The Second Dandy Chater

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER VII

  MASTER AND SERVANT

  For a long time, Philip Chater sat staring, in a stupefied fashion, atthe packets of bank-notes, and at the paper he held in his hand. He wasat first utterly at a loss to understand why such a sum of money shouldhave been paid into his hands, together with a similar sum for themysterious man, his cousin, known as the Count. Gradually, however, alight began to dawn upon him; remembering the talk about diamonds, andabout the young girl who was to receive no hurt, the horrible businessbegan to piece itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Once again heseemed to be looking into the evil faces, in that upstairs room in thelow public-house at Woolwich; saw that the giving of the packets—onefor himself, and one for his cousin—had been but a dividing of thespoils of some successful robbery. More than that, the paper seemed topoint to the fact that another robbery was planned, at the house ofMadge Barnshaw.

  Everything seemed to point to this. The affair had evidently beenarranged by this same mysterious man Ogledon; and that he was afrequent visitor to Bamberton was obvious, from the mention made of himby Mrs. Dolman, the housekeeper, on the day of Philip’s first journeyto Chater Hall. Again, the mention of the young girl who was not to behurt—of the fact that they only expected to have to deal withwomen—all pointed to robbery, to which possible violence was attached.

  “My God!” whispered Philip to himself, in an awed voice—“I’ve landedstraight into the midst of some tremendous conspiracy. DandyChater—the Squire—the gentleman; yet Dandy Chater, the associate ofthieves and footpads. Dandy Chater, professing love for the sweetestwoman in the world, yet mixed up with scoundrels who are plotting torob her! And, in the meantime, where in the world is this preciouscousin of mine—Ogledon? Did Dandy Chater meet his death at that man’shands, and is that the reason the fellow keeps out of sight? Well—twothings 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 toplunder Madge’s house, on Friday next, soon after midnight.”

  He began to pace up and down the room, in an agitated fashion; stoppedsuddenly, with a look of resolution on his face.

  “Well—one thing is clear; I must find the rightful owners of thismoney, and restore it——Great Heavens—I can’t do that! This plunderbelongs to Dandy Chater, and he belongs to the gang that stole it—andI—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, atall 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 suddenlyupright in bed, in the darkness.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed, softly—“I shall be able to find my way to thecottage 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 DandyChater, Esq., Bamberton,” to apprise that respectable young man-servantof 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 ChaterHall, I can blame it on the post office, and swear they left out thename.”

  To his satisfaction, however, the Harry he wanted was awaiting hisarrival at the little railway station, with the smart dog-cart in whichhe had driven before. But, ever on the watch for some sign of suspicionin those about him, Philip Chater noted, with a quick eye, that thepleasant manner of this young servant was gone; that he answered hismaster’s greeting, by merely touching his hat, and without a word inreply. More than that, he seemed to avoid Philip’s eyes as much aspossible—glancing at him covertly, and, as it appeared, almost withaversion.

  As they drove in the direction of Bamberton—Philip having the reins,and the young man sitting silently beside him—Philip broke anuncomfortable pause, by asking abruptly—“Anything happened since Iwent to town?”

  For quite a long moment, Harry did not reply; Philip Chater, lookinground 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 alittle as he spoke—that Philip, scenting danger, guessed thatsomething 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 witha certain strong determination in his voice.

  “Come, Harry—something _has_ happened; I am convinced of it. You arehiding something from me; what is it?”

  Another long pause, while the horse paced slowly along the road, andthe hearts of both men beat faster than ordinary. At last, the servantspoke—still without looking at his master. He spoke doggedly, and asthough repeating something he had trained himself, with difficulty, tosay.

  “There’s nothing I’m hiding, Master Dandy,” he said, slowly anddistinctly—“and nothing has happened—since you went away.”

  It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him; Philip touchedthe horse smartly with the whip, causing it to break into its formerrapid pace, and said quietly, with something of reproach in histone—“You _are_ hiding something, Harry. I am sorry; I thought youwere my friend.”

  “God knows I am, Master Dandy!” broke from the other, almost with agroan. But he said nothing more, and they swept up the long drive toChater 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 promptedhim to stroll down to the Chater Arms. Truth to tell, he had a verystrong desire to pay a visit to Madge Barnshaw—which would have beeneasy, now that the plan on the scrap of paper was in his hands. But hehesitated, for more reasons than one.

  In the first place the natural chivalry of the man rebelled against thethought of taking advantage of the fraud he was compelled to practiceupon an innocent woman. Some feeling, stronger than mere interest inher, had begun to stir in his breast, from the time when she had placedher hand upon his arm, in the church, until she had blushingly kissedhis lips, and fled from him. For this man, so strangely made in thelikeness of the dead, and so strangely placed, in the masquerading gamehe was forced to play, was desperately and bitterly lonely. Surroundedby unknown dangers—necessarily suspicious of every one with whom hecame in contact—resenting, as an honest man, the lie he was obliged tolive—he craved most earnestly for some sympathy and tenderness. Allunconsciously, this woman had given them both to him; and, in the midsteven 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—“Lether love me; she will never understand; I am as good, or better, thanthe man to whom she thinks she is giving her caresses. Born of the samemother, in the same hour, and fashioned so strangely alike—he, theyounger, has had all the luxury and beauty of life hitherto; I—theelder—all its hardships and privations. Surely it is myturn—rightfully—now.”

  Nevertheless, he thrust that thought from him, and resolved to see nomore of her than was consistent with the keeping up of the fictitiouscharacter he had assumed. And thus it was that, in desperation, andhaunted by troublesome thoughts, he betook himself to the Chater Arms.

  The moment he entered the door of that respectable inn, he regrettedhaving done so; for, behind the neat little bar, there sat, to hisinfinite surprise, the young girl whose black eyes had looked at him soreproac
hfully in church, and whom he had left weeping in the wood.However, he felt that he must make the best of it; and he thereforeadvanced, boldly and smilingly, and gave her greeting.

  The girl was evidently disturbed in her mind by his appearance—yet notunhappily so; she blushed prettily, and rose, with some nervousness, tofulfil his demands. And, just at the moment when, as she was bending topour out the liquor he had ordered, and, as he lounged on the bar, hisown 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 ofthe late Dandy Chater might have been, Philip had a natural personalobjection to drinking in public with his own servant. But, however hemight have been disposed to resent it, the sight of the young man’sface gave him pause.

  It had been white when they drove together in the dog-cart; it waswhite now—but with a different sort of whiteness. Then, his face hadborne the expression of deep emotion—of a struggle to represssomething—almost of a deadly fear; now, it was set into a look ofstern and ill-suppressed anger. Moreover, he made no attempt to givehis 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 couldbe avoided, Philip stepped quietly up to him, and, with his backtowards the girl, said, in a low voice—“I don’t desire that you shouldbe seen here, at this hour of the day. When your duties at the Hall areended, you can, of course, please yourself—but I can’t have youdrinking here now.”

  The once respectful Harry looked at him steadily for a moment, andreturned a remarkable answer—speaking in the same suppressed voice ashis master.

  “I’ll please myself now, Master Dandy—and I’m not drinking. I’m herefor a purpose.”

  The nature of the elder man was too strong to be put off, even withsuch a rebuff as this; his manner changed, and his voice, when he spokeagain, 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 hishead doggedly. “No, Master Dandy,” he replied—“I’m going to stayhere.” His eyes wandered, for a moment, towards the girl with the blackeyes behind the little bar.

  “Very good. Then you understand that you leave my service from thishour. 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 utterbewilderment and amazement of Philip Chater, his eyes—full of somemute appeal—had tears in them.

  Baffled in earnest now, Philip Chater, after looking at Harry for amoment 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 ofthem, walked out of the place.

  He felt that some mystery was brooding, behind the extraordinaryattitude of his young servant. Remembering the girl’s mention of him inthe wood, he felt that mere foolish jealousy was at the bottom of thematter; and, knowing that this was one of the difficult legacies leftbehind by the late Dandy Chater, he accepted it philosophically. At thesame time, he was puzzled at the young man’s last remark, and at theevident emotion he had displayed. Being in no mood to return to hissolitary home, which seemed always full of unfamiliar ghosts of peoplehe had never known, he struck off across some fields, and sat down onthe 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. Angerat the thought of being followed, and spied upon, brought him hurriedlyto his feet.

  “What do you want? What right have you to follow me, in this fashion? Isuppose you’ve come to plead something, in extenuation of yourrudeness—eh?” he exclaimed. “I’ll hear nothing—I’ve nothing to say toyou.”

  He turned away angrily, and walked a half-dozen paces; twisted on hisheel, and came back again. Harry had not moved; he stood, with hishands clasped tightly together before him, and with his head bowed onhis breast. When he spoke, his voice was low, and had a curiousmournful 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 ofthe great world, and knows but little of the rights or wrongs ofthings, more than whatever good God put in my heart can teach me. ButI’ve only known one life, Master Dandy—and that’s you!”

  He took a half step forward, and stretched out his clasped hands, inmute appeal—dropping them again the next moment. PhilipChater—humbled and awed by the pathetic dignity of the lad—was silent.

  “The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed outto 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 tooknotice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me yourservant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(butthere’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—myeverything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as youdid your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.”

  Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather anunsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he couldmuster—“what has all this to do with the matter?”

  “Master Dandy,” went on the appealing voice—“I’m not a greatgentleman, like you—and I can’t put my poor thoughts into the rightwords. But—Master Dandy—won’t you—won’t you try to run straight withme—won’t you let me help you? Master Dandy”—he came a step nearer, inhis 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 girlin 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 thefeelings of a man, and I know that a gentleman like yourself doesn’tpay court to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, with any good intent.”

  “Why—what the devil do you mean?” cried Philip, startled for themoment into answering out of his own honest heart.

  “Master Dandy—I’ve stuck up for you through thick and thin—and I’dkill the man who dared to say a word against you. But you know what hasbeen said, about these parts—God forgive me, I’m speaking as man toman, and not as servant to master—and you know that decent motherswarn their girls about you. Master Dandy—I suppose these aregentlemen’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. Butshe’s mine, Master Dandy—and she’s a child—and innocent. God inHeaven, man!”—all social distinctions seemed to be swept away, for themoment, in the passion which overwhelmed him—“was not one forlornwoman’s life enough for you?”

  Staggered by the words, and even more by the tone in which they wereuttered, Philip Chater turned upon him swiftly, and caught his arm.“What do you mean? ‘One forlorn woman’s life!’ What are you talkingabout?”

  All the passion had faded from the face of the other man; but the eyeswhich looked into those of Philip Chater had a horrible deadly feargrowing in them.

  “Master Dandy—before God, I think I’m the only man who knows it. Thereis time for you to get away—to hide beyond seas—never to come back tothis place, where you have been led to do such wrong. MasterDandy!”—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 youwhen you were a bright faced lad, laughing in the sunshine, and with nostain 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 theother. “It isn’t for me to see into a gentleman’s heart, or to knowwhat temptations he may have, above such as I am. But the thing isdone, and all high Heaven can’t undo it now. Master Dandy—there is yettime 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 allabout him fearfully first, as though afraid there might be listeners,even in that spot.

  “Listen, Master Dandy,” he whispered. “Last night—restless, andthinking of you—for you haven’t been as kind to me lately as you oncewere, Master Dandy—I crept out of the house, and went out in themoonlight. I walked a long way, without knowing it—and I came to thewood behind the old mill.”

  Like an echo, there came to Philip Chater certain words, spoken by agirl who called herself Patience Miller, and who had met him on thenight of his arrival at Bamberton. As in a dream, too, while the otherman went on speaking, he seemed to see a figure dart out into thehighway—a figure that afterwards scraped heavy clay from its boots, inthe light of a flickering lamp—a figure which now lay at the bottom ofthe Thames.

  “Master Dandy,” went on the agitated voice—“I came, by accident, towhere she lay, with blood upon her—dead—in the moonlight. MasterDandy”—he put his hands before his face, and shuddered—“say it isn’ttrue, Master Dandy—for God’s sake, say it isn’t true!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Philip, hoarsely, with an awful sweat of fearbeginning 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.