place.
As he neared the door, however, he came back again, and bent his face
down to Crowdy’s ear.
“I say—yer won’t fergit Toosday—will yer?”
“What about it?” asked the other, as carelessly as he could.
“W’y—at the Watermen—o’ course,” whispered the Shady ’un, in a
surprised tone. “Ten thirty, sharp. I suppose you’ll come wiv the
Count—eh?”
“I suppose so,” replied Crowdy. “Good-night!”
Left alone, he thrust his plate aside, and sat staring at the table,
turning the business over in his mind. In the first place, he had
resolved to find Dandy Chater’s murderer; on the other hand, if, as was
possible, the man spoken of as the Count had anything to do with that
murder, it would obviously be impossible for Philip Crowdy to appear
before him; the fraud would be exposed at once. Again, it was evident
that the late Dandy Chater had kept remarkably queer company; and that,
moreover, Philip Crowdy—as the new Dandy Chater—was pledged to meet
some members of that queer company, on the following Tuesday, at
half-past ten, at the house known as The Three Watermen.
“So far—so good—or rather, bad,” he said slowly to himself. “I’m
Dandy Chater—for the present, at least; if the man who struck the blow
happens to meet me, he’ll either die of fright, or denounce me. For the
present, I’ve got to be very careful; I’ve very fortunately discovered
one or two things which may be useful. But how in the world am I to
know what Dandy Chater was doing, or meant to do—or what people he
knew, or didn’t know? At all events, I must put a bold face on the
matter, and trust to luck.”
It was not until he was undressing for the night, in the shabby little
room which had been assigned to him over the coffee-house, that he
remembered the interview he had had with the girl, on the road outside
Bamberton. He stopped, and stood stock still, with a puzzled face.
“The girl—Patience Miller! I’d clean forgotten about her. Why, Dandy
Chater was to have taken her to London, and they were to be married
to-morrow. Now, Dandy Chater—or the real one, at least—is at the
bottom of the river. But where on earth is the girl?”
He puzzled over it for some time, and finally, finding sleep stealing
over him, gave it up, with all the other troublous matters connected
with the past few hours, and slept the sleep which comes only to a man
who is utterly worn out with fatigue and excitement.
He slept late the next morning, and had time, while he dressed, to
consider what his future course of action should be. In part, he had
made up his mind the previous night; had studied carefully the dress
and appearance of the dead man, with that object—indefinite then, but
clear and distinct now—of taking his place. He felt now that the first
move in the game must be for him to get down to Bamberton.
“No one in England knows of my existence; only one man, so far as I am
aware, knows, beside myself, of the death and disappearance of Dandy
Chater. There is no one to suspect; so far as I am concerned, there is
everything to gain, and but little to lose. Therefore, Mr. Dandy Chater
the Second, you will go down into Essex.”
Watchful and alert—ready to take up any faint cue which might be
offered him—suspicious of danger on every hand, Philip Crowdy got back
to London; made some slight purchases, with a view to changing his
dress; and started for Chater Hall. Arriving at the little railway
station, he returned, with grim satisfaction, the salutes and nods of
recognition which one and another bestowed upon him; got into the
fly—the only one the station boasted—and was driven rapidly to his
future home.
It was a fine old house, standing in most picturesque grounds—a place
which bore the stamp of having been in the same family for many
generations. Mr. Philip Crowdy rattled along the drive which led to the
house, with very mixed feelings, and with a heart beating unpleasantly
fast.
“I need all the luck I’ve ever possessed, and all the impudence with
which nature has endowed me,” he thought. “Why—I don’t even know my
way about my own house—shan’t know where to turn, when I get inside,
or what the servants’ names are. And I wish I knew what sort of man
Dandy Chater was—whether he bullied, or was soft-spoken—swore, or
quoted Scripture.”
The fly drew up, with a jerk, at the hall door, which was already open.
A young servant—a pleasant-looking lad, of about twenty years of age,
in a sober brown livery, ran out quickly, with a forefinger raised to
his forehead, and opened the door of the fly.
“Morning, sir,” said this individual, in a voice as pleasant as his
face. “Hoped you’d telegraph, sir, and let me drive over for you.”
Crowdy alighted slowly, looking keenly about him. “I hadn’t time,” he
said, gruffly—being convinced, for some strange reason, that the late
Dandy Chater had been of a somewhat overbearing disposition. He walked
slowly up the steps, and into Chater Hall.
There his troubles began; for, in the first place, he did not even know
his room—did not, as he had already suggested, even know which way to
turn. In desperation, he laid his hand on the knob of the first door he
saw, and walked boldly in.
He found himself in what was evidently the dining-room. He turned, as
he was passing through the doorway, and beckoned to the young servant,
who had taken his hat and coat, and who was lingering in the hall.
“Here, I want you,” he said. His quick eye, roving round the room, had
seen a pipe on the mantelshelf, and a spirit stand on an ancient
Sheraton sideboard. “Get me a whiskey and soda, and bring me those
cigars—the last lot I had.”
The servant placed the spirit stand at his master’s elbow, and hurried
away to complete the order. Philip Crowdy leaned back in his chair, and
laughed softly, when he thought of how well he was carrying the thing
off. “I must be as natural as possible,” he muttered. “That was a good
move about the cigars.”
The servant reëntered the room, bringing the cigars, and a letter which
he handed to Crowdy.
“Brought this morning, sir, quite early,” he said.
Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s hesitation, broke the seal, and read
the following astounding note—
“_Dearest Dandy_,
“_You shall have your answer, sooner even than I promised. I do trust
you; I do believe in your capacity for the better things of which you
have spoken. I will marry you, when you like, and with a glad heart.
Come and see me to-morrow night, and we can talk about it comfortably._
“_Yours loyally_,
“_Margaret Barnshaw_.”
Philip Crowdy dismissed the servant, with a wave of the hand, and sank
into a chair helplessly.
CHAPTER III
BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED
Philip Crowdy felt, however, that there was no time to waste in vain
speculation; he had plunged into a mad business, and it must be carried
through at all hazards. Moreover, the more he came to think about it,
the more the strong nature of the man rose up, to assist him to
confront his difficulties. Essentially cool and calculating, he saw his
desperate position, and saw, too, how the house of cards he was
erecting might be fluttered down at a breath. At the same time, with
the daring of a desperate man, he took the thing quietly, and
determined to advance step by step.
Everything seemed to be in his favour. In the first place, there was
evidently no suspicion, in the mind of any one he had met yet, that he
was not the man he claimed to be—Dandy Chater; in the second place,
the young servant who had first admitted him gave him the very clue he
needed, and at the very outset. Coming into the room, immediately after
Crowdy had finished reading the letter, this man asked:
“Excuse me, sir—but Mrs. Dolman would like to know whether Mr. Ogledon
is coming down to-day?”
Philip Crowdy gathered his wandering wits, and faced the question.
“Mrs. Dolman—that’ll be the housekeeper,” he thought, rapidly. “But
who the devil is Mr. Ogledon?” After a moment’s pause, he looked up,
and said aloud—“Can’t say, I’m sure. You’d better send Mrs. Dolman to
me.”
The young man went away, and the housekeeper presently came bustling
in. She was a trim, neat, precise old lady, with a certain dignity of
manner belonging to her station. She inclined her head, and folded her
hands, and hoped that “Master Dandy” was well.
“Old servant—been in the family all her life,” thought Crowdy. Aloud
he said—“I really can’t say, Mrs. Dolman, whether Mr. Ogledon will be
here to-day or not. By the way, Mrs. Dolman”—this, as a brilliant idea
struck him—“I think I shall change my room—my bedroom, I mean.”
The good woman raised her hands in astonishment. “Change your room,
Master Dandy! Why—I never heard the like! What’s the matter with the
room, sir?”
“Oh—nothing the matter with it; only I want a change; one gets tired
of anything. Just come upstairs with me, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Mrs. Dolman would have stepped aside, in the doorway, to allow him to
precede her; but he waved her forward impatiently, and she went on
ahead, and up the broad staircase, with her gown held up delicately in
two mittened hands.
“Now,” thought Philip Crowdy, with a chuckle, “I shall know where I
sleep.”
The old lady went before him, and softly opened the door of a room on
the left hand—Crowdy taking careful note of its position. It was a
beautifully furnished room, with huge old-fashioned presses in it, and
with everything arranged with a view to comfort.
“There couldn’t be a better room, Master Dandy,” urged the old
lady—“and you’ve slept in it as long almost as I can remember. There’s
your dressing-room opening out of it, and your bath-room beyond
that—nothing could be more convenient, Master Dandy. If you moved into
the Yellow room, the outlook is pretty, it can’t be denied—but it
ain’t to be compared to this. Of course, Master Dandy, you’ll do as you
like—but I——”
Philip Crowdy had achieved his object. He looked round the room for a
moment, and shrugged his shoulders. “No—after all, I think you’re
right. It was only a whim of mine; I’ll stay here.”
As he seemed disposed to remain in the room, the housekeeper quietly
took her departure, and closed the door. Crowdy threw himself into an
armchair, and laughed softly. He felt that he was advancing rapidly;
every fresh pair of eyes which met his, and in which he saw no gleam of
suspicion, gave him confidence. His one desire was to do everything
which the late Dandy Chater had been in the habit of doing, and, on the
other hand, to do nothing which would seem strange or unusual. And here
again luck was with him.
Mrs. Dolman, on retiring from the room, had not closed the door so
carefully as she had imagined; the sound of two voices, in low
converse, came to his ears.
“What’s brought ’im ’ome in such a ’urry?” asked the first
voice—evidently that of a woman. “I thought ’e was goin’ to be away
about a week.”
In the second voice, which replied in the same low tone, but somewhat
aggressively, Crowdy recognised that of the young man-servant, who had
already waited upon him. “Well—I suppose Master can do as he
likes—can’t he?”
“Lor’—some of us soon gits put out, don’t we, Mr. ’Arry,” replied the
woman.
“Good. Now I know _his_ name,” muttered Crowdy to himself. Whistling
loudly, he strode across the room and pulled open the door abruptly.
The distant flutter of skirts announced that the woman had taken fright
and fled.
“Harry,” he said, turning back when he reached the head of the
stairs—“I’m going out.”
The man seemed, he thought, to look at him rather narrowly—almost
frowningly, in fact. “To the Chater Arms, sir?” he asked.
“Yes—I may look in there,” replied Crowdy carelessly, and wondering
somewhat at the evidently well-known habits of the late Dandy Chater.
“I shall be back in time for dinner.”
Mr. Philip Crowdy took his way downstairs, selected a cigar with much
care, and strolled out, after taking a walking stick from its place in
the hall.
“A dead man’s house—a dead man’s cigar—a dead man’s walking stick!”
he said to himself, as he went down the long drive. “I don’t like it;
it smothers me. And yet—and yet——”
He did not finish the sentence; some thought was evidently running in
his mind, to the exclusion of everything else. He turned away from the
village, and made his way across some fields, and sat down, in the
winter sunlight, on the footstone of a stile. Looking cautiously about
him, he pulled from his pocket the papers he had taken from the body of
Dandy Chater.
There was a cheque book, with one cheque filled up, even to the
signature, but still remaining in the book. There was a pocketbook,
with various entries in regard to betting, and to sporting engagements
generally. And there were one or two letters, in the same handwriting
as that seen by him that day. These last he read carefully.
They were couched in terms of friendly advice, and even of
remonstrance—with sometimes a little note of anger to be read between
the lines. Yet they breathed a very true and very disinterested
affection, and were, in every way, full of true womanly feeling.
“Ah—Margaret Barnshaw—(sometimes she signs herself ‘Madge,’ I
see)—that’s the lady who’s going to marry me—which is more than I
bargained for, when I stepped into Dandy Chater’s shoes. Well, I’ll go
through these more carefully later on. Now, as it’s evident that I am
expected at the Chater Arms, I’ll make my way there.”
He did so; to the accompaniment of friendly nods, and rustic
curtesyings and salutations. But at the Chater Arms he received a shock.
It was a bright little place—much better and more cleanly kept than
the house he had patronised on the previous day. From its well sanded
floors to the black beams which crossed its ceilings, it was a picture
of comfort and prosperity. And, seated behind the hospitable-looking
bar, was the neatest and trimmest landlady imaginable.
Yet it was precisely this landlady—or the sight of her—which gave Mr.
Philip Crowdy such an unpleasant shock. As he entered the door, and she
turned her head to look at him, he had but one glance at her; yet that
glance was sufficient to sweep him back through many years, and across
many miles of land and sea. If the woman had risen calmly and awfully
from the grave, her appearance could not have been more startling to
the man.
The landlady, for her part, appeared to be troubled in no such fashion
by his appearance. She nodded—somewhat curtly, he thought—and
evidently saw in him merely the idle Dandy Chater she had been in the
habit of seeing almost daily for years past. Recognising the importance
of keeping a steady hand upon his emotions, Philip Crowdy nodded in
reply, and approached, and leaned over the bar.
“Afternoon, Master Dandy,” said the woman, fixing her eyes again on her
work. Yet how familiar her voice was in his ears—and how he longed to
jump over the bar, and take her portly person in his arms!
“Good-afternoon,” he responded. “And I wonder,” he thought—“what your
name is now!”
There was a long pause; and then, in sheer self-defence, he ordered
something to drink, adding, at the same time—“It’s so deadly dull up
at the Hall, that I thought I’d look down to see you.” He stopped
lamely, wondering if she expected him to say anything else.
“Very kind of yer, Master Dandy,” she retorted quickly, flashing her
black eyes at him for a moment, as she set his glass before him.
“Wouldn’t yer like to step into the parlour, Master Dandy?” she added.
There was no graciousness about the speech, and she was evidently in a
bad humour.
“Thanks—I think I shall do very well here,” replied Crowdy. “And, if
you only knew, old Betty, whose eyes are looking at that dear old grey
head of yours, at this moment, I think you’d jump out of your skin.”
This latter, it is scarcely necessary to add, passed through his
thoughts only, and not his lips.
Presently, to his astonishment, the old woman, after making several
false starts, got up quickly, and came round the bar, and faced him; he
saw that there was some extraordinary excitement upon her; he could
hear one foot nervously beating the ground.
“Master Dandy,” she said, in a voice little above a whisper—“I must
speak to you!”
On the instant, the man felt that she had made some discovery—that she
knew he was not Dandy Chater. But, the next moment, he saw that this
was a matter which had been consuming her for some time, and had now
boiled up, as it were, and could be held no longer—some grievance
which she imagined she had against Dandy Chater. Knowing that he had a
part to play, he spoke lightly and easily.
“Well—I’m here; speak to me, by all means,” he said, with a little
laugh.
“Not here—not here, Master Dandy,” she said, hurriedly. “If you would
be so kind as step in here, there ain’t likely to be no one in this
time o’ the day, Master Dandy.” She indicated, as she spoke, the door
of the little parlour near at hand.
“As you will,” replied Crowdy; and he followed her into the room,
inwardly wondering what was going to happen.
Inside the room, he seated himself upon a table, and looked
questioningly at her. She was evidently at a loss how to proceed, for a
few moments, and stood nervously beating her fingers on the back of a
chair. When, at last, she broke the silence, her question was a
startling one.
“Master Dandy—for the love of God—where’s Patience Miller?”
The man stared at her in amazement. He knew the name in an
instant—remembered the interview, in the darkness and the rain, upon
the road outside the village—almost felt again, for an instant, the
warm pressure of the girl’s lips upon his. He shook his head, in a
dazed fashion.
“How on earth should I know?” he asked, slowly.
“How should anybody know better, Master Dandy?” she retorted, in the
same suppressed excited voice. “Master Dandy—I’m an old woman, and
poor Patience, ’avin’ no mother of ’er own, ’as turned to
me—natural-like—these many years. There’s been w’ispers ’ere, an’
w’ispers there, this ever so long; but it was only the other night as I
got it all from ’er.” The good woman was quivering with excitement, and
her fingers were beating a rapid tattoo on the back of the chair.
“All what?” asked Crowdy, faintly.
“The ’ole story, Master Dandy,” she replied promptly. “Ah—it ain’t no
use your tryin’ to deny it, sir; I knows the truth w’en I ’ears
it—’specially w’en it comes to me wi’ tears an’ sighs. You’ve led ’er
wrong, Master Dandy—you know you ’ave; and now—wot’s become of ’er?”
“I tell you I know nothing about the girl,” replied Crowdy, doggedly.
The old woman threw up her grey head, like a war horse, and looked
defiance at him. “Then, Master Dandy,” she said fiercely—“if yer turn
me and old Toby out in the road, I’ve got to tell yer a bit o’ my mind.
You’re a Chater—and you’ve got the Chater blood in you, I
suppose—because I knowed your blessed father and mother, now in their
graves. But there it ends; for you’ve got some other black heart in
you, that never belonged to them. There’s not a man or woman, in the
countryside, but wot won’t shake their ’eads, w’en they ’ears your
name—an’ well you knows it. Oh—if on’y my boy ’ad lived, wot a Chater
’e would ’ave been!”
For some hidden reason, the man seemed strangely moved by that last
despairing phrase from her lips; indeed, as she bowed her old face down
on her hands, with a moan, he made a sudden movement, with outstretched
arms, as though he would have taken her within them and comforted her.
But when, a moment afterwards, she looked up, with the former stern
expression settling on her features, the man was simply watching her
keenly, with his hands thrust in his pockets.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, slowly. “What about your boy?”
She hesitated for a moment, even glancing round at the door behind her;
then came a little nearer to him.
“I ain’t never said anything about it, Master Dandy, because I thought
the story was dead and buried like my poor boy—an’ I didn’t think as
’ow talkin’ about it would do anybody any good. But it don’t matter
now; an’ I’d like you to know, Master Dandy, that for all your
pride—your wicked pride—you wouldn’t ’ave no right to be standin’
’ere, as the master of Chater ’All, if my poor boy ’ad lived.”
The man was watching her, more keenly than ever; for the sake of
appearances, however, he let a smile play round his mouth, and then
broke into a laugh.
“Ah—you may laugh, Master Dandy. Wot if I tell you that you had a
brother—an elder brother, Master Dandy, though only by a matter of
minutes.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the man; though only for
the sake of appearances again—for he had heard the story from her
lips, a long, long time before.
“The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not _one_ child, Master Dandy, came into
the world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but _two_—twins; an’ the
other boy was the first. But your father was crazy on that one idea;
I’d often ’eard ’im say that if ever twins came, ’e would find means to
git rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; ole
Cripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, though
sound in ’is work. ’E’d ’ave done anything for money—that man; an’
pretty ’eavy ’e must ’ave been paid by your father for it. As for
me—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side of
the world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with five
hundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed the
weakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, to fight over the property, an’ cut it
up after I’m dead an’ gone,’ says your father.”
“Well—and what became of the boy?” asked Crowdy.
“Went to Australia, ’e did, the blessed mite—an’ growed fine and
strong—lookin’ on me as ’is mother, an’ ’avin’ my name, as it was
then—Crowdy; Philip Crowdy, we called ’im. Then I met Siggs—my
Toby—an’ we ’adn’t been married a year, an’ I was full of care an’
anxiety, over a little one o’ my own—w’en Philip disappeared. ’E was
ten then, an’ I told ’im the story, on’y a week or two afore ’e
went—your father bein’ dead, an’ my lips sealed no longer.”
“A pretty story, Mrs. Siggs,” replied Philip. “And you never heard
anything about this boy again?”
“Never,” she replied, sadly. “We did everyfink we could to find ’im;
but we was livin’ on the very edge of the bush at that time, an’ the
poor lad must ’ave got lost in it, an’ starved to death. Even men ’ave
done that,” she added, with her apron at her eyes.
“And why did you return to England?” he asked, in the same dull level
voice.
“I couldn’t abear the place, after we’d lost ’im; an’ things went
wrong, an’ Siggs an’ me lost most of our money. Besides, I was always
longin’ for the old place where I was born; an’ so at last we come
’ome, without nobody bein’ a bit the wiser, an’ took the Chater
Arms—an’ settled down.”
Carried away by the remembrances of years, Betty Siggs had forgotten
the real object with which she had started the conversation; she
remembered it quickly now, and her tone changed. But it was no longer
harsh; the remembrance of her boy, as she called him, had softened her,
and she turned to the graceless Dandy Chater—(as she imagined him to
be)—and spoke pleadingly.
“Master Dandy, won’t you listen to an old woman—won’t you tell me
w’ere I can find this poor girl—Patience; won’t you——”
Philip Crowdy, remembering suddenly the part he had to play, got up
impatiently, and made for the door.
“I tell you,” he said, with a frown, “that I know nothing about her.
And please let us hear no more of such idle tales as these. Your boy,
indeed!” He laughed, and swung out of the place into the road.
Yet, as he walked along, his heart was very sore, and his face was
troubled. “Poor old Betty!” he muttered to himself—“she thinks I’m
Dandy Chater—and a blackguard; what would she think, if she knew that
the boy she lost in the bush was saved, after all; and that he stands
here to-day, in his dead brother’s place, and under his dead brother’s
name? What would she say, if she knew that I am her boy, as she calls
me—Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater?”
CHAPTER IV
A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED
The sun, shining brightly over the trim lawns which stretched before
Chater Hall, seemed to declare, deceitfully enough, the next morning,
that winter was dead and buried, and spring come in full force to take
its place. Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater, as we must now call
him—waking in the unaccustomed softnesses of a great bed, and
gradually opening his eyes upon the luxuries about him, awoke as
gradually to a remembrance of his new position; looked at it lazily and
comfortably, as a man will who wakes from deep sleep; and then came to
a full realisation of all it meant, and sat up quickly in bed.
“Yes,” he muttered softly to himself, nodding his head as he looked
about him—“I am bound to admit that when one has slept—or tried to
sleep—for a few weeks, in a narrow berth aboard an evil-smelling
sailing vessel, with a scarcity of blankets, and no pillows worth
mentioning, this”—he looked round the big bed, and smiled—“this is a
very decent apology for Heaven. And—such being the case—I want to
stop in Paradise as long as possible.”
He stretched out his hand, and pulled the bell-rope. In a moment or
two, the young servant Harry made his appearance—coming softly into
the room, and regarding his master with some surprise. Philip Chater,
quick to take his cue from the other’s expression, glanced carelessly
at Dandy Chater’s watch, which hung near his head.
“Rather early, Harry? Yes—I know it is; but I’m restless this morning.
I shall get dressed at once. Put me out some things—you know what I
want; I don’t want to be bothered about it—and get my bath ready.
Oh—by the way”—he called out, as the young man was moving away—“I
shall go to church.”
The servant stopped, as though he had been shot—even came back a pace
or two towards the bed. The expression of his face was such an
astonished one, that Philip knew that the day, from a point of view of
good luck, had begun very badly.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Harry, with something very like the
flicker of a smile about his mouth.
“I said,” repeated Philip Chater, slowly and emphatically, being
determined to brave the matter out—“that I should go to church.”
“Very good, sir.” The young man had recovered his composure, and walked
through into the adjoining bath-room, after another quick glance at his
master.
“Ah—Dandy Chater was evidently not a professing Christian,” muttered
Philip. “I’m half sorry now that I suggested going; but I suppose it’s
best to take the bull by the horns, and plunge among the people I shall
have to meet as rapidly as possible. Well, if they single me out as a
lost sheep, and call me publicly to repentance, I can’t help it. But I
shouldn’t be surprised if the living were in my gift; in which case,
they may be disposed to forgive me, and treat me leniently.”
Finding, to his satisfaction, that the clothes belonging to the late
Dandy Chater fitted his successor as accurately as though made for him,
Philip went down to breakfast in an improved frame of mind. After
breakfast, when he lounged out into the grounds, there came another of
those little trials to his nerves, which he was destined thereafter
often to experience.
Coming near to the stables, a dog—a fine animal of the spaniel
breed—leapt out suddenly, with joyous barks, to meet him; came within
a foot or two—sniffed at him suspiciously—and then fled, barking
furiously. Turning, in some discomfiture, he came almost face to face
with the servant Harry, who was looking at him, he thought, curiously.
“Something the matter with that beast,” said Philip, as carelessly as
he could. “Have it chained up.” Turning away, and reëntering the house,
he said softly to himself—“The moral of which is: keep away from the
animals. They are wiser than the more superior beings.”
It was with very uncomfortable sensations in his breast that Philip
Chater—after discovering, in his wanderings, a small gate and path
leading direct from the grounds to the churchyard—strolled carelessly
across, and entered the church. He had been careful to wait until the
last moment, when the slow bell had actually ceased, before venturing
inside; and it was perhaps as well that he did so. Fortunately for
himself, he came face to face, just inside the porch, with an ancient
man, who appeared to act as a sort of verger or beadle; and who was so
much astonished at his appearance, and stepped so hurriedly backwards,
that he almost tripped himself up in the folds of his rusty black gown.
But he recovered sufficiently to be able to shuffle along the church,
towards the pulpit, and to pull open the door of a huge old-fashioned
pew, like a small parlour, with a fireplace in it. Philip was glad to
hide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himself
shut in by the ancient one.
But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seated
himself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a few
cracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless aware
of a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When,
presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, he
discovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on a
level with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedly
withdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the opposite
side of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, was
another pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but very
beautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of this
young girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered in
their glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of that
high pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, and
what interest she had in Dandy Chater.
Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to his
feet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in the
direction of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fell
on another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thought
with something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pair
of eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; and
they were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was not
so tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed a
glance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was one
wholly of defiance.
“The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish I
knew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at the
bottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”
The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance,
of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew and
its single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice,
on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men so
stubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from the
pulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.
The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infinite
astonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, the
whispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.
“I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craning
his neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The next
moment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man who
had ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him to
come out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregation
waited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should have
passed out of church.
Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater faced
that small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in his
direction; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been,
familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.
He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat and
gloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within the
same short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped from
the pew came the most astounding event of all.
The young girl with the kindly eyes looked full at him, as he stepped
into the aisle; hesitated a moment; and then, with a quick blush
sweeping up over her face, rose to her full height—(and she was taller
than the average of women)—and stepped out into the aisle beside him.
Quite mechanically, and scarcely knowing what he did, he offered her
his arm; and they passed slowly out of the church together, with the
silent congregation, still seated, watching them.
Not a word was spoken by either of them, until they had almost crossed
the churchyard; glancing back over his shoulder, Philip could see the
people emerging from the porch, and breaking up into groups, and
evidently talking eagerly. And still no word had been said between the
two chief actors in this amazing scene.
At last, the girl turned her face towards his, (she had seemed quite
content to walk on beside him, in silence, until this moment) and
spoke. Her voice, the man thought, was as beautiful as her face.
“Well, Dandy dear—have you nothing to say to me?”
In a flash, light broke in upon Philip Chater. From the girl’s
appearance, style of dress, and easy assurance with him, in the
presence of a church-full of people he felt that this must be the
Margaret Barnshaw whose letter he had read—the letter in which she
promised to marry Dandy Chater. But, not being sure even of that, or of
anything indeed, he decided to grope his way carefully; looking at her
with a smile, he asked lightly—“What would you have me say to you?”
She clasped her other hand on his arm, and her face suddenly grew
grave, and, as he thought, more tender even than before; her voice,
too, when she spoke again, had sunk to a whisper.
“Nothing—not a word, dear boy,” she said. “You’ve said it all so many
times—haven’t you? And I’ve sent you back, with a heartache—oh—ever
so many times. But—from to-day, we’ll change all that; from to-day,
we’ll begin afresh. That’s why I took your arm, before them all,
to-day—to show them my right to walk beside you. Did you understand
that?”
There was no reasonable doubt now that this was the Madge of the
letter; unless the late Dandy Chater had made proposals, of a like
nature, in other quarters. He answered diplomatically.
“Yes—I think I understood that,” he said. “I—I am very grateful.”
“Do you remember,” she went on, “what you said to me when last we
met—when I told you you should have your answer definitely? Do you
remember that; or have you forgotten it, like so many other things?”
“I said so many things, that perhaps I may have forgotten which one you
refer to.” Philip Chater felt rather proud of himself, after this
speech.
“You said—‘I’m going to be a stronger, better fellow than I have ever
been before; you shall find me changed from to-night; you shall find
I’ll be a new man.’ Do you remember that?”
It was a trying moment; and, for the life of him, Philip Chater found
it difficult to keep his voice quite steady, when he answered, after a
pause—“Yes—I remember.” For this girl, with her hands locked on his
arm, and with her eyes looking so trustfully and confidingly into his,
had heard those words, of repentance, and hope, and well-meaning,
however lightly said, from the lips of a man she would see no more, and
who was now washing about horribly, a disfigured thing, with the life
beaten out of it. And the man who stood beside her, in his place—in
his very clothes—was a fraud and an impostor.
“Did you mean it, Dandy dear? Was it true?”
He answered from his heart, and spoke the truth, in that instance at
least. “Yes—God knows it was true,” he said.
They had left the road, and had turned through a gate into a little
wood, which belonged, he supposed, to his own estates. Here, quite
suddenly, she stopped, and held out both her hands to him. Very
gravely—and, it must be said, with a growing anxiety which matched an
expression in her own eyes—he took the hands in his, and looked, as
steadily as he might, into her face.
“Dandy—my dear boy—as friends—as man and woman—we have said some
bitter things to each other—have parted in anger, more than once. You
have been wild, I know—have made some blunders, as we all must make
them, in our poor journey here on earth. But you have sworn to me that
those old tales, about you—you and Patience Miller—forgive me; I
promised never to mention the subject again; but I must—I _must_—you
have told me that all that story was mere malicious gossip. As Heaven
is my witness, I believed you then; but tell me once again. Tell me,”
she pleaded—“that no woman need hide her face to-day, because of you;
tell me that—reckless and foolish as you may have been—no living
creature weeps to-day, because of you.”
He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dart
through his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to his
memory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on the
night of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater was
to have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London.
But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts at
rest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place,
the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach of
any earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, of
course, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after that
momentary pause—
“Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he felt
that he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start of
surprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank you
for it. I wish I could think that I deserved——”
“Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with;
haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—who
knows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhaps
I’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’t
believe a word that any one says against you—never any more!”
With a gesture that was all womanly, and all beautiful, she leaned
suddenly forward, and kissed him on the lips. Then, as if half ashamed
of what she had done, she released her hands, and, with a quick
half-whispered—“Good-bye!”—sped away from him through the wood.
Philip Chater stood looking after her, for a few moments, in a
bewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let his
head drop into his hands.
“Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best in
the world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips,
and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and the
man she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to be
a mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live the
king!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s another
business altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and stared
hopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I break
her heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up this
mad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s own
cheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!”
He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the next
moment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising his
head slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trim
little pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neat
waist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and in
that face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in so
audacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishly
enough now.
“Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen was
imperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“I
want to know what you mean by it?”
The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. Philip
Chater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and,
indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by a
young lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to try
the stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, and
seeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman from
whom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might—
“And what’s the matter with _you_?”
The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she wore
petulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed,
passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and I
know why you went _there_—for the first time since you were
christened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to me
last week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarf
at this point—“when you kissed me.”
Philip Chater rose hurriedly to his feet; advanced to the girl, and
took her by the shoulders. “Look here, my dear,” he said—and his voice
was really very plaintive—“if I kissed you, I’m very sorry—I mean—I
ought not to have done it. In fact, there are a lot of things I’ve done
in the past—and I’ve left them behind. You’re a very pretty girl—and
I’m quite sure you’re a good girl; but you’d better not have anything
more to do with me. It’s only too evident that I’m a bad lot. I
think—in fact I’m quite sure—you’d better go home.”
He turned away, and walked further into the wood. Looking back, after
going a little way, he saw her crouched down upon the ground, weeping
as if her heart would break. Hastily consigning the late Dandy Chater’s
love-affairs to a region where cynics assert they have their birth, he
retraced his steps, and raised the girl from the ground. She was very
pretty, and seemed so much a child that the man tenderly patted her
shoulder, in an endeavour to comfort her.
“There—don’t cry, little one. I know I’ve been a brute—or, at least,
I suppose I have; and I——”
“No—you haven’t,” sobbed the girl. “And please don’t mind me; you’d
better go away; you’d better not be seen with me. He’ll kill you, if he
finds us together—he said he would.”
“Who’ll kill me?” asked Philip, glancing round involuntarily.
“Harry.” She was still sobbing, but he caught the name distinctly.
“And who the deuce is Harry?”
“As if you didn’t know! Why, Harry, of course—your servant. And he’ll
keep his word, too.”
CHAPTER V
AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN
Philip Chater sat over the fire late that night, in a futile endeavour
to see his new position clearly, and to decide upon the best course of
action for him to adopt. Try as he would, however, the thing resolved
itself merely into this: that Dandy Chater was dead, and that he
(Philip), together with possibly one other man, alone knew of his
death; that Philip Chater was accepted by every one—even the most
intimate—as the real Dandy; that, in that capacity, he was already
engaged to be married—had left a girl crying in the wood, that very
day, whose name he did not know, but who obviously regarded him with
considerable tenderness; and that there was, in addition, a certain
Patience Miller, whom he was to have married, and who, up to the
present, was not accounted for in the least.
“Altogether—a pretty state of affairs!” he muttered to himself, as he
sat brooding over the fire. “Why, I don’t even know whether I’m rich or
poor, or in what my property consists; I may meet Dandy Chater’s
dearest friend to-morrow, and cut him dead; and, equally on the same
principle, embrace my tailor, and hail him as a brother! I can’t
disclose my real identity, for the question would naturally be
asked—‘If you are not Dandy Chater, where is he?’ and I should have to
tell them that he was dead—murdered—and I don’t know by whom. No;
there’s not the slightest doubt that you are in a very tight place,
Phil, my boy, and your only chance is to go through with the business.”
His thoughts strayed—and pleasantly, too—to the girl of more than
average height, with the eyes that had looked so frankly into his own;
he found himself remembering, with something very like a sentimental
sigh, that she had held his hands, and had kissed him on the lips;
remembered, too, with some indignation, that the man she supposed she
loved had arranged to take another woman to London, on that very night
of his death, and to marry her.
“The late Dandy Chater,” he said, softly—“twin-brother of mine, in
more than ordinary meaning of the word—either you are a much maligned
man, or you were a most confounded rascal. And it’s my pleasing duty to
discover, by actual experience, whether you were saint or sinner. And I
don’t like the job.”
Inclination, no less than the actual necessity for following out that
part of the tangled skein of his affairs, led his thoughts, on the
following day, in the direction of Madge Barnshaw. Yet, for an engaged
man, he was placed in a decidedly awkward position, inasmuch as that he
did not even know where the lady lived. Having recourse to her letter,
he found it headed—“The Cottage, Bamberton.”
“Now—where on earth is ‘The Cottage’ situated,” muttered Philip to
himself in perplexity, as he surveyed the letter. “As a matter of fact,
she ought to have supplied me with a map, showing exactly how far away
it was, and the best method of reaching it. Let me see; what shall I
do? I know; I must sound the individual who is thirsting for my
blood—Harry.”
Acting upon this resolution, he rang the bell, and requested that the
young man should be sent to him. On his appearance, a brilliant idea
struck Philip Chater, and he said, airily—“I am going to see Miss
Barnshaw. I think I’ll drive.”
Harry, whose eyes had been respectfully cast in the direction of the
floor, gave a visible start, and looked up in perplexity at his master.
“Drive, sir?” he stammered.
“What an ass I am!” thought Philip. “She probably lives within sight of
this place; and the man will think I’m mad.” Aloud he said—“No-no;
what on earth am I thinking about? I mean, I’ll go for a drive—now;
and call on Miss Barnshaw this afternoon.” He got up, and crossed the
room restlessly; stopped, and spoke to the servant over his
shoulder—spoke at a venture.
“By the way, Harry—I suppose you’ll be thinking of getting married one
of these days—eh?”
There was so long a pause, that he looked round in astonishment at the
other man. Somewhat to his discomfiture, the servant was gazing
frowningly at the carpet, and tracing out the pattern on it with the
point of his boot. Looking up at his master, still with that frown upon
his face, he said slowly—“Don’t see as it matters, one way or another,
Master Dandy, to anybody but myself. I don’t see any likelihood of it
at present. What time might you be ready to drive, Master Dandy?”
Very wisely, Philip decided to leave the matter alone. It was in his
mind—in the earnest desire which filled him to do something to
straighten out one of the many tangled things Dandy Chater had left
behind him—to say something to this young man, in reference to the
love affair at which he only guessed; but so many other matters claimed
his attention, and demanded to be straightened out, that he decided to
leave the thing alone for the present. Therefore he said, somewhat
abruptly—“Very well; I have no wish to interfere. And, after all, I
shall not drive.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, as though he would have said something
more; but finally turned, and left the room. In a few moments he
returned, however, and announced—
“Miss Vint to see you, sir.”
Momentarily wondering whether this might not be some one else who loved
him, Philip requested that the lady might be shown in; and there
fluttered into the room an elderly lady—small, and thin, and
dry-looking; indeed, she gave one the impression, from her appearance,
of having lain by unused for a long time, so dusty was her aspect. She
had hair of no decided colour, and features of no decided form; and her
clothing—even her gloves—were of a neutral tint, as though, from long
preservation, whatever of original colour they had possessed had long
since faded out of them. But, with something of sprightliness, she came
rapidly up to Philip, and seized his hand in both her own.
“My dear Mr. Chater—shall I, under the special circumstances, say—my
dear Mr. Dandy?——”
“My dear lady,” replied Philip, lightly—“say what you will.”
“How good of you!” she exclaimed, and squeezed his hand once more. “The
dear girl has but just told me all about it; and I hurried over at
once, to offer my congratulations——”
“Now I wonder,” thought Philip—“which dear girl she means?”
“For I felt that I must not lose a moment. Madge has not confided in
me, as she might have done, and I have had to guess many things for
myself. But I must say, Mr. Dandy”—she shook a rallying forefinger at
him—“that you are the shyest lover I have ever known.”
“Indeed—I am very sorry—” he began; but she checked him at once.
“Well—we’ll forgive you; only I had been given to understand that you
were very different—that’s all. However—that is not what I came to
say. Standing in the position I do, as regards Madge, I feel that I
must make some formal acknowledgment of the matter. Therefore, I want
you to dine with us—let me see—to-morrow night?”
“I shall be delighted,” replied Philip, mechanically. “By the way—what
is to-morrow?”
“Tuesday, of course,” she responded, with a little laugh. “Ah—love’s
young dream! I suppose all days are alike to you—eh?”
The mention of that day had brought to his mind a certain appointment
he had. He remembered the hoarse whisper of the Shady ’un in his ear,
in the coffee-house in Woolwich—“Toosday-ten-thirty sharp.”
“I’m afraid,” he said, slowly—“I’m afraid I can’t manage to come
to-morrow. I—I have to be in London; a—a business appointment. I’m
extremely sorry. Could you—pray forgive the suggestion—could you
arrange for some other evening—or could you bring—Madge—here?”
“I had quite set my heart on to-morrow,” said the old woman, in an
injured tone.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” replied Philip again. “But I shall be coming in
to see Madge, and we can make arrangements. If you are going back now,”
he added, “please let me walk with you.”
“Thank you—but I am going down to the village,” she replied, as she
backed towards the door.
She was gone, before he could quite make up his mind what to do or say;
he watched her through the window helplessly, as she walked away from
the house.
“Done again!” he muttered, savagely. “I thought I should be able to
find out where the cottage was. Well—I must trust to luck, I suppose;
I haven’t committed any very great errors yet.”
It seemed possible, however, that he might commit an error which would
lead to his undoing, in this matter of the appointment at “The Three
Watermen.” In the first place, if, as he suspected, the man responsible
for the death of Dandy Chater was the man known as “the Count,” it
would be obviously impossible for Philip Chater to keep the
appointment. Yet, on the other hand, Philip was determined to know more
of the surroundings and associates of the late Dandy Chater than he
knew already; indeed, to do so was absolutely necessary. He had set his
feet upon that road which was plainly marked “Deception”; and,
wheresoever it might lead, there must be no turning back now. As Dandy
Chater he stood before them all; as Dandy Chater he must stand while he
lived, or until the cheat was discovered. Philip Crowdy was as dead as
though he had never existed.
“There’s another man, too, with whom I am supposed to be in
company—Ogledon, I think the name was; I wonder who _he_ is? However,
I’ll go to London—and I’ll attend this meeting, if it be possible.”
Early next morning saw him on his way to the station—this time with
some pomp and ceremony, for he drove a smart dog-cart, and was attended
by Harry. The occupants of other vehicles, passing him, were respectful
or familiar, according to their grade; and he answered all salutations
discreetly.
“I’m beginning to like this,” he said, as he leant back in the corner
of a first-class carriage, and lit a cigar. “I wish I knew how much
money there was in the bank, or what property I had generally; I must
make enquiries. At present, things are decidedly pleasant—and there’s
an element of danger about the business that gives it a flavour.
There’s that girl, too—Madge; but I’m not sure that I quite like that.
I’ve taken a kiss from her lips that was never meant for me; and
yet”—he shook his head over it, and sighed heavily—“I’m very much
afraid that I’m a little bit in love with her; I know, at any rate,
that I dread very much seeing those eyes change from tenderness to
contempt—from kindness to reproach or scorn. Well—we must hope for
the best.”
Cheerfully hoping for the best, he made his way to Woolwich, as night
was coming on, and headed for the little public-house by the river.
Being still doubtful, however, what course to pursue, he paced a little
side street near at hand for some time, trying to make up his mind
whether to put in an appearance at “The Three Watermen,” at the time
appointed, or not. He was so deep in his reflections, that he failed to
notice one or two lurking figures, in the shadow of the houses, on the
opposite side of the way; until another figure—not by any means a
lurking one, but one which took up a great deal of the pavement, with a
rolling gait, and roared very huskily a stave of a song as it came
along—lurched towards him; when, in an instant, the lurking figures
became very active.
Two of them darted across the road, and bolted in front of the rolling
figure; another ran swiftly behind, and embraced the singer with much
tenderness round the neck. Before Philip had had time to take in the
situation completely, the four figures formed one struggling heap upon
the pavement, with the central one—the singer, but roaring out quite
another tune now—making lively play with fists and feet.
Philip Chater rushed in to the rescue; seized one assailant—dragged
him to his feet—preparatory to immediately knocking him off them; and
looked round to see how the battle was progressing. The man who had
been attacked—and whose musical tendencies were stronger, apparently,
than any alarm he might reasonably be expected to feel—had collared
one of his opponents round the neck, in return for the delicate
attention bestowed upon himself, and was hammering away lustily at him,
making the blows keep time to the tune of “The Death of Nelson,” the
first bars of which he solemnly chanted, while he performed his
pleasing duty.
The man who had been so unexpectedly knocked down had got to his feet,
and, together with the third member of the gang, had bolted away;
presently the stranger, tiring of his exercise, and having got,
perhaps, as far through the tune as memory served him, released his
victim’s head, although still keeping a tight hold on his collar.
Philip, being close beside him when he did this, saw revealed, in the
features of this footpad of the streets, the Shady ’un.
“Now—you bloomin’ pirate!” exclaimed the musical one, shaking his man
until it seemed as though he must shake him altogether out of his
dilapidated clothes—“wot d’yer mean by runnin’ a decent craft down
like that, in strange waters—eh? An’ to land a man like that, w’en
’e’s a bit water-logged—leastways, we’ll call it water-logged, for the
sake of argyment. If it ’adn’t ’ave been for this ’ere gent, I don’t
know—” Here the man, turning for a moment towards Philip, stopped in
amazement, and almost let his victim go. The Shady ’un, too, was
regarding Philip curiously.
“Look ’ere, Mr. Chater,” began the Shady ’un, with a whine—“you’ll
swear as ’ow I’m a ’ard workin’ man, as just stepped forward for to
’elp this gen’leman, as was set on by two thieves—won’t yer, Mr.
Chater?”
“’Ere—’old ’ard,” broke in the man who held him. “Who the dooce are
you a callin’ ‘Mr. Chater’? I’d ’ave you know that this ’ere gent is a
mess-mate o’ mine—an’ ’is name ain’t Chater at all; it’s Crowdy—good
ole Phil Crowdy—if so be as ’e’ll excuse the liberty I takes. You an’
yer bloomin’ Chater! W’y—they’ll be a callin’ yer the Dook o’
Wellin’ton nex’, Phil.” As he spoke, he stretched out his disengaged
hand, and grasped that of Philip Chater.
Philip hurriedly interposed, when he saw that the Shady ’un was about
to speak. “It’s all right, Captain,” he said; “I certainly know this
man, and there may have been a mistake. Don’t you think—pray pardon
the suggestion—that he’s had a pretty good thumping, whether he
deserved it or not?”
“Well—p’raps ’e ’as,” replied the Captain, somewhat reluctantly. “But
let me give you a word of advice, my friend,” he added to the abject
Shady ’un. “W’en nex’ you tries to ’elp anybody, wot’s bein’ run
over—or run through—by a couple of thieves, don’t show your kindness
of ’eart by a thumpin’ ’im in the wes’kit; to a man o’ my figger, it
_ain’t_ exactly a kindness. An’ don’t call gentlemen out of their
names—’cos you’ll find——”
“That’s all right, Captain,” interrupted Philip; “this man knows me as
Mr. Chater.” To the Shady ’un, who had been that moment released, he
whispered quickly—“Get off as fast as you can—and think yourself
lucky.”
The man needed no second bidding, and in a moment Philip Chater and the
man whom he had addressed as the Captain were left standing alone in
the street. The Captain was a big, burly individual, with a round
good-tempered face, surrounded by a fringe of dark whiskers; whatever
temporary exaltation he might have been labouring under, before the
attack upon him, he was now perfectly sober, and looked at his friend
with considerable gravity, and with a slowly shaking head.
“My boy—far be it from the likes o’ me to interfere with a mess-mate,
or with ’is little fancies—but I don’t like this ’ere sailin’ under
false colours. I did know a ’ighly respectable ole gal, wot called
’erself the Queen o’ Lambeth; but she lived in a retirin’ way, in a
lunatic asylum. W’y, if so be as your name is Crowdy—w’y, I ask, call
yourself by such a common name as Chater?”
“I can’t explain now,” said Philip, hurriedly. “A number of strange
things have happened, since last I saw you. You mustn’t think badly of
me, old friend; but, for the present, I _am_ sailing under false
colours, and am known to all the world as Chater. Moreover, I must
impress upon you to forget that you ever knew any one of the name of
Crowdy, or that he ever sailed with you, on board the good ship
‘Camel,’ from Australia for England. Come—forget all about me, for the
present—and tell me about yourself, and when you sail again.” He
glanced at his watch, as he spoke, and found that it was exactly ten
o’clock. “I have half an hour to spare, Captain; where shall we go, for
a chat?”
“W’y—to tell the truth, I’m a cruisin’ in strange waters, an’ ’ave
lost my bearings a bit,” replied the Captain, looking about him with a
puzzled air. “If so be as you knew of a place, where the grog wasn’t
watered over much, with a locker for a man to rest ’isself on, it might
be better than the streets—eh?”
Accordingly, they set out together, to find a house of refreshment; and
presently came upon one, in a quiet street, with a tiny
bar—empty—round a corner. Here they called for what the Captain
termed “a toothful,” and were soon deep in conversation.
“You haven’t told me yet when you sail again,” said Philip, when he had
parried the other’s questions as much as possible. “I suppose you’ll be
quite glad to get on board again.”
“Well—not exactly,” replied the Captain—whose name, by the way, was
Peter Quist. “I’m a thinkin’ of givin’ it up altogether. Yer see—it’s
this way,” he added, confidentially. “I’ve put by a bit of money, an’
I’m thinkin’ of settlin’ down ashore. The sea’s been my business—an’ I
want somethin’ else for my pleasure. I’m a thinkin’,” he went on
slowly, pulling meditatively at his whiskers—“I’m a thinkin’ of goin’
in for the showman line, with a dash of the circus. I was always fond
of ’osses—an’ I believe as fat ladies and two-’eaded babbies is
profitable—always supposin’ as Mrs. Quist don’t get spiteful about the
fat ladies. I’m now a lookin’ out for anybody as ’as got a good
second-’and circus to dispose of, with a fat lady or two goin’ cheap.”
“Well,” said Philip, laughing, “I hope you’ll succeed. But what brings
you into this part of the world?”
“I come down ’ere, to see a man I thought ’ad got wot I wanted. I’ve
put up at a nice little place, down near the river; I was makin’ for
it, w’en I run foul of them land-sharks.”
“What place is it?” asked Philip.
“Well, Mr. Crowdy—leastways, I should say—Mr. Chater—they calls it
‘The Three Watermen.’”
CHAPTER VI
AT THE SIGN OF “THE THREE WATERMEN”
For a few moments Philip Chater sat gazing at Peter Quist, as though he
half suspected that the man knew more than his guileless face
proclaimed, and that he was playing a joke upon him. Seeing, however,
that his friend appeared to be completely in earnest, and that he had
simply answered his question as straightforwardly as it had been put,
he merely remarked, in a surprised tone—
“Why—what takes you to ‘The Three Watermen’?”
“I was a cruisin’ about in these parts—bein’ near the water, and so
comin’ more nateral like—w’en I turned in there for a toothful, an’
found they let beds. Wantin’ a bed—(for man were not made to sleep on
the ’ard ground)—I took it. It looks over the river, an’ is
cheap—which is a consideration.”
It suddenly occurred to Philip that he might well make use of this man,
to discover whether or not it would be safe to venture into the place
that night. If, as the Shady ’un had suggested, he was expected to
arrive in company with the man known as the Count, and if, further,
that man knew anything of the murder of the real Dandy Chater, Philip’s
position was precarious in the extreme; indeed, safety only lay in the
company of those people who were ignorant of the death of his twin
brother.
“Look here, Quist,” he said, after a little hesitation—“I want you to
do me a favour. At this same house where you have a lodging, a certain
man is likely to be, in whom I have an interest. I can’t explain the
full circumstances; but I am playing a desperate game, for a large
stake, and it is essential that I should know whether this man is there
or not; at the same time, I do not wish him to know—or, indeed, any
one else—that I am making enquiries. Will you—to oblige a friend,
drop a casual enquiry as to whether the Count is there?”
Captain Quist stared at him, in open-mouthed astonishment. “’Ere-’old
’ard, Phil, my boy; I’m afraid the beds at that ’ouse will be a bit too
expensive for me. I thought it was a place w’ere a ordinary sailor-man
might get a cheap lodging; but w’en it comes to a matter of counts——”
“Oh—you needn’t be afraid,” replied Philip, laughing. “The man I want
is not, I suspect, a count at all—I think it’s merely a nickname.”
The Captain shook his head, and looked at his friend with a troubled
countenance. “Phil, my boy,” he said, “I’m very much afraid you’re a
gettin’ into bad company. In the ordinary course o’ nature, I don’t
mind a little scrap in the street, or bein’ butted violent; but w’en
you knows the lubber I’d nabbed, an’ ’e knows you by another name—I
don’t like it. An’ now, ’ere’s another of ’em, also under a wrong flag.
No, Phil”—the Captain was very emphatic about the matter—“I do not
like it!”
“Very well,” said Philip, somewhat testily, “I won’t trouble you. If I
had not been acting quite innocently in the matter, I would not have
asked you to do this for me. I have no doubt——”
“Stop—stop!” broke in the Captain. “I never said I wouldn’t do it; I
only expressed my opinion. Peter Quist ain’t the man to go back on a
mess-mate, as you’ve found afore to-day. Trust in the old firm, Phil,
my boy, and if there’s a count anywheres about Woolwich, I’ll lay ’im
by the ’eels, as soon as look.”
Philip Chater urged upon him, however, the necessity for proceeding
with caution; and, above all, making his enquiries in as casual a
fashion as possible. It being now very near the time for keeping the
appointment, the Captain, accompanied by Philip, set off on his quest;
they parted near to “The Three Watermen,” Philip remaining in the
shadow of an archway, to await the Captain’s return.
In a very short space of time—although it seemed long to the waiting
man—Peter Quist hove in sight; coming along in a very mysterious and
cautious manner, and keeping well within the shadow of the houses. He
dived into the archway, dragging Philip with him; and there stood for
some moments, in the semi-darkness, breathing hard, and shaking his
head with much solemnity.
“Well,” asked Philip, impatiently—“what news?”
“I tell yer wot it is, young man,” replied the Captain, slowly—“you’ll
be a gettin’ me into serious trouble, you will—alonger yer counts and
things. I stepped into the bar, an’ I orders a drop of rum—just to
ease conversation a bit; an’ I ses—off-hand like—‘’As the Count come
in?’ The man was a drawin’ the rum, and ’e ses, without lookin’
up—‘No—nobody ain’t seen the Count for some days.’ Then ’e looks
up—seems surprised—an’ ses—‘Who wants to know?’ I tells ’im a pal o’
mine was wishful to know about the Count. Well—Phil, my boy—the man
looks at me very ’ard; and presently I see ’im a w’isperin’ to some
one, wot ’ad slipped in on the quiet—an’ a lookin’ at me. So I strolls
out—careless like—an’ I ’adn’t gone far, w’en I found as I was bein’
followed—and by the bloke as called you ‘Mr. Chater’ not an hour ago.”
“What—the Shady ’un?” exclaimed Philip.
“Shady or not, there ’e was; but I soon settled ’is business,” replied
the Captain. “As ’e was a sneakin’ past a little shop, with steps a
leadin’ down into it, I turns round on a sudden, an’ lands ’im one on
wot I may call the fore-’atch—an’ down ’e tumbles into that shop. In
fact,” added the Captain, with a fine air of carelessness—“the last I
see of ’im, ’e was on ’is back, an’ the female wot kep’ the shop was a
layin’ into ’im proper with a broom, an’ yellin’ ‘Fire!’ Accordingly, I
left ’im, an’ cut on ’ere, as ’ard as I could.”
“You’re a good fellow,” said Philip, gratefully. “I must go on to ‘The
Three Watermen’ at once, and trust to luck to bring me safely out of it
again. If you will come on later, and take your lodging there in the
ordinary course, I shall be glad; I might want to have such a friend
near me. But, should you see me there, don’t recognise me, or take the
faintest notice of me, unless I call upon you to do so. Will you
undertake to carry out my wishes?”
Captain Peter Quist, though evidently much disturbed in mind, nodded
slowly, in token that he would do as he was asked; and Philip Chater
set out alone for “The Three Watermen.”
Guessing that the late Dandy Chater was probably well acquainted with
the house and its inmates, Philip, for his own protection, determined
to put on a moody sullen demeanour, and to lounge at the bar of the
place until he was accosted by some one; he felt that he could take his
cue more readily, if he led those who imagined they knew him to speak
first.
In pursuance of this plan, he roughly pushed open the door with his
shoulder, and lounged into the place—looking about him with an air
that was half insolent, half quarrelsome. Making his way to the bar, he
gave a curt nod to the man behind it, and gruffly ordered some brandy.
The man who presided there regarded him with a sort of obsequious leer;
and took the opportunity to lean across the bar, and whisper
huskily—“All gone upstairs, Mr. Dandy.”
“What the devil do I care where they’ve gone?” asked Philip, roughly.
“They’ll be expecting you, Mr. Dandy,” ventured the man, after a pause.
“Well—let them wait till I choose to go,” said Philip, in the same
reckless manner. “I’ve been looking for the Count.”
“And he ain’t come,” replied the man. “They expected he’d come along
with you. There’s something big afoot”—the man leaned over the bar to
whisper this—“hadn’t you better go up and see them, Mr. Dandy?”
As a matter of fact, that was precisely what Philip Chater most desired
to do; but, in the first place, he did not know which way to turn, or
where to go; and, in the second, he had no intention of presenting
himself before whatever company might be expecting Dandy Chater, in
such a place as that, unannounced and unprepared. Therefore, trusting
to the good-fortune which had not yet deserted him, he waited to see if
some event would not occur, to prepare the way for him.
“I don’t care what’s afoot,” he said; “I’ll finish my brandy, and go
when I choose.”
The man—who appeared to be the landlord of the house—advanced his
face a little nearer, across the bar, and spoke in a wheedling tone.
“I’m going up myself, Mr. Dandy,” he said, in a whisper; “perhaps you’d
like to come up with me?”
“Oh—if you like,” replied Philip, carelessly; although this was
exactly what he wanted. He felt that, from the tone the man had
adopted, it was evident that the late Dandy Chater had been a difficult
man to deal with. He determined to make what capital he could out of
that.
The man—after calling gruffly to a draggled female in the inner room
to come and attend to the bar—dived under the wooden flap in the
counter, and stood beside Philip. The latter slowly and coolly drank
his brandy, and even stopped to bite the end from a cigar, and light
it—looking frowningly at the other, who stood waiting patiently at the
foot of some dark stairs for him; all this to give himself time, and to
carry out, as fully as possible, that idea, of which he had somehow
possessed himself, that the late Dandy Chater had been a remarkably
disagreeable fellow, and that it was necessary for his successor to
keep up the character.
At last, having spun out the time as much as possible, he lounged after
his guide, up the stairs; and was ushered by him, through a low
doorway, into a room which, from the appearance of the single long
projecting window, which took up nearly all one side, evidently gave on
to the river. Round a table in this room, four men were seated, with
their elbows upon it, and their heads very close together; the heads
were turned, as the door opened, and a murmur—apparently of relief and
recognition—broke simultaneously from the four throats. Philip Chater,
observing, in that momentary glance, that they were all men of an
inferior type to himself, from the social standpoint, carried off his
entry with an air, and swaggered up to the table—still with that heavy
insolence of bearing, which had seemed to have so good an effect upon
the landlord below.
“Well,” he said, taking a seat at the table, and coolly blowing a cloud
of smoke into the air—“what do you want with me?”
He noticed, as he spoke, that the man who had guided him to the room
appeared to have a direct interest in whatever proceedings were afoot;
inasmuch as that he took a seat at the table, quite as a matter of
course.
“Where’s the Count?” abruptly asked one man—a tall, sandy-haired
fellow, with grey eyes far too close together to make his countenance a
pleasing one.
“The very question I was going to ask you,” replied Philip. “Do you
suppose I’m the Count’s keeper?”
“Well—he left here with you last week,” replied the same man, in an
injured tone. “We supposed he’d been staying with you as usual.”
“Then you supposed something that didn’t happen,” said Philip, in the
same surly tone as before. “I’ve seen nothing of him since—since that
night.” Then, a sudden thought occurring to him, he added—“I left
him—down by the river.”
A shrill voice—piping, and thin, and unsteady—broke in from the other
end of the table. Its owner was a little man, with a figure as thin and
shrunken and unsteady as his voice—a man with no linen to speak of,
who yet had whiskers, which had once been fashionable, on either side
of his grimy face, and whose shaking hand affectionately clasped a
glass of spirits. “A split in the camp—eh?” he squeaked out. “Ogledon
and his cousin had a row—eh?”
Philip Chater was learning many things and learning them quickly. If
Ogledon—the man expected at Chater Hall by the housekeeper—and the
man known as the Count were one and the same person, and that person
Dandy Chater’s—and his own—cousin, what had they both to do with
these men, and why had both disappeared—the one murdered, and the
other missing?
“Hold your tongue, Cripps,” exclaimed the man who had spoken first.
“The Count knows his own business—and ours; I expect he’ll be here
presently——”
(“I sincerely hope he won’t,” thought Philip.)
“In the meantime, if you’re sober enough, Doctor”—this to the man he
had addressed as Cripps—“we’ll get to business.”
Philip Chater pricked up his ears; he remembered, at that moment, that
Betty Siggs, in her disclosure to him of the story of his own life, had
mentioned a certain drunken little doctor, of the name of Cripps, who
knew the secret of his birth, and had been paid to keep it.
“You’ll be glad to know, Dandy,” went on the man, who appeared to act
as a species of leader—“that the business at Sheffield has turned up
trumps. We don’t mention names, even amongst ourselves; but the haul
was bigger than we anticipated. The man behind the counter—you know
who I mean—gets a thousand for handing over the flimsies; and gets it
pretty easily, too, to my mind. The rest is divided out between us,
except for your share and Ogledon’s. Here’s yours”—he handed a packet
across the table to Philip—“and perhaps, as the Count hasn’t turned
up, you’d better take his as well. Here it is.”
Philip took the two packets, inwardly wondering what they contained,
and thrust them into his pocket, with a nod. As he did so he became
aware that three of the heads had drawn together, and that whispers
were passing amongst them, while three pairs of eyes were glancing in
his direction. Quick to fear that some suspicion of his identity might
have come upon them, he watched them covertly; while such phrases
as—“The Count said nothing about him”—“I suppose we’d better tell
him”—“He’ll know the country, at any rate”—and the like, fell upon
his attentive ears.
“Now—what the devil are you plotting there?” he asked, angrily.
The sandy-haired man raised his head, and spoke hesitatingly. “Well,
you see, Dandy, it’s a little matter the Count mentioned last week—but
he didn’t say anything about you. He’s told off the men for it—and
it’s a matter of a few diamonds, and only women to deal with. But the
Count’s particular about one of the women—a young one—coming by no
hurt. After all, it’s down your way, and he must have meant you to know
what was going on. It’s for Friday, as soon after midnight as may be.
There’s Briggs here, and myself, and Cripps, in case of accidents. He
wrote the address, and a rough plan, so that we might find it without
making enquiries. Here you are.” He tossed across the table a folded
piece of paper as he spoke.
Philip’s hand had closed on the paper, and he was in the very act of
opening it, when a confused sound of scuffling and angry voices came
from outside the door. Looking round quickly, with the others, he saw
the Shady ’un dart in—breathless and panting—and make a hasty attempt
to close it; indeed, he got his back planted against it, while some one
outside was evidently striving hard to burst it open, and pointed with
a shaking hand at Philip Chater.
“Treachery—by God!” he gasped. “He’s put the splits on us!”
The man’s appearance, no less than his voice, and the words he had
uttered, were sufficient to cause alarm. He was battered and bruised
from his two encounters with the Captain, and with the woman into whose
shop he had been so unceremoniously thrust, while his clothing—such as
it was—had been almost torn from him, by his struggle with the unknown
person against whom he still frantically held the door. At the very
moment he spoke, this unknown one, proving too much for him, burst into
the room, sweeping the Shady ’un aside, and revealed himself as Captain
Peter Quist, without a hat, and in a great state of perspiration,
disorder, and excitement.
Finding himself unexpectedly in the presence of half-a-dozen men—one
of whom was Philip Chater—in addition to his late assailant, the
Captain stopped, and looked round in some astonishment. At the same
time, the Shady ’un, in an agony of spite and fear, backed away from
him, and continued to gasp out his indictment.
“Seed ’em together all night, I ’ave. Dandy sent ’im ’ere, a spy in’
out fer the Count—an’ I——”
Philip Chater did not care to risk waiting to give any explanation to
that company. In point of fact, he feared the honest Captain more than
any man there; for he dreaded lest he should blurt out his knowledge of
a certain Philip Crowdy, who was done with, and left behind in the
past. Therefore, edging quickly near to the Captain, while he still
kept his eyes on the other men, who had risen to their feet, he
whispered quickly—
“Make a bolt for it!”
There hung from the ceiling, over the table, a single gas jet, with a
naked light; Philip, with a quick movement, snatched the ragged hat
from the head of the Shady ’un, who stood at his elbow, and dashed it
straight at the light; the room was in darkness in a moment. He heard
the men falling about, and stumbling over the chairs, as he darted
through the doorway, and plunged down the stairs, with the Captain
almost in his arms—for that gentleman had waited for him. The men were
actually on the stairs, when the two fugitives darted through the bar,
and into the street.
Rightly guessing that no attempt would be made to pursue them in the
open street, Philip and his companion, after doubling round one or two
corners, came to a halt, and sat down on some steps outside a church,
to review their position.
“This comes of gettin’ into bad company, Phil,” said the Captain
drearily, when he had recovered his breath. “A ’at—bought off a Jew
gentleman, with nice manners, only last week; a brush and comb—the
brush a bit bald, and the comb wantin’ a noo set of teeth; to say
nothink of a night garment, ’emmed by the Missis, and marked with a
anchor on the boosum—all lost at ‘The Three Watermen.’”
“I’m very sorry,” replied Philip, “but I think we got off pretty
cheaply as it was. But I don’t think we had better be seen in company;
those fellows only saw you for a moment, and will scarcely be likely to
recognise you, should you meet them.”
“I don’t want to meet ’em,” said the Captain. “I saw that Shady chap in
the bar, and thought ’e was on the lookout for me again—so I chivvied
of ’im upstairs.”
They parted for the time, after Philip Chater had impressed his address
upon the Captain’s mind, with many injunctions to talk about him as
little as possible. Philip, after walking for nearly an hour, found a
quiet hotel, and gladly got to bed. At the last moment, before his eyes
closed, he remembered the two packets which had been given him,
together with the piece of paper the sandy-haired man had tossed to
him, and which latter he had thrust into his pocket. He jumped out of
bed, re-lit the gas, and took them from the pockets of his clothing.
The first packet, when he broke it, he found contained bank-notes—for
small and large amounts—to the total of three thousand five hundred
pounds; the second packet held the same amount. Dropping these hastily,
he caught up the scrap of paper, and hurriedly unfolded it.
It was a roughly-drawn plan of certain roads and paths, together with
two little squares—one at the top right-hand corner, and one at the
top left-hand corner. The square at the right was marked—“Dandy’s
house—easily seen from village street.” The other square was
marked—“The Cottage.”
And the address pencilled upon it was—“The Cottage, Bamberton.”
CHAPTER VII
MASTER AND SERVANT
For a long time, Philip Chater sat staring, in a stupefied fashion, at
the packets of bank-notes, and at the paper he held in his hand. He was
at first utterly at a loss to understand why such a sum of money should
have been paid into his hands, together with a similar sum for the
mysterious man, his cousin, known as the Count. Gradually, however, a
light began to dawn upon him; remembering the talk about diamonds, and
about the young girl who was to receive no hurt, the horrible business
began to piece itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Once again he
seemed to be looking into the evil faces, in that upstairs room in the
low public-house at Woolwich; saw that the giving of the packets—one
for himself, and one for his cousin—had been but a dividing of the
spoils of some successful robbery. More than that, the paper seemed to
point to the fact that another robbery was planned, at the house of
Madge Barnshaw.
Everything seemed to point to this. The affair had evidently been
arranged by this same mysterious man Ogledon; and that he was a
frequent visitor to Bamberton was obvious, from the mention made of him
by Mrs. Dolman, the housekeeper, on the day of Philip’s first journey
to Chater Hall. Again, the mention of the young girl who was not to be
hurt—of the fact that they only expected to have to deal with
women—all pointed to robbery, to which possible violence was attached.
“My God!” whispered Philip to himself, in an awed voice—“I’ve landed
straight into the midst of some tremendous conspiracy. Dandy
Chater—the Squire—the gentleman; yet Dandy Chater, the associate of
thieves and footpads. Dandy Chater, professing love for the sweetest
woman in the world, yet mixed up with scoundrels who are plotting to
rob her! And, in the meantime, where in the world is this precious
cousin of mine—Ogledon? Did Dandy Chater meet his death at that man’s
hands, and is that the reason the fellow keeps out of sight? Well—two
things are clear; in the first place, I have in my possession notes,
which I believe to be stolen, to the extent of seven thousand pounds;
and, in the second place, the gang from whom I escaped to-night are to
plunder Madge’s house, on Friday next, soon after midnight.”
He began to pace up and down the room, in an agitated fashion; stopped
suddenly, with a look of resolution on his face.
“Well—one thing is clear; I must find the rightful owners of this
money, and restore it——Great Heavens—I can’t do that! This plunder
belongs to Dandy Chater, and he belongs to the gang that stole it—and
I—I’m Dandy Chater! Upon my word, I begin to wish that the good ship
‘Camel’ had struck a rock, somewhere on its voyage home from Australia,
and had deposited me comfortably at the bottom of the ocean.”
Fully understanding the hopelessness of attempting to do anything, at
all events at that time, Philip Chater put the notes under his pillow,
and returned the slip of paper to his pocket. He had lain down in bed,
with the full intention of putting off all thought until the morrow,
when a remembrance of this same scrap of paper brought him suddenly
upright in bed, in the darkness.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, softly—“I shall be able to find my way to the
cottage easily enough, after all.”
He slept soundly through the night, and, quite early in the morning,
set off for Bamberton—sending a telegram to “Harry—care of Dandy
Chater, Esq., Bamberton,” to apprise that respectable young man-servant
of the hour at which he desired to be met at the station.
“That’s another of the defects of my position,” he thought, savagely;
“I don’t even know the name—the surname, at least—of my own servant.
However, if there should happen to be more than one Harry at Chater
Hall, I can blame it on the post office, and swear they left out the
name.”
To his satisfaction, however, the Harry he wanted was awaiting his
arrival at the little railway station, with the smart dog-cart in which
he had driven before. But, ever on the watch for some sign of suspicion
in those about him, Philip Chater noted, with a quick eye, that the
pleasant manner of this young servant was gone; that he answered his
master’s greeting, by merely touching his hat, and without a word in
reply. More than that, he seemed to avoid Philip’s eyes as much as
possible—glancing at him covertly, and, as it appeared, almost with
aversion.
As they drove in the direction of Bamberton—Philip having the reins,
and the young man sitting silently beside him—Philip broke an
uncomfortable pause, by asking abruptly—“Anything happened since I
went to town?”
For quite a long moment, Harry did not reply; Philip Chater, looking
round at him quickly, saw that he was staring straight in front of him,
down the long road before them, and that his face was rather white.
“No, sir,” he replied at last—“nothing has happened.”
His manner was so strange—so perturbed, in fact, for his voice shook a
little as he spoke—that Philip, scenting danger, guessed that
something was wrong, and determined to get out of him what it was,
while they were alone together. He turned quickly on the young man,
checking the horse’s speed as he did so, and spoke quietly, though with
a certain strong determination in his voice.
“Come, Harry—something _has_ happened; I am convinced of it. You are
hiding something from me; what is it?”
Another long pause, while the horse paced slowly along the road, and
the hearts of both men beat faster than ordinary. At last, the servant
spoke—still without looking at his master. He spoke doggedly, and as
though repeating something he had trained himself, with difficulty, to
say.
“There’s nothing I’m hiding, Master Dandy,” he said, slowly and
distinctly—“and nothing has happened—since you went away.”
It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him; Philip touched
the horse smartly with the whip, causing it to break into its former
rapid pace, and said quietly, with something of reproach in his
tone—“You _are_ hiding something, Harry. I am sorry; I thought you
were my friend.”
“God knows I am, Master Dandy!” broke from the other, almost with a
groan. But he said nothing more, and they swept up the long drive to
Chater Hall in silence.
Now, the ill-luck which seemed to have begun to pursue Philip Chater,
caused time to hang heavily upon his hands that afternoon, and prompted
him to stroll down to the Chater Arms. Truth to tell, he had a very
strong desire to pay a visit to Madge Barnshaw—which would have been
easy, now that the plan on the scrap of paper was in his hands. But he
hesitated, for more reasons than one.
In the first place the natural chivalry of the man rebelled against the
thought of taking advantage of the fraud he was compelled to practice
upon an innocent woman. Some feeling, stronger than mere interest in
her, had begun to stir in his breast, from the time when she had placed
her hand upon his arm, in the church, until she had blushingly kissed
his lips, and fled from him. For this man, so strangely made in the
likeness of the dead, and so strangely placed, in the masquerading game
he was forced to play, was desperately and bitterly lonely. Surrounded
by unknown dangers—necessarily suspicious of every one with whom he
came in contact—resenting, as an honest man, the lie he was obliged to
live—he craved most earnestly for some sympathy and tenderness. All
unconsciously, this woman had given them both to him; and, in the midst
even of his remorse that he should be playing so false a game with her,
was the natural selfish feeling of his manhood, which cried out—“Let
her love me; she will never understand; I am as good, or better, than
the man to whom she thinks she is giving her caresses. Born of the same
mother, in the same hour, and fashioned so strangely alike—he, the
younger, has had all the luxury and beauty of life hitherto; I—the
elder—all its hardships and privations. Surely it is my
turn—rightfully—now.”
Nevertheless, he thrust that thought from him, and resolved to see no
more of her than was consistent with the keeping up of the fictitious
character he had assumed. And thus it was that, in desperation, and
haunted by troublesome thoughts, he betook himself to the Chater Arms.
The moment he entered the door of that respectable inn, he regretted
having done so; for, behind the neat little bar, there sat, to his
infinite surprise, the young girl whose black eyes had looked at him so
reproachfully in church, and whom he had left weeping in the wood.
However, he felt that he must make the best of it; and he therefore
advanced, boldly and smilingly, and gave her greeting.
The girl was evidently disturbed in her mind by his appearance—yet not
unhappily so; she blushed prettily, and rose, with some nervousness, to
fulfil his demands. And, just at the moment when, as she was bending to
pour out the liquor he had ordered, and, as he lounged on the bar, his
own head was necessarily somewhat close to hers, the door swung open,
and Harry came in.
The situation was, of course, ridiculous; for, whatever the methods of
the late Dandy Chater might have been, Philip had a natural personal
objection to drinking in public with his own servant. But, however he
might have been disposed to resent it, the sight of the young man’s
face gave him pause.
It had been white when they drove together in the dog-cart; it was
white now—but with a different sort of whiteness. Then, his face had
borne the expression of deep emotion—of a struggle to repress
something—almost of a deadly fear; now, it was set into a look of
stern and ill-suppressed anger. Moreover, he made no attempt to give
his master any salutation, respectful or otherwise.
Desiring, at least for the sake of appearances, to assert his position,
and being, at the same time, unwilling to wound the lad more than could
be avoided, Philip stepped quietly up to him, and, with his back
towards the girl, said, in a low voice—“I don’t desire that you should
be seen here, at this hour of the day. When your duties at the Hall are
ended, you can, of course, please yourself—but I can’t have you
drinking here now.”
The once respectful Harry looked at him steadily for a moment, and
returned a remarkable answer—speaking in the same suppressed voice as
his master.
“I’ll please myself now, Master Dandy—and I’m not drinking. I’m here
for a purpose.”
The nature of the elder man was too strong to be put off, even with
such a rebuff as this; his manner changed, and his voice, when he spoke
again, had in it the sternness of command.
“You forget yourself,” he said; “return at once to the Hall.”
The young man, without changing his attitude in the least, shook his
head doggedly. “No, Master Dandy,” he replied—“I’m going to stay
here.” His eyes wandered, for a moment, towards the girl with the black
eyes behind the little bar.
“Very good. Then you understand that you leave my service from this
hour. Is that clear?”
“No, Master Dandy—it ain’t clear. I don’t leave your service—now,
most of all—not if you was to kick me, like a dog, from your doors.”
He spoke in a hurried, breathless whisper, and, to the utter
bewilderment and amazement of Philip Chater, his eyes—full of some
mute appeal—had tears in them.
Baffled in earnest now, Philip Chater, after looking at Harry for a
moment or two in perplexity, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away.
But he had no stomach for the drink the girl had prepared for him;
avoiding her eyes, he paid for it, and, without looking at either of
them, walked out of the place.
He felt that some mystery was brooding, behind the extraordinary
attitude of his young servant. Remembering the girl’s mention of him in
the wood, he felt that mere foolish jealousy was at the bottom of the
matter; and, knowing that this was one of the difficult legacies left
behind by the late Dandy Chater, he accepted it philosophically. At the
same time, he was puzzled at the young man’s last remark, and at the
evident emotion he had displayed. Being in no mood to return to his
solitary home, which seemed always full of unfamiliar ghosts of people
he had never known, he struck off across some fields, and sat down on
the felled trunk of a tree, and was soon lost in unprofitable dreaming.
He was roused from this, by hearing a footstep quite close to him;
looking up, he saw the man from whom he had so recently parted. Anger
at the thought of being followed, and spied upon, brought him hurriedly
to his feet.
“What do you want? What right have you to follow me, in this fashion? I
suppose you’ve come to plead something, in extenuation of your
rudeness—eh?” he exclaimed. “I’ll hear nothing—I’ve nothing to say to
you.”
He turned away angrily, and walked a half-dozen paces; twisted on his
heel, and came back again. Harry had not moved; he stood, with his
hands clasped tightly together before him, and with his head bowed on
his breast. When he spoke, his voice was low, and had a curious
mournful ring in it, that struck upon his listener’s heart like a knell.
“Master Dandy—I’m only a common country lad, that’s seen nothing of
the great world, and knows but little of the rights or wrongs of
things, more than whatever good God put in my heart can teach me. But
I’ve only known one life, Master Dandy—and that’s you!”
He took a half step forward, and stretched out his clasped hands, in
mute appeal—dropping them again the next moment. Philip
Chater—humbled and awed by the pathetic dignity of the lad—was silent.
“The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed out
to me, on your pony, as the young Squire; I used to go out of my way,
to watch you cantering along the roads. Then, afterwards, when you took
notice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me your
servant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(but
there’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—my
everything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as you
did your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.”
Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather an
unsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he could
muster—“what has all this to do with the matter?”
“Master Dandy,” went on the appealing voice—“I’m not a great
gentleman, like you—and I can’t put my poor thoughts into the right
words. But—Master Dandy—won’t you—won’t you try to run straight with
me—won’t you let me help you? Master Dandy”—he came a step nearer, in
his eagerness—“I’d give—I’d give my life for you!”
“Yes—and yet you’ll insult me, because I happen to look at some girl
in whom you take an interest,” said Philip, slowly.
The lad’s figure stiffened, and the appeal died out of his eyes.
“Because I love her, Master Dandy,” he said. “Because I’ve got the
feelings of a man, and I know that a gentleman like yourself doesn’t
pay court to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, with any good intent.”
“Why—what the devil do you mean?” cried Philip, startled for the
moment into answering out of his own honest heart.
“Master Dandy—I’ve stuck up for you through thick and thin—and I’d
kill the man who dared to say a word against you. But you know what has
been said, about these parts—God forgive me, I’m speaking as man to
man, and not as servant to master—and you know that decent mothers
warn their girls about you. Master Dandy—I suppose these are
gentlemen’s ways—at least, I’ve heard so; and I’d have held my tongue,
and done my duty, if so be you had not touched what belonged to me. But
she’s mine, Master Dandy—and she’s a child—and innocent. God in
Heaven, man!”—all social distinctions seemed to be swept away, for the
moment, in the passion which overwhelmed him—“was not one forlorn
woman’s life enough for you?”
Staggered by the words, and even more by the tone in which they were
uttered, Philip Chater turned upon him swiftly, and caught his arm.
“What do you mean? ‘One forlorn woman’s life!’ What are you talking
about?”
All the passion had faded from the face of the other man; but the eyes
which looked into those of Philip Chater had a horrible deadly fear
growing in them.
“Master Dandy—before God, I think I’m the only man who knows it. There
is time for you to get away—to hide beyond seas—never to come back to
this place, where you have been led to do such wrong. Master
Dandy!”—he had fallen upon his knees, at the feet of the other man,
and was clasping his dress, in the agony of his appeal—“I knew you
when you were a bright faced lad, laughing in the sunshine, and with no
stain of blood upon you. Master Dandy——”
“Stain of blood!” cried Philip, recoiling. “What are you talking of?
What madness possesses you?”
“No madness, Master Dandy—would to Heaven it might be!” cried the
other. “It isn’t for me to see into a gentleman’s heart, or to know
what temptations he may have, above such as I am. But the thing is
done, and all high Heaven can’t undo it now. Master Dandy—there is yet
time to get away, before they find it.”
“Will you tell me what you mean?” cried Philip, distractedly.
Harry got up from his knees, and came nearer to his master—looking all
about him fearfully first, as though afraid there might be listeners,
even in that spot.
“Listen, Master Dandy,” he whispered. “Last night—restless, and
thinking of you—for you haven’t been as kind to me lately as you once
were, Master Dandy—I crept out of the house, and went out in the
moonlight. I walked a long way, without knowing it—and I came to the
wood behind the old mill.”
Like an echo, there came to Philip Chater certain words, spoken by a
girl who called herself Patience Miller, and who had met him on the
night of his arrival at Bamberton. As in a dream, too, while the other
man went on speaking, he seemed to see a figure dart out into the
highway—a figure that afterwards scraped heavy clay from its boots, in
the light of a flickering lamp—a figure which now lay at the bottom of
the Thames.
“Master Dandy,” went on the agitated voice—“I came, by accident, to
where she lay, with blood upon her—dead—in the moonlight. Master
Dandy”—he put his hands before his face, and shuddered—“say it isn’t
true, Master Dandy—for God’s sake, say it isn’t true!”
“What do you mean?” asked Philip, hoarsely, with an awful sweat of fear
beginning to break out upon him.
“Master Dandy—in the wood behind the mill—Patience Miller—murdered!”
With a cry, the lad fell at his feet, and buried his face in the grass.
CHAPTER VIII
TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD
Philip Chater was so stunned, in the first shock of the thing, that he
did not know what to say, or what to do. Standing, as he did, an
absolutely innocent man, he yet had time to recognise that he had taken
upon himself the identity of another; and stood answerable, by reason
of that, for that other’s sins, in the eyes of the world, at least.
He had no doubt, in his own mind, that Dandy Chater had murdered this
unfortunate girl. Her words to himself, on the night of his coming to
Bamberton—her reminder, to the supposed Dandy Chater, of his promise
to marry her—the mysterious appointment made, for that same night, in
the wood behind the mill; all these things seemed to point to but one
conclusion. Again, the man running, as for his life, to catch the
train—and without the girl; her disappearance, from that hour; all
these things, too, pointed, with unerring finger, to the common sordid
story, ending, in an hour of desperation, in the blow which should rid
the man of his burden.
These thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind, even in the few
seconds which elapsed after the other man’s halting declaration, and
while that other man still crouched at his feet. Then, the instinct of
self-preservation—the desire, and the necessity, to hide that
blood-stained thing, which seemed to point to him—innocent though he
was—as surely in death as it would have pointed in life—swept over
him. He caught the lad by the arm, and dragged him to his feet; the
while his mind was fiercely working, in a wild attempt to settle some
plan of action. Even in that hour of danger, a keen remembrance of the
part he still had to play was full upon him; in his brutal roughness of
voice, when he spoke, he played that part of Dandy Chater, as he
imagined Dandy Chater would have played it himself.
“Get up, you fool!” he cried, roughly. “Is this a time to be snivelling
here? Suppose she is dead—it was an accident.”
Harry sadly but doggedly shook his head. “You won’t find many to
believe that, Master Dandy,” he said. “She lies there—stabbed in the
breast. There is a trail of blood for some yards; she must have tried
to crawl away—and have bled to death. Master Dandy, can’t you see that
she will be found; can’t you guess what they will say, and whom they
will question first? All the village has linked your names, for months
past.”
“She—it must be hidden,” whispered Philip, weakly. “God—man”—he
cried, with a sudden burst of petulant anger—“why do you stand staring
like that? It may be found at any moment; it may have been found before
this!”
“There’s no help for it, Master Dandy,” replied the other, with a
groan—“it must be found, sooner or later. I tell you, you must get
away—beyond seas, if possible.”
“And draw suspicion on myself at once!” exclaimed Philip. Then, some of
the real Philip Chater coming to the surface, and sweeping aside the
false personality under which he lived, he added, hurriedly—“But you
must have nothing to do with it, Harry; we mustn’t get you into
trouble. No—I’ll take the thing in my own hands, and in my own
fashion. Do you keep a silent tongue to every one.”
“You need not fear that I shall speak, Master Dandy,” replied the lad.
“And it may not be so bad, after all; you may yet find a way of getting
out of it, Master Dandy.”
“A way of getting out of it!” muttered Philip to himself, as he watched
the retreating figure of his servant. “There seems but small chance of
that. Robbery was bad enough; but this is another matter. She’s dead,
and cannot speak; even if she were alive, she must point to me as Dandy
Chater. And I cannot speak, because the real Dandy Chater is gone, and
I stand here in his clothes, and with his very papers in my pockets.
Philip, my boy—keep a cool head—for this business means death!”
Some morbid attraction, no less than the necessity for doing something
with the body, urged him to see it. But, here again, the bitterness and
the strangeness of his position came strongly upon him; for, though he
stood in deadly peril of being charged with the murder of this girl, he
was actually ignorant of the spot where her body lay. He shuddered at
the thought that he might stumble upon it, at any step he took. Still
casting about in his mind for the best method of finding the place, he
went back to the Hall; and resolved to fortify himself with dinner,
before doing anything.
“I suppose, if I really had murder on my soul, I should have no
appetite—unless I were a hardened villain indeed. Being innocent, I’ll
make the best of things, until they come to the worst.”
With this wise resolution, he dined well, and drank an excellent bottle
of wine. The world beginning to look a little better, in direct
consequence, he lit a cigar, and put the matter philosophically before
himself.
“Men have been hung, I know, on slighter evidence than that which
connects me with the dead girl. Yet, after all”—he derived very
considerable satisfaction from the remembrance of this point—“I am not
Dandy Chater—and never was. If I can only as readily persuade people
that I am _not_ my twin brother, as I have persuaded them that I
_am_—I’ve nothing to fear. That’s the point. However, I must know what
the danger of discovery is, and exactly where I stand, before I do
anything else. Then—if there is nothing for it but flight, the
question will be: can I as readily drop my mask as I have assumed it?
Frankly, I’m afraid I can’t.”
Knowing the impossibility of doing anything alone, by reason of his
ignorance of the neighbourhood, he rang the bell, and requested that
Harry might be sent to him. In a few moments, the servant who had
answered the summons returned, and, standing just within the door,
announced that Harry was not to be found.
“What do you mean?” asked Philip. “Look about for him, man; he must be
somewhere about the place.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the man—“’e ’as been seen leavin’
the grounds a little while since.”
“Very well; it doesn’t matter,” said Philip, carelessly. “Send him to
me when he returns.”
The man withdrew, leaving Philip Chater in an uneasy frame of mind. He
saw at once that, great as this lad’s devotion might be to Dandy
Chater, he had already, in a moment of passion, defied his master. He
was scarcely more than a boy—and in that boy’s hands hung the life of
Philip Chater. That he should have gone out, in this fashion, without a
word, was a circumstance suspicious enough at any time; that he should
have done so now, was alarming in the extreme to the man who dreaded
every moment to hear unaccustomed sounds in the house, which should
denote that the secret of the wood was a secret no longer, and that men
had come to take him.
“I can’t stay here; I shall go mad, if I do,” said Philip to himself.
“After all, there may be only a few hours of liberty left to
me—perhaps only a matter of minutes. Come—what shall I do with the
time?”
A certain recklessness was upon the man—the recklessness which will
make a man laugh sometimes, in the certain approach of death. With that
feeling, too, came a softer one; in that hour of difficulty and danger,
he turned, as it were instinctively, towards the woman who had kissed
him—the woman who had whispered that she loved him. In his bitter
loneliness, as has been said, his thoughts had turned to her, more
often than was good for his peace of mind; and now a longing, greater
than he could master, came upon him, to touch her hand—perhaps, by
great good fortune, her lips—once again.
“Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not been
so much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throw
it churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweet
girl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yours
is coming to see you.”
With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece of
paper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by which
he should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that it
was within some two or three hundred yards of his own lodge gates.
It was quite dark when he strolled out; but he had the plan very
clearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to the
place he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, and
rambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in the hedge
which surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction of
certain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which the
warm glow of lamps and fires was shining.
But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and from
out the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For a
moment, he hesitated, and half drew back; but the figure came nearer,
and he saw that it was Madge Barnshaw. In his great relief, and in his
gladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes giving
him welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her.
“Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how I
have longed to see you!”
“Not more, dear heart, than I to see you,” he replied. “But I—I have
been—been very busy; so many things have occupied my attention—so
many things have needed to—to be done. Why—what a poor lover you must
think me!”
“Indeed—no,” she said. “Only I feared—such a foolish thought, I
know—I feared that something might be wrong with you—feared that you
might be in danger. Dandy”—she was twisting a button on his coat round
and round in her fingers, and her eyes were bent down, so that he could
not see them—“you remember once a long talk we had, about—about your
cousin—Mr. Ogledon—don’t you?”
He did not, of course, remember it, for an obvious reason; but, as he
was desirous of hearing as much as possible about that gentleman, he
answered diplomatically,
“Well—what about him?”
“Dandy—dear old boy—I don’t want you to think that I am uncharitable,
or that this is a mere woman’s whim. You remember that you were very
angry with me, when last I spoke about him; you said——”
“I promise that you shall not make me angry this time—no matter what
you say about him,” broke in Philip, gently.
She raised her head quickly, and looked at him for a moment or two in
silence. “Dandy,” she said at last, looking at him strangely—“you have
never been so good to me as you are to-night; never seemed so near to
me. That old impatience of yours seems to be gone. Something has
softened you; what is it?”
“Perhaps it is my love for you, dear Madge,” he said; and indeed, he
thought then that the love of her might have softened any man.
“Do you think so?” she asked, smiling at him happily. “And you will
promise not to be angry at anything I say?”
“Most faithfully.”
“Well, then, I mistrust that man. I think a woman sees deeper into the
hearts of her fellow-creatures than a man can hope to do; perhaps it is
God’s gift to her, for her greater protection. The world is a sweet and
precious place to me—especially since we have been drawn so much more
strongly together—you and I; but I say from my heart that it would be
a better place if that man were dead.”
He looked at her in some astonishment; a rising tide of passion had
flushed her face, and drawn her figure more erect.
“God forgive me for wishing harm to any living creature!” she went on,
in the same low passionate voice—“but he is your worst foe, Dandy.
Beneath his smiling, soft ways, he hides the heart of a devil; and I
have seen that in his eyes, when you have not observed him, which has
told me that he would not hesitate to do you a mischief, if you stood
in the way of anything he desired.”
Philip Chater suddenly remembered, even in the interest he took in what
she said, that he had a part to play. Therefore, with a shrug of the
shoulders, he replied, lightly—“Indeed—you do him a wrong, Madge.
Besides, I can take care of myself, even if he should be as bad as you
paint him.”
Yet, how he longed, at that time, to tell her how true he believed her
words to be! How he longed to fall at her feet, and tell her that the
man to whom her heart had been given had been unworthy of it; that he
was dead, and that another stood in his place—ready to take his place
in a yet greater sense! But he knew that that was impossible; only, in
his heart, was growing up a dreadful insane jealousy of the man who was
dead.
“Where is he now?” she asked suddenly, after a little pause.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Philip, carelessly.
“Come—surely we have something better to talk about than cousin
Ogledon. See—the moon is rising—the moon that calls to lovers, all
the world over, to worship him, and swear by him. What shall I swear to
you, dear Madge?”
“Swear first of all,” she said, still with that note of anxiety in her
voice—“swear that you will have as little as possible to do with that
man. Ah—do let me speak”—this as he was about to interrupt her—“I
know, only too well, that I have reason for my anxiety. Come—if you
love me, Dandy dear—promise me that you will have as little——”
“Indeed—I’ll promise you that, with a light heart,” exclaimed Philip.
And indeed he had small desire to have anything at all to do with Mr.
Ogledon.
“Thank you, dear boy—thank you!” exclaimed, gratefully. “That’s quite
like that newer, better self, which you promised I should see in you.
There”—she bent forward, and kissed him lightly—“that in token that
the matter is ended between us. Now—what shall we do? The moon is
rising, as you say, and I don’t want to go inside yet; Miss Vint plays
propriety, and never understands when she is in the way.”
“We certainly don’t want Miss Vint,” said Philip, with a laugh. “Come,
my sweetheart—let us ramble here, for a little time, at least—and
talk.”
After pacing up and down the garden once or twice, they stopped, side
by side, at a little gate which opened from the further corner of its
somewhat limited extent; as the girl laid her hand upon it, Philip
inwardly wondered where it led. She swung it open, quite as a matter of
course, and as though that had been a favourite walk of her own and her
lover; and they passed through, into a sort of little plantation. The
moon was high, and the sky clear; their own shadows, and those of the
trees, were sharp and distinct upon the ground. Still almost in
silence, save for an occasional word, they passed on, side by side,
until the gate was far behind them.
A thought had been growing in Philip Chater’s mind while they walked;
and he suddenly put it into words.
“You have some reason—other than the mere instinct of which you
speak—for disliking Ogledon so much.” He said it slowly, having been
at some pains to work the thing out in his mind.
“I thought we had done with the matter, and were not to speak of it
again?” she said.
“I think you ought to tell me; I think I ought to know,” he said,
doggedly. “In fact—haven’t I the right to know?”
She was silent for some moments, while they still paced on steadily,
side by side, leaving the gate in the garden further behind them at
every step. So intent was he upon the girl, and so eagerly did he
listen for her answer, that he did not observe that the plantation had
changed to something of denser growth, and that the trees about them
were thick and heavy, and the ground broken and uneven.
“Yes—I suppose you have the right,” she said at last. “I always
suspected the man, Dandy—I always disliked him. But a little time
since, presuming upon a chance meeting with me, he protested—oh—you
will not remember this afterwards—will you?—he protested his love for
me, in a fashion so violent, that I have feared him ever since. He said
that the stories about you and that girl—Patience Miller——”
Do what he would, he could not repress a start—could not keep his face
wholly within control. So violent had the start been, that she had
stopped instinctively, and had dropped her hand from his arm.
“Why—what is the matter? Dandy dear—you are ill!”
“Nothing—nothing is the matter,” he replied, with a faint smile. “My
God—what’s that?”
In the silence of the place, as the man and the woman stood looking
into each other’s eyes, there had come, borne upon the still air, the
unmistakable thud—thud of a spade in stiff earth. A question forced
itself to the man’s lips, and found voice, quite as though some other
voice had spoken.
“Madge—in Heaven’s name—what place is this?”
She stared at him, in mingled amazement and terror; while he, for his
part, seemed to count the steady thud—thud near to them, as he might
have counted his own heart beats, if life were ebbing from him.
“What place? Dandy—you are dreaming! Surely you know that this is the
wood—the wood behind the mill—you know——”
With a cry like that of a wounded animal, Philip Chater sprang from
her, and went plunging among the trees, in the direction of that
frightful sound. He came, in a moment, upon something which brought him
to his knees, with a suppressed scream; the body of a young girl, about
whom all the earth seemed stained a dreadful crimson. Beyond that
sight, was the young lad Harry, up to his knees in a long shallow
trench, in which he was digging away like a fury. He neither heard his
master’s approach, nor glanced up for a moment.
Philip turned, and crashed back through the wood, until he reached the
woman’s side again. “Come away,” he whispered, hurriedly—“it—it is
nothing; come away—for God’s sake!”
But she broke from him, and went racing in the direction he had himself
taken, and was lost to sight in a moment. He heard, through the silence
that brooded awfully upon the place, a piercing scream; and the next
moment she came plunging headlong past him, and went, staggering
blindly, with her hands before her eyes, in the direction in which they
had walked so calmly but a few moments before.
CHAPTER IX
A SUMMONS FROM SHYLOCK
For quite a long time, Philip Chater stood, staring helplessly in the
direction in which the girl had disappeared. All around him was the
silence of the wood, broken only by the call of some night-bird, or by
the whisper and rustle of the branches, stirred by a rising wind. So
still was it all, that he almost shrieked aloud when a hand was laid
softly on his arm.
It was Harry—white-faced, and shaking as though with an ague. He, too,
gazed in the direction in which Philip’s eyes were turned, and spoke in
a frightened whisper.
“Master Dandy—did she—did she see it?”
The question roused Philip, and put the whole horrible thing more
clearly before him than it had appeared even in his imagination. He
looked round at the lad, and spoke aloud, and in a tone of recklessness
quite out of keeping with the peril of his situation. But all
considerations of prudence had been swept aside, at that time; ringing
in his ears still, was the startled scream of the woman he
loved—(yes—he could confess it to his own heart, now that he had lost
her)—before his eyes again was the sight of her running figure, with
its horror-struck eyes hidden from his view.
“See it! Of course she saw it. What does it matter? All the world may
see it; all the world may know of it. Take your spade away, Harry; you
may dig a grave, as deep as the pit of Hell itself, and yet you shall
not hide that thing! Why do you tremble? What is there for _you_ to
tremble at? Her blood cries out—not against you, but against me; it
cries to Heaven—‘See—Dandy Chater killed me—Dandy Chater spilled my
blood on God’s fair earth—Dandy Chater——’”
His voice had risen to a cry; the other sprang at him, and clapped a
shaking hand over his mouth.
“Stop—stop, for God’s sake!” he cried, huskily. “Are you mad, Master
Dandy—are you mad? I tell you it can be hidden; no man knows of it but
myself, and Miss Barnshaw will say nothing.”
“I tell you it shall not be hidden,” cried Philip, impatiently.
“Why—if any one found you here, digging a grave for it—don’t you
understand that suspicion would fall upon you?”
“I don’t care about that, Master Dandy,” he cried. “Better me than you.
Let them think what they will, Master Dandy; only get you gone, before
the hue and cry is raised.”
“No—I shall not go,” replied Philip, speaking quite calmly, and with a
certain hopeless note in his voice which was more impressive than any
other utterance could have been. “My dear boy—you can’t understand
that it doesn’t matter one little bit—now. It has been a blunder and a
muddle, from first to last; Fate has proved too strong for me—I’ll
struggle against it no longer.”
“But, Master Dandy,” urged the eager voice—“won’t you let me hide
it—at least, for the moment? It will give you time to get away—time
to hide.”
“I tell you I shall not hide,” said Philip, quietly. “Come away; I
won’t have you mixed up in the business. Why—dear lad”—he dropped his
hand, for a moment, on the other’s shoulder—“there’s a sweet girl,
whom you love, and who loves you, I’ll be bound, no matter what she may
say. Your life is straight before you; you mustn’t throw it away on me.”
He turned, and went in the direction he had come, looking behind him
once, to be certain that the other was following. Suddenly remembering
that he was like a blind man, groping his way, and having no desire to
go near Madge Barnshaw’s house again, he turned abruptly, when he had
gone a little way, and motioned to Harry to go before him.
“Lead the way,” he said, in the old tone of authority—“I want to be
sure that you don’t go back again.”
Harry passed him, with bent head, and walked in front. And in that
order they came to Chater Hall.
Once inside the home which he felt was rightly his, and surrounded by
the quiet and luxurious repose of it, the mood of the man changed. He
was but young, and life was very, very sweet. Quixotism,
self-sacrifice, despair; all these things went to the winds. He was a
hunted man, playing a desperate game with chance, with his life for the
stake. Figuratively speaking, he had his back to the wall; and he meant
to make a fight for it, before he gave in.
Pretence was gone; and he was more lonely even than before. The one
being who had seemed to turn to him naturally, avoided him now with
horror, as one whose hands were stained with blood. Whatever hope might
have been in his mind of escaping was gone; he no longer masqueraded in
another man’s garments, and in another man’s place; he was battling for
his life.
“Every moment that I stay here makes the danger greater; that thing may
be found, and they may be upon me, like bloodhounds, at any moment. I
must clear myself; I must, if necessary, undo all that I have done, and
declare who I really am. But, if I stop here, I shall be caught like a
rat in a trap. I want time to think—time to plan out what I must
do——What’s that?”
Some one had knocked softly at the door. After a moment’s pause, Philip
Chater, in a nervous voice, called out—“Come in!”
A servant entered, bearing a letter. “I did not know you were in, sir,”
he said. “This came while you were out.”
Philip Chater—doubly suspicious now—looked at the man curiously as he
took the letter. Was it possible that some one had watched his going
out—had even seen Harry going in the direction of the wood first,
carrying the spade for his awful work? The spade! It had been left
behind, in that half-dug grave; there had been no time even to think of
it. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, in the few
seconds during which the man handed him the letter—bowed
respectfully—and retired.
Almost mechanically, he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the sheet
within it.
“DEAR SIR,
“It is imperative that you should see me at once. I use the term
‘imperative,’ because it is necessary that there should be no delay
about the matter. Permit me to add that the business has reference to
the draft, recently paid into my hands, and drawn by a Mr. Arthur
Barnshaw. I must ask you, if quite convenient to yourself, to be good
enough to call upon me, at my office, to-morrow (Thursday) before noon.
“I am, Dear Sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“Z. ISAACSON.”
The letter bore an address in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street,
London—and was dated that day.
Philip Chater read the letter through three times, without coming any
nearer to its meaning. Again, the phrase—“drawn by a Mr. Arthur
Barnshaw”—was more puzzling than anything else. It was, of course,
probable—indeed, almost certain—that this Mr. Arthur Barnshaw was a
relative of Madge; but, if so, what relative?—and on what terms of
friendship, or otherwise, had he stood with the late Dandy Chater? All
these things had to be discovered.
“Under any circumstances,” said Philip to himself, “this letter helps
me, and points the road that I must travel. For the time, at least, I
must get out of the way; this business calls me to London—and to
London I will go. The name of Isaacson has a flavour of sixty per cent.
and promissory notes; but I must leave explanations to him. I wish I
knew who Arthur Barnshaw is.”
Still with that dread upon him of the fearful thing in the wood, he
determined not to wait until the morrow, but to start for London that
night. Finding, however, that it was far too late for any train to be
running, he made up his mind to press Harry into his service; and sent
for him, without any further delay.
The lad made his appearance at once, and stood quietly just within the
closed door of the room, waiting for his master to speak. Between the
two, from this night onwards, there seemed a tacit understanding that
something was not to be mentioned between them, at any time—even while
there was an equally strong understanding—also unspoken—that each
watched for danger, and was ready to act swiftly, if necessary.
“Harry—I am going to London. Yes—yes—I know”—as the other glanced
instinctively at the clock—“it’s too late for trains; I must drive as
far as possible—and walk the rest. I leave all the details to you; get
the horse you think will stay best; we shall go some fifteen miles, and
you can then drop me, and drive back. Quick—there is no time to be
lost!”
Understanding, only too well, the necessity for quickness and for
caution, Harry returned, in a very short space of time, to announce
that the dog-cart was in waiting at the gate in the lane, and a bag,
packed with a few necessary articles, already in it. With the servant
leading the way, Philip went through a long passage he had never
traversed before, and, passing through a low doorway, found himself
under the stars. The two men went silently across a sort of paddock,
and came out into a narrow lane, where the dog-cart stood waiting, with
the horse fastened to the fence.
“I thought it best to do it myself, Master Dandy; so I sent Jim away,
and did the harnessing alone,” he said.
“Quite right, Harry,” replied Philip. “Here—you’d better drive—and
take the straight road for London, once we get past the village.”
They had come almost to the end of the lane, when Philip’s quick ear
detected the sound of running feet, on the road towards which they were
driving. He signed to Harry to check the horse scarcely twenty yards
from the road; and they drew up in the shadow of the trees.
“Get down,” he whispered to the lad—“and stroll out into the road to
meet them. Find out what is the matter.”
Harry jumped down, and reached the road just as two men came running
heavily along it. Philip, listening intently, while they gave their
breathless answers, knew that the body was found, and that the
frightened yokels were off in search of the village constable. As their
hurried footsteps died away in the distance, Harry came back to the
trap, and climbed in, and took the reins.
“You were wise to start to-night, Master Dandy,” he said, as he started
the horse. “Bamberton won’t sleep to-night, with this news in the air.”
Leaving Bamberton behind them—to be stirred to its depths presently by
the news, and to gather itself in excited shuddering knots, within and
without the Chater Arms, and other public places; and to whisper, and
shake heads, and offer many wise suggestions in regard to the
murder—Philip Chater and his companion headed straight for London. It
was pitch dark, and heavy rain had begun to fall, when, within about
ten or fifteen miles of the first straggling outskirts of the great
city, Philip directed the vehicle to be stopped, and sprang down into
the road. They had rattled on, mile after mile, in silence; now, as he
stood beside the steaming horse, he looked up at his servant.
“Understand, Harry,” he said, “I won’t have you interfere in this
matter again. Keep away from the wood—keep away from everything and
everybody. I am more grateful than I can say, for your devotion; and I
will not insult you by asking you to be silent. Keep a stout heart, my
lad; I’ll get clear of this, and be back with you before very long.
Good-bye!”
He turned away, and struck off alone in the direction of London; Harry
turned the jaded horse, and started on his journey back to Bamberton.
It was a very drenched and disconsolate-looking man that tramped into
the slowly awakening streets of London some hours later. He found a
modest hotel—a sort of superior public-house, of an old-fashioned
type; and, after waiting some considerable time, was able to get
something of a meal, and to get to bed. But his last thought, as he
undressed, was that this hurried flight, on the spur of the moment, had
been a blunder.
“Harry’s devotion and my fright have, I fear, carried us both away,” he
muttered to himself. “The smuggling out of the dog-cart by a back way;
this hurried race to London; above all—the spade, taken, I suspect,
from the Hall—and left so near the body; it all points to Dandy
Chater. Well—I must get this interview over to-morrow—or rather
to-day—and see what further troubles are in store for me. For the
moment, I am worn out, and shall do no good by thinking or planning.”
He slept soundly, and—a little before noon—presented himself at the
office of Mr. Z. Isaacson, in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street.
It was a somewhat pretentious place, consisting, so far as he could
see, of but two rooms; the first of which, at least, was very solidly
and heavily furnished. But by far the most solid and heavy piece of
furniture in the place was the gentleman he imagined to be Mr. Z.
Isaacson—a portly individual, with pronounced features, much
watch-chain, and some heavy rings on his fat white fingers.
Remembering, in time, that he was probably supposed to know this
gentleman with some intimacy, Philip nodded carelessly, and threw
himself into the chair which the other indicated.
“I’m glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” began Mr. Isaacson, in a familiar
manner. He spoke with something of a nasal accent, and a little as
though his tongue were too large for his mouth. “You know—we like to
have things pleasant and square, and _I_ like—as you’ve found before
to-day—to do the amiable, if I can. But, you know, dear boy”—he
passed his large hand over his shining bald head, and shook that head
gravely—“this is rather—well, you know—really——”
His voice trailed off, and he pretended to be busy with some papers on
his desk. Philip Chater looked at him for a moment, and then broke out
impatiently,
“What are you talking about? What do you want with me?”
“Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Isaacson, soothingly—“this is not the
spirit I like to see—it isn’t really. You and me have had dealings,
this year or two, and you’ve paid the little bit of interest I’ve
asked, fairly and squarely; likewise, I’ve renewed from time to
time—for a little consideration—and all has been square and pleasant.
But, when it comes to playing it off on an old friend in this
fashion—well, really, you know——”
Philip Chater was in no mood for unprofitable conversation, especially
with a man of this stamp, on that particular morning. His nerves had
been tried, beyond the lot of common nerves, within the past
four-and-twenty hours; he had had a wet and weary journey, and not too
much sleep. Consequently, the smooth oily utterances of Mr. Isaacson
drove him almost to frenzy.
“Why the devil can’t you say what you’re driving at, and be done with
it. You’ve brought me all this distance,” he cried, savagely—“and now
you’re mouthing and carrying on in this fashion. What’s the matter with
you? Out with it!”
Mr. Isaacson’s face underwent a sudden change; certain veins in his
temples swelled up ominously, and he came a little way round his desk;
leaning over it, and putting his face near to that of his visitor, he
said, truculently—
“Oh—so you want me to out with it—do you? You’re not a bit ashamed of
what you’ve done——”
“Ashamed? What of?” cried Philip.
“Forgery! Obtaining money by false pretences! Robbery! Holy
Israel!—how much more do you want?”
“Not much more—thank you,” replied Philip, staggered into calmness.
“Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to explain.”
“There isn’t much explanation needed,” snarled the other. “The last
time you were in this office, you paid me a cheque for one thousand six
hundred and twenty-six pounds, for accumulated interest, expenses, and
other matters; because I had threatened that, unless I had that sum, by
that date, I would come down on you, and sell you up. Now, you knew,
Mr. Dandy Chater—and _I_ knew—that you hadn’t any such sum of your
own; therefore you came to me, bringing a cheque for the amount, on the
same bank as your own, at Chelmsford, from a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw—the
brother, so you told me, of the young lady you expected to marry.”
(“I’m glad I know who Arthur Barnshaw is,” thought Philip.)
“You told me a pretty story, about his having lent you the money, out
of affection for his dear sister, and to keep the knowledge of your
affairs from her ears. Now, Mr. Dandy Chater”—the man brought his hand
down upon the desk with a bang, and became rather more red than before
in the face—“perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that that cheque has
been referred, on account of the signature, to Mr. Barnshaw himself;
and that he unhesitatingly states that it is a forgery, and that he
never drew any cheque, for any such amount.”
Philip Chater, utterly at a loss what to say, sat staring at the man
helplessly. The opening of the door behind him, and a change of
expression to something milder on the part of Mr. Isaacson’s
countenance, caused him to turn his head.
A young man—at whom it was unnecessary to cast a second glance, to
assure him that this was Madge’s brother—had entered the room; had
stopped, on seeing Philip; and now came hesitatingly forward. He was
younger than Philip—scarcely more, from his appearance, than a year or
two the senior of his sister. He waved aside the man Isaacson, and
said, in a low voice, to Philip—
“I say, old fellow—I’d like to have a word with you.” Then, as Philip
rose, and walked with him towards a window, he added, in a low
voice—“Look here, Dandy—I want to do the square thing; and I swear to
you that, if I’d have known that this affair had anything to do with
you, I should never have pressed my enquiries. But, you see, the cheque
was made out to the order of that old shark at the desk there, and I
never guessed—now, look here—you’ve got into a hole, old boy—but I’d
like to pull you out of it, if I can. What can we do? You see, I’ve got
to think, not only of you, but of Madge; it’ll be such an awful blow to
her.”
Philip wondered whether anything could be a greater blow to her than
the sight on which her eyes had rested in the wood. But he said
nothing. His one desire, at the moment, was to get clear away; and to
drop, as completely as possible, out of the life in which he had
usurped a place. There was, too, a wholly foolish and ridiculous idea
in his head, that he would not like this girl, who had kissed his lips,
and had once believed in him—(or in his dead counterpart)—to have any
worse opinion than she at that time cherished. As by an inspiration, he
remembered that the notes he had received on the night of the meeting
at “The Three Watermen” were still in his pocket. He determined to use
them.
He explained briefly to Arthur—even while he expressed his
regret—that he had unexpectedly received a considerable sum of
money—the proceeds from some speculations, the shares in which had
long lain useless. He suggested that it might be possible to bribe that
worthy Hebrew at the desk.
Mr. Isaacson was not at first to be persuaded; but the cheque being in
his hands—marked “Refer to drawer”—he at last agreed to sell it, for
the sum of three thousand pounds. Arthur Barnshaw struck a match—set
fire to the tell-tale paper—and allowed it to burn down to his
fingers. “That matter is done with,” he said, quietly.
In the street, however, a change came over him; he stood, for a moment,
looking at Philip, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t
think I should care to shake hands—not yet,” he said. “I want to get
over this.” He turned, and walked away.
At the same moment, a newsboy—hurrying past—shouted at the full pitch
of his lungs—“’Orrible murder in Essex! Bank robbery in Sheffield!
Weener!”
Philip Chater staggered, and then walked on, in a dazed condition. For
he knew that he stood—wholly, in the one case—partly, in the
other—responsible for both.
CHAPTER X
A BODY FROM THE RIVER
Captain Peter Quist, for some two or three days after his parting with
Philip Chater, roamed about uneasily, in his search for a desirable
circus which might happen to be for disposal, and which might possess
the additional advantage of having attached to it a fat lady or two,
who might not object to show herself, for a consideration, to a curious
public. On more than one occasion, he entered into negotiations with
gentlemen—usually hoarse as to voice, and inflamed as to
countenance—who appeared, at first, to possess the very thing he
wanted; whereupon, “toothfuls” were exchanged, and much conversation
ensued.
But the guileless captain always discovered, when it came to actual
business, that the “circus” consisted of a caravan or two, in a state
of advanced dilapidation, up a yard; that the horses (if there had ever
been any) were long since dead, or engaged in agricultural pursuits;
that the clowns had long since left off being funny, and taken, for the
most part, to itinerant preaching; that the fat ladies had retired from
business—married the man who took the money at the doors—and started
public-houses.
Some three or four days of such hopeless interviewing having reduced
the Captain to a state of despondency, he cast about in his mind for
something which should restore him to his usual condition of placid
cheerfulness; and, having imbibed somewhat freely of his favourite
beverage, and being then on the outskirts of those narrow and
straggling little streets beyond the actual town of Woolwich,
discovered that the river drew him, like a magnet—probably from the
fact of his legs being somewhat unsteady, and causing him, for that
reason, to imagine that they were sea-going, like his mind.
Wandering down some slippery stone steps, leading to a causeway of
cobble-stones, and doing so at the imminent risk of his life, owing to
his condition, the Captain precipitated himself on to the shoulders of
a little man, who was seated on the top of a wooden post, with his chin
propped in his hands, and who was gazing in a melancholy fashion at the
water. The Captain, having saved both himself and the little man, by
clasping him affectionately round the neck, broke into profuse
apologies. And, indeed, they were necessary; for the little man—who
was very shabby, and had no linen that was visible, but whose whiskers
had a bedraggled air of having once been fashionable—was almost
speechless with rage and fright; and danced about on the causeway,
shaking his fist, and threatening—in a thin piping voice, and with
many oaths—his vengeance upon the Captain.
“’Ere—’old ’ard, guv’nor—’old ’ard,” exclaimed the Captain. “This
comes of gettin’ into bad company; I’m surprised at a man of your
hage, usin’ all them naughty words; w’erever did yer learn ’em,
mess-mate? It wasn’t my fault, Mister; the steps was a slide—an’
these ’ere stones is all bumps; an’ w’en a man comes from a slide to
bumps—sudden-like—I puts it to you that ’e ain’t responsible for
’isself. An’ I ’umbly asks yer pardon.”
The little man, appearing somewhat appeased, sat down on his post
again, and meditatively pulled at his whiskers—glancing round now and
then at the Captain, as though apprehensive of his indulging in some
other gymnastic performance. The Captain, for his part, being of a
peaceful nature, began to make, overtures of friendliness—the more so
that he had a dim notion in his brain that he had seen the little man
on a previous occasion.
However, as the little man remained obstinately silent, despite all the
Captain’s conversational overtures, that gentleman turned his attention
to the boats, several of which were moored near at hand, with a man
sitting near by, smoking, and keeping an eye upon them. This man, as a
familiar spirit, the Captain accosted.
“Nice boats you’ve got ’ere,” said the Captain, casually.
“Ah”—responded the man, looking the Captain up and down—“the boats is
all right.” By which he seemed to imply that somebody else was not.
“I suppose a man might ’ire a boat—eh?” was the Captain’s next enquiry.
“Do you fink they’re on this ’ere river for the kids to look at—or to
pervide me with amoosement in bailin’ of ’em out?” asked the man,
indignantly.
The Captain, meekly repudiating the idea that any such thought was in
his mind, carried his enquiry a little further, by asking if he might
“’ire one for a hour or so.”
“Can yer row?” asked the man, after a pause.
“Can I what?” shouted the Captain.
The man coolly repeated his question, and went on placidly smoking. The
Captain, when he had recovered his breath, spoke with an unnatural
calmness.
“P’raps, my man, you takes me for a omnibus conductor,” he said. “Bring
round one of them boats, an’ steady ’er w’ile I gits in—will yer?”
The man, seeing that the Captain really meant business, knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, got into one of the boats, and slowly pushed it
from where it was moored until it bumped against the causeway. The
Captain, in his delight at the prospect of being once more afloat,
suddenly remembered the little man with the faded whiskers, who had sat
all this time, absolutely unmoved, on his post.
“’Ere—mess-mate—let bygorns be bygorns—an’ come an’ ’ave a blow.” He
clutched the little man by the arm, in a jocular fashion, and made as
if to pull him towards the boat.
It unfortunately happened, however, that the little man was nearly
asleep; being pulled from his seat with such violence, and so
unexpectedly, he had only a dim idea of what was happening, and of
where he was. Realising, however, that he was in the grip of a stronger
man, he suddenly flung himself fiercely upon the Captain, driving that
gentleman backwards towards the boat. The Captain, for his part, in an
endeavour to protect himself, made a rough-and-tumble of it, and
twisted the little man clean off his legs. Moreover, he twisted him too
far; and, being very unsteady on his legs himself, fairly rolled with
him off the causeway into the boat.
The man in charge of the boat—being, probably, very glad to get rid of
them; and feeling, perhaps, that they had better be left to settle
whatever differences they might have in their own fashion, immediately
shoved the boat off; so that, by the time the Captain got his head out
of the bottom of the boat, and sat up to look at his passenger, they
were well out into the stream.
“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” murmured the Captain, ruefully
rubbing the back of his head. “However, I asked you to come fer a
blow—and you’ve come accordin’; but you needn’t ’ave bin in sich a
’urry, an’ come with sich a rush.”
With these words, the Captain took the oars, and dexterously pulled
into the stream, out of the way of a lumbering barge—exchanging a
little light and airy badinage with the man in charge of that craft as
it passed him. The little man, who had been so unceremoniously taken
for an airing, appeared to take the matter in good part; picked up his
dilapidated silk hat from the bottom of the boat—put it on—and sat,
grimly silent, watching the Captain.
“It’s a nice arternoon fer a row,” said the Captain pleasantly, as he
pulled sturdily. “Ain’t yer glad you come alonger me, mess-mate?”
The little man murmured something uncomplimentary, and then was silent.
The Captain, who began to feel the sobering effects of the breeze and
the exercise, smiled upon him benignly, and pulled harder. After a long
pause, the little man, who had been staring at him intently, nodded his
head three or four times, and spoke again.
“I thought I’d seen you before,” he said, in his thin piping voice.
“Now I’m sure of it. It was on Tuesday—and you were with that infernal
Chater.”
The Captain almost dropped his oars in his astonishment. “Why—so it
was!” he exclaimed. “You was a sittin’ at the table; I’d seed yer just
afore the light went out.”
The little man, for some unknown reason, began to tremble; looked all
about him, indeed, as though contemplating making a sudden exit from
the boat. “What do you want with me?” he asked, in a whining voice.
“I don’t want nothink with yer,” replied the Captain, staring at him.
“Thought you might like a turn on the river, in a friendly way—that’s
all.”
“Don’t tell lies!” ejaculated the other. “I can tell you this: you
won’t get any good out of me. I’m only a poor old man, who’s been
unfortunate, and has fallen on evil days. If you think you’ll make
anything out of me, you’re much mistaken. What do you want with me?”
The Captain looked at him in amazement; the little man’s terror
appeared so strong. “W’y—wot do you take me for?” he asked.
“Oh—I know what you are,” cried the little man, wagging his head.
“You’re a split—a detective—a policeman. I know what you are.”
The Captain stood up in the boat, and put himself in a fighting
attitude. “Say that again—and I’ll knock you out of the boat!” he
shouted. “I’d ’ave yer know that I’m a decent sailor-man—an’ a captain
at that. ’Oo are you a callin’ a policeman?”
“The Shady ’un said so,” replied the little man, tremulously.
“That Shady gent said a good many things as ’e’ll ’ave to answer for,”
said the Captain, sitting down again. “W’y, if I’d wanted to run yer
in, I reckon I could ’ave picked yer up under my arm, an’ done it easy,
without ’irin’ a boat for it——’Ullo—wot’s that?”
The boat, travelling slowly, had struck something—struck it softly,
but sufficiently to send a slight quiver through its timbers. The
Captain, backing water at once, peered over the side; dipped an oar
deep, and swung the boat’s head round with a sturdy pull; leaned over,
and caught at something bobbing near the surface of the water. His
carelessness had gone in a moment; he was the quick, masterful man,
used to a boat, and used to matters of life and death.
“Sit tight there,” he commanded. “’Ere—ketch this oar; that’s it—keep
her steady. There’s a body ’ere!”
The mention of that seemed to stir something in the little man; he
became all attention, in a moment, and watched the other’s movements
with alert eyes.
“Can’t get ’im into the boat,” said the Captain, in a low voice. “’E’s
dead—bin dead days, I should think. Throw me that line there.”
The little man obeying promptly, the Captain, leaning over the edge of
the boat, made the line fast to that grim thing bobbing alongside; and
then turned the boat’s head for the shore, and pulled hard. The little
man in the stern was so interested in that grisly passenger, that he
must needs go to the very end of the boat, at the imminent risk of
losing his silk hat—and peer at the thing as it came along behind,
making a wake in the water as it swept through it.
They happened, by this time, to be quite clear of the town, and to have
come to a spot where the bank was low and flat, and where it was easy
to run the boat ashore. This the Captain did, and together they leapt
out—hauled the boat up—and afterwards hauled in the body.
As it came in on the line, hand over hand—seeming, in their
imagination, to assist the operation horribly, by crawling up over the
dank mud, the Captain and the little man bent forward together, to look
at it; and started back, as one man, at the sight of the swollen,
distorted features. For it was the body of Dandy Chater.
Dandy Chater—born to such good and prosperous things—having his
beginnings in such fair and unclouded circumstances—to have come to
this at last! Well for him, surely, that the mother, at whose knee he
had lisped his childish supplications to Heaven, was dead, before this
thing fronted the world, and grinned back at it so horribly! To be
found like this—muddy—soiled—broken—awful—dead—by two strangers,
far away from the fair and pleasant places through which he had
wandered in his innocent boyhood!
The Captain—raising his head from the contemplation of what he
believed to be the features of his dead friend Philip Crowdy—was
confronted by the startled eyes of the little man with the faded
whiskers. For a long minute, they stared at each other in silence; the
thoughts of each were busy—for each had something to hide.
For his part, Captain Peter Quist—whatever his personal grief may have
been—bore in remembrance certain words impressed strongly upon him by
the supposed Philip Crowdy; an injunction laid upon him not to reveal
who he was, or that he was living under another name. The Captain—good
honest fellow that he was—had a very sincere regard for his friend;
and, believing that he had, in a moment of indiscretion, got mixed up
with some queer people, was glad to feel that he could bury the
knowledge of it in his own breast, as surely as the dead man would be
buried in his grave. Sorrowing for him as he did, and bitterly vengeful
as he felt, in his heart, at the mere suspicion that there had been
foul play, he yet had the philosophic feeling that it did not matter
now, as the man was dead; and the gentle thought that it would be a
vile thing to defame one no longer able to defend himself.
The little man—who was, of course, no other than the Dr. Cripps of
“The Three Watermen”—had equally strong reasons for preserving
silence. With that scene in the upper room of the little public-house
still clearly before his mental vision, he saw, in this tragedy, the
vengeance of some member or members of the gang—a vengeance prompted
by fear that Dandy Chater had betrayed them. Being himself remarkably
closely connected with that gang, he saw his own head in peril, if any
stir were raised about this business. Therefore, it will be seen that
the two men had equally strong reasons for saying nothing about the
identity of the man who lay dead between them.
The Captain, however, being, in his sober moments, a cautious man,
looked attentively at the other, and said slowly—“Bad business—this
’ere. Do you ’appen to know the gent?”
“No—never saw him in my life. How the devil should I?” stammered
Cripps, with his teeth chattering.
“Nor me,” said the Captain. After a long pause, he asked—“Wot are we
agoin’ to do with ’im?”
The question was answered for them, in an abrupt and startling manner;
for another face—that of a very dirty, keen-eyed, ragged-headed
urchin, whose bare feet had brought him silently over the muddy
bank—was obtruded between them, and stared down into the face of the
dead man. Before either of them had time to say a word, the urchin
leapt to his feet again, with a cry, and scudded away in the direction
of the nearest houses.
“That’s done it,” murmured the Captain, in a resigned voice; “we’ll
’ave a policeman ’ere, in no time.” Then, a sudden thought striking
him, he looked at the little man, and asked slowly—“Wot’s your opinion
of ’ookin’ it, mess-mate?”
Dr. Cripps appearing to be too dazed fully to comprehend the situation,
the Captain took him by the shoulders—gave him a shake or two—and
stated the case.
“We can’t do no good by stoppin’ ’ere,” he said. “We shall only be
’awled up at the hinquest, an’ asked awkward questions. Nobody ain’t
seen us—’cept that young limb—an’ I doubt if ’e knows us again.
Therefore—wot I ses is—into the boat with yer—an’ let’s cut our
lucky!”
Cripps appearing to grasp this point, after some difficulty, they left
the dead man on the shore, and pushed off the boat, and made for
Woolwich. Going, without further mishap, up the stream, they landed at
the causeway from which they had so unceremoniously started—apparently
greatly to the surprise and satisfaction of the man to whom the boat
belonged.
“Got back, yer see,” said the Captain, carelessly, as he stepped on to
the causeway, and gave a hand to the little man.
“So I see,” replied the man, pocketing the money which the Captain
handed to him. “’Ad a nice row?”
“Oh—so-so,” responded the Captain. “I should like to give you an ’int,
young man,” he added. “W’en you’re a shovin’ orf a boat nex’ time, it
wouldn’t be a bad idea to give a man a chance of settin’ down fust. It
ain’t wot you’d call a ’ealthy style of rowin’, w’en you starts on the
back of yer neck; it don’t some’ow give yer as good a chance, as if yer
started sittin’ down, with a proper ’old on the oars. _Good_-arternoon!”
But, although the Captain was jocular, his heart was heavy; remembering
the hiding and dodging process through which he had passed, in the
company of the supposed Philip Crowdy, he began to see some dreadful
tragedy—some foul play, which had caused the death of his friend. Yet,
being but a simple seafaring man, and having a great dread of the power
of the law, he saw himself in unheard-of difficulties, if he so much as
attempted to stir in the matter. For had he not found the body—and
then fled from it?
“From the look of that there body,” muttered the Captain to himself, as
he strolled along, in the gathering twilight of the streets—“it’s bin
in the water a day or two—in fact, it might ’ave bin longer, if I
didn’t know as ’ow I’d seen poor old Phil on’y three days back. An’ to
think as ’e was that strong an’ ’earty—an’ now!”
The Captain did not finish his sentence; he shuddered, at the
remembrance of that awful staring thing he had left on the muddy bank
of the Thames; and—feeling somewhat faint—looked about for a house of
refreshment.
When he emerged, after imbibing several glasses of his favourite tonic,
the world wore a brighter aspect; and the honest Captain, swaggering
along the pavement, with an occasional lurch, as though a heavy gale of
wind had struck him—had clean forgotten all about unpleasant bodies,
or the chances and changes of this mortal life; had clean forgotten, in
fact, anything but that the world was a good place, and decent rum a
thing to be thankful for.
Now it happened, by some unlucky chance, that Philip Chater—drawn, by
strong influence, to the scene of the tragedy which had been so vividly
stamped upon his mind—came, that night, to Woolwich; merely wandering
aimlessly, with no settled plan as to the future, or, indeed, as to the
next hour. And it happened, too, that, walking slowly along a dark
street, and coming to the corner of it, he cannoned against a man, who
was rolling along swiftly, chanting a song in a very loud and very deep
voice.
It was the Captain; and that gentleman no sooner caught sight of
Philip, than his song stopped, in the very middle of a note; indeed,
the note turned to a shriek, and Peter Quist, beating off the supposed
apparition with both hands, backed away from it unsteadily; and then,
recovering power of definite motion, fairly turned tail, and ran as if
for his life—leaving Philip alone, at the corner of the street,
staring after him in blank amazement.
CHAPTER XI
MISS VINT HEARS VOICES
Philip stood, for some moments, turning over in his mind the probable
cause of the extraordinary terror evinced by the Captain, while he
watched the flying figure of that gentleman, careering down the street.
After some little thought, he put down that sudden desire, on the
Captain’s part, to get away from him, to a knowledge of the murder; and
to a natural dread and abhorrence of the man he supposed to be guilty
of it. He turned away, with bitterness in his heart, feeling that all
the world was against him; and made his way back towards London by
train. Arriving at Charing Cross, he bought an evening paper, and
turned to see what news there might be concerning the dreadful thing
which was always in his mind.
More than a column was devoted to it—with interviews with wholly
uninteresting people, of whom he had never heard, nor, indeed, any one
else—giving their several versions of the matter; how this one had
heard a scream—and another a dog bark—and how a third had an aunt,
who had dreamed of a man with a red mark on his forehead, about a week
before the occurrence. But there was absolutely nothing in any report
which connected him with the affair—at least, by name.
It was stated that the police had several clues; but that was to be
expected. Only, at the end of the column, was a suggestion that the
police had issued a warrant against a man well known in the
neighbourhood, who had disappeared some two days before. That was from
a telegram dated that afternoon—Friday.
Philip Chater sat down, on a seat in the station, and pondered the
matter again. “The warrant is for me—that’s certain. But there is no
mention of my name—so that that idea about the Captain goes to the
winds. Now—what on earth can have startled him in that fashion?”
Turning the paper over in his hands, he came upon a “Stop-Press”
telegram, in the small space reserved for such things, and read it.
“The body of an unknown man—well dressed—was taken from the river
below Woolwich this afternoon. Nothing in pockets to lead to
identification.”
Once again, Philip Chater seemed to stand at the corner of the dark
street in Woolwich; once again, he seemed to see the ghastly face of
the startled Captain, as he backed away. Philip Chater folded the paper
rapidly, and got up, with an excited face.
“By all that’s wonderful!—he’s found the real Dandy Chater!” he
muttered.
That thought, and all that it might involve for him and so many others,
set him walking at a rapid pace, thinking hard as he went, and without
paying much attention as to the direction he took. But his thoughts,
coming, by a natural transition, to the girl who would be most affected
by any news of Dandy Chater, leapt from thence to the quiet garden,
wherein he had walked and talked with her. Then in a flash, his mind
went back, over the discovery of the road which led him to the cottage,
to the plan on the scrap of paper—and to the reason for that plan.
“‘Friday night—as soon after ten o’clock as possible. Only women to
deal with!’ Great Heavens!” he exclaimed—“and this is Friday night!”
He hailed a hansom, and shouted to the man to drive to Liverpool Street
Station. Arriving there in hot haste, he found that he could catch an
express, which would land him at a small town a few miles from the
station at which he had before alighted for Bamberton. Taking his seat
in this, a few moments before its departure, he found himself, somewhat
to his consternation, in the company of a couple of men who were
discussing the murder in the wood—evidently newspaper men, judging by
what they said.
“Yes,” said the first—“I’m going down, so as to be on the spot if
there’s anything fresh. In any case, I must wire up about half a
column.”
“I think we shall probably have some news to-night,” replied the second
man. “Our people have got hold of an idea that the police have spotted
their man, and may get hold of him within the next few hours. I hear
that Tokely has the case in hand.”
“Ah—smart man, Tokely,” said the other nodding. “I wonder if that
swell who was spoken about had anything to do with it?”
“I dare say,” replied his friend, coolly. “If so, it’ll make rare good
copy—won’t it? Trusting village maiden—young Squire—and all the
other details. By Jove—won’t our people lick it up!”
Philip Chater, sick at heart, turned away, and tried to busy himself in
the paper he had bought. But the more he tried to read, and to fix his
mind on the page before him, the more hopeless became the tangle into
which the words seemed to form themselves. He thought of himself—a
fugitive; of his brother, fished out of the river, and perhaps by this
time identified. Philip Chater had but to think, for an instant, of the
contents of his own pockets at that moment, to realise the desperate
position in which he stood.
He had the dead man’s watch and chain—his cheque book and other
papers; he had upon him also, a large number of bank-notes, which he
knew must have been stolen, and part of which he had paid away to cover
up a forgery which he was also supposed to have committed. More than
all, he was venturing now into the very heart of the enemy’s country,
in the hope to stop a robbery, with which he was also connected—and at
the house of the woman he loved. It is small wonder that he saw, in all
this, a resistless tide, which must sooner or later sweep him to
destruction.
Arriving at the small station for which he had taken his ticket, he
alighted with the two newspaper men, and saw them get into a vehicle
which had evidently been ordered for them. Not wishing to ask any more
questions than were absolutely necessary, he watched this carriage, as
it drove away, and followed the road it took. Glancing at the watch he
carried, by the light of the last lamp he passed, he saw that it was
nearly eight o’clock; and he had, so far as he could judge, nearly
eleven miles to go before reaching Bamberton. But his purpose was a
strong one, and the night was fine; he set out to walk the distance,
knowing that he dared not ask for a lift from any passing cart, lest he
should be recognised.
At one or two points on his journey, where sign-posts were too
illegible to be read, or the night too dark to see them clearly, he was
compelled to wait—fuming and impatient—until such time as a
slow-footed, slow-voiced countryman should come in sight. At such times
Philip Chater pulled his hat down as far as possible over his face, and
kept in the shadow. But he got through each interview safely, until
within a mile or two of the village—when taking a wrong turning and
losing his bearings hopelessly, he was obliged to wait again, in the
hope of some one passing him.
This time, it was a woman; and she civilly directed him—showing him a
short cut, which would bring him she said, within a short distance of
Chater Hall. He thanked her, and was turning away, when she came
rapidly nearer to him, and peered into his face; cried his name, in a
sort of shriek; struck at him; and ran off towards some cottages, where
lights were gleaming, screaming—“Murder!”
He lost no time in getting away from the spot, and ran as hard as he
could in the direction she had indicated. He had heard the deep boom of
a church clock strike ten some time before, and his one desperate fear
was that he might arrive too late to prevent the robbery. At that
thought, he redoubled his efforts, and did not stop until he saw the
huge bulk of Chater Hall looming up against the sky.
Hunted—wretched—forlorn—exhausted, the unhappy man stood, for a few
moments, leaning against a tree, and contemplating the place that was
rightfully his. He was even in a mood to curse the father who had
banished him, and who was sleeping, peacefully enough, in the
churchyard near at hand. He almost wished that his own troubles were
ended, and that he was beyond the reach of pursuit.
“It’s hard,” he muttered, savagely—“that I, who have never wronged any
living creature knowingly, should be in this plight now. If I had had
the chance that was given to my brother, should I have used it
better—or have I merely kept out of temptation, because temptation
kept out of me? Heaven knows! But, while I stand here cursing my fate,
those wretches have got to work, I’ll be bound, and may be clear away
again before I reach the place. Now to remember the roads I traversed
before—and yet to keep out of the sight of all men, and”—he added, as
an after-thought—“all women!”
With these words, he crept round, as near as he dared, to the front of
the house, and struck off cautiously from there in the direction of the
cottage.
Now it happened that night that Madge Barnshaw, being wholly occupied
with sad thoughts, and having no friendly being in whom she could
confide, or to whom she felt disposed to tell the tragic story which
was by this time in every mouth, had gone early to her room, leaving
Miss Vint—her distant cousin and guardian—nodding over the fire.
Arthur Barnshaw, who had arrived from town only the day before, was in
the room he called his “den,” reading and smoking, and the house was
very quiet. Miss Vint, being very comfortable, fell asleep.
When she awoke, the fire had long gone out, and the room was chilly.
Miss Vint rose, shuddering and yawning, and, having extinguished the
light, went out into the hall; took her candle, and slowly and sleepily
mounted the stairs to her chamber.
Passing a window on the staircase, immediately below the level of
her own room, Miss Vint stopped suddenly, and became very wide
awake. Clearly and distinctly, in the death-like silence which
pervaded everything, Miss Vint had heard a voice—muffled and
cautious—apparently proceeding from below. What the words were
that were spoken, she could not say; but she had distinctly heard a
voice—and that voice the voice of a man.
Before the worthy lady had had time to decide what to do, another
voice—as muffled and cautious as the first—answered; only, in this
case, it appeared to come from above—almost as though (but the idea
was, of course, too ridiculous to be entertained) the first speaker had
been outside, in the garden, and the second at an open window, speaking
down at him.
Miss Vint’s first natural thought was to rush downstairs, and summon
Arthur Barnshaw to her assistance. But it was a long way downstairs,
and there was a dark and ghostly corridor to be traversed before she
could reach him. On the other hand, her room was quite close; she had
but to dash up three steps, open the door, plunge in, and find herself
in safety.
Accordingly, Miss Vint took the plunge; flung open the door—shut it
hurriedly—and locked it on the inside. At the same instant, Miss
Vint’s candle was softly blown out, and a strong firm hand was placed
over Miss Vint’s mouth—a hand which pressed her, not too
ceremoniously, against the door she had locked.
“Not a word,” whispered a voice, huskily. “Scream—and I’ll knock yer
bloomin’ brains out. I ain’t alone; there’s pals o’ mine outside, as
mightn’t be so considerate of a lady’s feelin’s. Now—are yer goin’ to
be quiet?”
Miss Vint nodded her head, as well as she could for the steady pressure
of the hand upon her mouth, and the man relaxed his hold. She could
just dimly discern his figure, looming large above her, in the dim
light which came from outside the window.
“What do you want?” asked Miss Vint, in a frightened whisper.
“We’ve got wot we want,” replied the man, in a low voice—“an’ nobody
ain’t ’urt a bit. I found my way into the young lady’s room, without
wakin’ of ’er—an’ now I’ll wish you good-night. On’y mind”—the man
paused, for a moment, to give his words greater effect—“I’ve got
something ’ere wot’ll keep yer quiet, if I ’ears any noise from yer.”
Miss Vint felt something hard and cold touch her forehead.
“My good man,” whispered Miss Vint, tremulously, “you may be sure I
will not place you under the necessity for doing violence upon me. I
would only beg that you will join your companions—I hesitate
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