The Second Dandy Chater

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER VIII

  TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD

  Philip Chater was so stunned, in the first shock of the thing, that hedid not know what to say, or what to do. Standing, as he did, anabsolutely innocent man, he yet had time to recognise that he had takenupon himself the identity of another; and stood answerable, by reasonof 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 thisunfortunate girl. Her words to himself, on the night of his coming toBamberton—her reminder, to the supposed Dandy Chater, of his promiseto marry her—the mysterious appointment made, for that same night, inthe wood behind the mill; all these things seemed to point to but oneconclusion. Again, the man running, as for his life, to catch thetrain—and without the girl; her disappearance, from that hour; allthese things, too, pointed, with unerring finger, to the common sordidstory, ending, in an hour of desperation, in the blow which should ridthe man of his burden.

  These thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind, even in the fewseconds which elapsed after the other man’s halting declaration, andwhile that other man still crouched at his feet. Then, the instinct ofself-preservation—the desire, and the necessity, to hide thatblood-stained thing, which seemed to point to him—innocent though hewas—as surely in death as it would have pointed in life—swept overhim. He caught the lad by the arm, and dragged him to his feet; thewhile his mind was fiercely working, in a wild attempt to settle someplan of action. Even in that hour of danger, a keen remembrance of thepart he still had to play was full upon him; in his brutal roughness ofvoice, when he spoke, he played that part of Dandy Chater, as heimagined Dandy Chater would have played it himself.

  “Get up, you fool!” he cried, roughly. “Is this a time to be snivellinghere? Suppose she is dead—it was an accident.”

  Harry sadly but doggedly shook his head. “You won’t find many tobelieve that, Master Dandy,” he said. “She lies there—stabbed in thebreast. There is a trail of blood for some yards; she must have triedto crawl away—and have bled to death. Master Dandy, can’t you see thatshe will be found; can’t you guess what they will say, and whom theywill question first? All the village has linked your names, for monthspast.”

  “She—it must be hidden,” whispered Philip, weakly. “God—man”—hecried, with a sudden burst of petulant anger—“why do you stand staringlike that? It may be found at any moment; it may have been found beforethis!”

  “There’s no help for it, Master Dandy,” replied the other, with agroan—“it must be found, sooner or later. I tell you, you must getaway—beyond seas, if possible.”

  “And draw suspicion on myself at once!” exclaimed Philip. Then, some ofthe real Philip Chater coming to the surface, and sweeping aside thefalse personality under which he lived, he added, hurriedly—“But youmust have nothing to do with it, Harry; we mustn’t get you intotrouble. No—I’ll take the thing in my own hands, and in my ownfashion. 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 gettingout of it, Master Dandy.”

  “A way of getting out of it!” muttered Philip to himself, as he watchedthe retreating figure of his servant. “There seems but small chance ofthat. 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 DandyChater. And I cannot speak, because the real Dandy Chater is gone, andI 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 somethingwith the body, urged him to see it. But, here again, the bitterness andthe strangeness of his position came strongly upon him; for, though hestood in deadly peril of being charged with the murder of this girl, hewas actually ignorant of the spot where her body lay. He shuddered atthe thought that he might stumble upon it, at any step he took. Stillcasting about in his mind for the best method of finding the place, hewent 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 noappetite—unless I were a hardened villain indeed. Being innocent, I’llmake the best of things, until they come to the worst.”

  With this wise resolution, he dined well, and drank an excellent bottleof wine. The world beginning to look a little better, in directconsequence, he lit a cigar, and put the matter philosophically beforehimself.

  “Men have been hung, I know, on slighter evidence than that whichconnects me with the dead girl. Yet, after all”—he derived veryconsiderable satisfaction from the remembrance of this point—“I am notDandy Chater—and never was. If I can only as readily persuade peoplethat 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 whatthe danger of discovery is, and exactly where I stand, before I doanything else. Then—if there is nothing for it but flight, thequestion 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 hisignorance of the neighbourhood, he rang the bell, and requested thatHarry might be sent to him. In a few moments, the servant who hadanswered 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 besomewhere 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 tome when he returns.”

  The man withdrew, leaving Philip Chater in an uneasy frame of mind. Hesaw at once that, great as this lad’s devotion might be to DandyChater, he had already, in a moment of passion, defied his master. Hewas scarcely more than a boy—and in that boy’s hands hung the life ofPhilip Chater. That he should have gone out, in this fashion, without aword, was a circumstance suspicious enough at any time; that he shouldhave done so now, was alarming in the extreme to the man who dreadedevery moment to hear unaccustomed sounds in the house, which shoulddenote that the secret of the wood was a secret no longer, and that menhad 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 tome—perhaps only a matter of minutes. Come—what shall I do with thetime?”

  A certain recklessness was upon the man—the recklessness which willmake a man laugh sometimes, in the certain approach of death. With thatfeeling, too, came a softer one; in that hour of difficulty and danger,he turned, as it were instinctively, towards the woman who had kissedhim—the woman who had whispered that she loved him. In his bitterloneliness, as has been said, his thoughts had turned to her, moreoften than was good for his peace of mind; and now a longing, greaterthan he could master, came upon him, to touch her hand—perhaps, bygreat good fortune, her lips—once again.

  “Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not beenso much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throwit churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweetgirl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yoursis coming to see you.”

  With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece ofpaper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by whichhe should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that itwas 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 veryclearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to theplace he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, andrambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in t
he hedgewhich surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction ofcertain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which thewarm glow of lamps and fires was shining.

  But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and fromout the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For amoment, 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 hisgladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes givinghim welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her.

  “Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how Ihave longed to see you!”

  “Not more, dear heart, than I to see you,” he replied. “But I—I havebeen—been very busy; so many things have occupied my attention—somany things have needed to—to be done. Why—what a poor lover you mustthink me!”

  “Indeed—no,” she said. “Only I feared—such a foolish thought, Iknow—I feared that something might be wrong with you—feared that youmight be in danger. Dandy”—she was twisting a button on his coat roundand round in her fingers, and her eyes were bent down, so that he couldnot see them—“you remember once a long talk we had, about—about yourcousin—Mr. Ogledon—don’t you?”

  He did not, of course, remember it, for an obvious reason; but, as hewas desirous of hearing as much as possible about that gentleman, heanswered 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 veryangry with me, when last I spoke about him; you said——”

  “I promise that you shall not make me angry this time—no matter whatyou say about him,” broke in Philip, gently.

  She raised her head quickly, and looked at him for a moment or two insilence. “Dandy,” she said at last, looking at him strangely—“you havenever been so good to me as you are to-night; never seemed so near tome. That old impatience of yours seems to be gone. Something hassoftened you; what is it?”

  “Perhaps it is my love for you, dear Madge,” he said; and indeed, hethought then that the love of her might have softened any man.

  “Do you think so?” she asked, smiling at him happily. “And you willpromise not to be angry at anything I say?”

  “Most faithfully.”

  “Well, then, I mistrust that man. I think a woman sees deeper into thehearts of her fellow-creatures than a man can hope to do; perhaps it isGod’s gift to her, for her greater protection. The world is a sweet andprecious place to me—especially since we have been drawn so much morestrongly together—you and I; but I say from my heart that it would bea better place if that man were dead.”

  He looked at her in some astonishment; a rising tide of passion hadflushed 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 Ihave seen that in his eyes, when you have not observed him, which hastold me that he would not hesitate to do you a mischief, if you stoodin the way of anything he desired.”

  Philip Chater suddenly remembered, even in the interest he took in whatshe said, that he had a part to play. Therefore, with a shrug of theshoulders, 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 youpaint him.”

  Yet, how he longed, at that time, to tell her how true he believed herwords to be! How he longed to fall at her feet, and tell her that theman to whom her heart had been given had been unworthy of it; that hewas dead, and that another stood in his place—ready to take his placein a yet greater sense! But he knew that that was impossible; only, inhis heart, was growing up a dreadful insane jealousy of the man who wasdead.

  “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 cousinOgledon. See—the moon is rising—the moon that calls to lovers, allthe world over, to worship him, and swear by him. What shall I swear toyou, dear Madge?”

  “Swear first of all,” she said, still with that note of anxiety in hervoice—“swear that you will have as little as possible to do with thatman. Ah—do let me speak”—this as he was about to interrupt her—“Iknow, only too well, that I have reason for my anxiety. Come—if youlove 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 quitelike that newer, better self, which you promised I should see in you.There”—she bent forward, and kissed him lightly—“that in token thatthe matter is ended between us. Now—what shall we do? The moon isrising, as you say, and I don’t want to go inside yet; Miss Vint playspropriety, 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—andtalk.”

  After pacing up and down the garden once or twice, they stopped, sideby side, at a little gate which opened from the further corner of itssomewhat limited extent; as the girl laid her hand upon it, Philipinwardly wondered where it led. She swung it open, quite as a matter ofcourse, and as though that had been a favourite walk of her own and herlover; and they passed through, into a sort of little plantation. Themoon was high, and the sky clear; their own shadows, and those of thetrees, were sharp and distinct upon the ground. Still almost insilence, 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 youspeak—for disliking Ogledon so much.” He said it slowly, having beenat some pains to work the thing out in his mind.

  “I thought we had done with the matter, and were not to speak of itagain?” 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 atevery step. So intent was he upon the girl, and so eagerly did helisten for her answer, that he did not observe that the plantation hadchanged to something of denser growth, and that the trees about themwere thick and heavy, and the ground broken and uneven.

  “Yes—I suppose you have the right,” she said at last. “I alwayssuspected the man, Dandy—I always disliked him. But a little timesince, presuming upon a chance meeting with me, he protested—oh—youwill not remember this afterwards—will you?—he protested his love forme, in a fashion so violent, that I have feared him ever since. He saidthat the stories about you and that girl—Patience Miller——”

  Do what he would, he could not repress a start—could not keep his facewholly within control. So violent had the start been, that she hadstopped 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. “MyGod—what’s that?”

  In the silence of the place, as the man and the woman stood lookinginto each other’s eyes, there had come, borne upon the still air, theunmistakable thud—thud of a spade in stiff earth. A question forceditself to the man’s lips, and found voice, quite as though some othervoice had spoken.

  “Madge—in Heaven’s name—what place is this?”

  She stared at him, in mingled amazement and terror; while he, for hispart, seemed to count the steady thud—thud near
to them, as he mighthave counted his own heart beats, if life were ebbing from him.

  “What place? Dandy—you are dreaming! Surely you know that this is thewood—the wood behind the mill—you know——”

  With a cry like that of a wounded animal, Philip Chater sprang fromher, and went plunging among the trees, in the direction of thatfrightful sound. He came, in a moment, upon something which brought himto his knees, with a suppressed scream; the body of a young girl, aboutwhom all the earth seemed stained a dreadful crimson. Beyond thatsight, was the young lad Harry, up to his knees in a long shallowtrench, in which he was digging away like a fury. He neither heard hismaster’s approach, nor glanced up for a moment.

  Philip turned, and crashed back through the wood, until he reached thewoman’s side again. “Come away,” he whispered, hurriedly—“it—it isnothing; come away—for God’s sake!”

  But she broke from him, and went racing in the direction he had himselftaken, and was lost to sight in a moment. He heard, through the silencethat brooded awfully upon the place, a piercing scream; and the nextmoment she came plunging headlong past him, and went, staggeringblindly, with her hands before her eyes, in the direction in which theyhad walked so calmly but a few moments before.