The Second Dandy Chater Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED

  Philip Crowdy felt, however, that there was no time to waste in vainspeculation; he had plunged into a mad business, and it must be carriedthrough 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 toconfront his difficulties. Essentially cool and calculating, he saw hisdesperate position, and saw, too, how the house of cards he waserecting might be fluttered down at a breath. At the same time, withthe daring of a desperate man, he took the thing quietly, anddetermined to advance step by step.

  Everything seemed to be in his favour. In the first place, there wasevidently no suspicion, in the mind of any one he had met yet, that hewas 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 heneeded, and at the very outset. Coming into the room, immediately afterCrowdy had finished reading the letter, this man asked:

  “Excuse me, sir—but Mrs. Dolman would like to know whether Mr. Ogledonis coming down to-day?”

  Philip Crowdy gathered his wandering wits, and faced the question.“Mrs. Dolman—that’ll be the housekeeper,” he thought, rapidly. “Butwho 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 tome.”

  The young man went away, and the housekeeper presently came bustlingin. She was a trim, neat, precise old lady, with a certain dignity ofmanner belonging to her station. She inclined her head, and folded herhands, and hoped that “Master Dandy” was well.

  “Old servant—been in the family all her life,” thought Crowdy. Aloudhe said—“I really can’t say, Mrs. Dolman, whether Mr. Ogledon will behere to-day or not. By the way, Mrs. Dolman”—this, as a brilliant ideastruck 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 theroom, sir?”

  “Oh—nothing the matter with it; only I want a change; one gets tiredof 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 toprecede her; but he waved her forward impatiently, and she went onahead, and up the broad staircase, with her gown held up delicately intwo mittened hands.

  “Now,” thought Philip Crowdy, with a chuckle, “I shall know where Isleep.”

  The old lady went before him, and softly opened the door of a room onthe left hand—Crowdy taking careful note of its position. It was abeautifully furnished room, with huge old-fashioned presses in it, andwith everything arranged with a view to comfort.

  “There couldn’t be a better room, Master Dandy,” urged the oldlady—“and you’ve slept in it as long almost as I can remember. There’syour dressing-room opening out of it, and your bath-room beyondthat—nothing could be more convenient, Master Dandy. If you moved intothe Yellow room, the outlook is pretty, it can’t be denied—but itain’t to be compared to this. Of course, Master Dandy, you’ll do as youlike—but I——”

  Philip Crowdy had achieved his object. He looked round the room for amoment, and shrugged his shoulders. “No—after all, I think you’reright. It was only a whim of mine; I’ll stay here.”

  As he seemed disposed to remain in the room, the housekeeper quietlytook her departure, and closed the door. Crowdy threw himself into anarmchair, 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 ofsuspicion, gave him confidence. His one desire was to do everythingwhich the late Dandy Chater had been in the habit of doing, and, on theother hand, to do nothing which would seem strange or unusual. And hereagain luck was with him.

  Mrs. Dolman, on retiring from the room, had not closed the door socarefully as she had imagined; the sound of two voices, in lowconverse, came to his ears.

  “What’s brought ’im ’ome in such a ’urry?” asked the firstvoice—evidently that of a woman. “I thought ’e was goin’ to be awayabout a week.”

  In the second voice, which replied in the same low tone, but somewhataggressively, Crowdy recognised that of the young man-servant, who hadalready waited upon him. “Well—I suppose Master can do as helikes—can’t he?”

  “Lor’—some of us soon gits put out, don’t we, Mr. ’Arry,” replied thewoman.

  “Good. Now I know _his_ name,” muttered Crowdy to himself. Whistlingloudly, he strode across the room and pulled open the door abruptly.The distant flutter of skirts announced that the woman had taken frightand fled.

  “Harry,” he said, turning back when he reached the head of thestairs—“I’m going out.”

  The man seemed, he thought, to look at him rather narrowly—almostfrowningly, in fact. “To the Chater Arms, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes—I may look in there,” replied Crowdy carelessly, and wonderingsomewhat 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 muchcare, and strolled out, after taking a walking stick from its place inthe 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 inhis mind, to the exclusion of everything else. He turned away from thevillage, and made his way across some fields, and sat down, in thewinter sunlight, on the footstone of a stile. Looking cautiously abouthim, he pulled from his pocket the papers he had taken from the body ofDandy Chater.

  There was a cheque book, with one cheque filled up, even to thesignature, but still remaining in the book. There was a pocketbook,with various entries in regard to betting, and to sporting engagementsgenerally. And there were one or two letters, in the same handwritingas that seen by him that day. These last he read carefully.

  They were couched in terms of friendly advice, and even ofremonstrance—with sometimes a little note of anger to be read betweenthe lines. Yet they breathed a very true and very disinterestedaffection, and were, in every way, full of true womanly feeling.

  “Ah—Margaret Barnshaw—(sometimes she signs herself ‘Madge,’ Isee)—that’s the lady who’s going to marry me—which is more than Ibargained for, when I stepped into Dandy Chater’s shoes. Well, I’ll gothrough these more carefully later on. Now, as it’s evident that I amexpected at the Chater Arms, I’ll make my way there.”

  He did so; to the accompaniment of friendly nods, and rusticcurtesyings and salutations. But at the Chater Arms he received a shock.

  It was a bright little place—much better and more cleanly kept thanthe house he had patronised on the previous day. From its well sandedfloors to the black beams which crossed its ceilings, it was a pictureof comfort and prosperity. And, seated behind the hospitable-lookingbar, 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 sheturned her head to look at him, he had but one glance at her; yet thatglance was sufficient to sweep him back through many years, and acrossmany miles of land and sea. If the woman had risen calmly and awfullyfrom the grave, her appearance could not have been more startling tothe man.

  The landlady, for her part, appeared to be troubled in no such fashionby his appearance. She nodded—somewhat curtly, he thought—andevidently saw in him merely the idle Dandy Chater she had been in thehabit of seeing almost daily for years past. Recognising the importanceof keeping a steady hand upon his emotions, Philip Crowdy nodded inreply, and approached, and leaned over the bar.

  “Afternoon, Master Dandy,” said the woman, fixing her eyes again on herwork. Yet how familiar her voic
e was in his ears—and how he longed tojump over the bar, and take her portly person in his arms!

  “Good-afternoon,” he responded. “And I wonder,” he thought—“what yourname is now!”

  There was a long pause; and then, in sheer self-defence, he orderedsomething to drink, adding, at the same time—“It’s so deadly dull upat the Hall, that I thought I’d look down to see you.” He stoppedlamely, wondering if she expected him to say anything else.

  “Very kind of yer, Master Dandy,” she retorted quickly, flashing herblack 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 abad humour.

  “Thanks—I think I shall do very well here,” replied Crowdy. “And, ifyou only knew, old Betty, whose eyes are looking at that dear old greyhead of yours, at this moment, I think you’d jump out of your skin.”This latter, it is scarcely necessary to add, passed through histhoughts only, and not his lips.

  Presently, to his astonishment, the old woman, after making severalfalse starts, got up quickly, and came round the bar, and faced him; hesaw that there was some extraordinary excitement upon her; he couldhear one foot nervously beating the ground.

  “Master Dandy,” she said, in a voice little above a whisper—“I mustspeak to you!”

  On the instant, the man felt that she had made some discovery—that sheknew he was not Dandy Chater. But, the next moment, he saw that thiswas a matter which had been consuming her for some time, and had nowboiled up, as it were, and could be held no longer—some grievancewhich she imagined she had against Dandy Chater. Knowing that he had apart to play, he spoke lightly and easily.

  “Well—I’m here; speak to me, by all means,” he said, with a littlelaugh.

  “Not here—not here, Master Dandy,” she said, hurriedly. “If you wouldbe so kind as step in here, there ain’t likely to be no one in thistime o’ the day, Master Dandy.” She indicated, as she spoke, the doorof 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 lookedquestioningly at her. She was evidently at a loss how to proceed, for afew moments, and stood nervously beating her fingers on the back of achair. When, at last, she broke the silence, her question was astartling one.

  “Master Dandy—for the love of God—where’s Patience Miller?”

  The man stared at her in amazement. He knew the name in aninstant—remembered the interview, in the darkness and the rain, uponthe road outside the village—almost felt again, for an instant, thewarm pressure of the girl’s lips upon his. He shook his head, in adazed fashion.

  “How on earth should I know?” he asked, slowly.

  “How should anybody know better, Master Dandy?” she retorted, in thesame suppressed excited voice. “Master Dandy—I’m an old woman, andpoor Patience, ’avin’ no mother of ’er own, ’as turned tome—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 Igot it all from ’er.” The good woman was quivering with excitement, andher 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 nouse your tryin’ to deny it, sir; I knows the truth w’en I ’earsit—’specially w’en it comes to me wi’ tears an’ sighs. You’ve led ’erwrong, 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 lookeddefiance at him. “Then, Master Dandy,” she said fiercely—“if yer turnme 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, Isuppose—because I knowed your blessed father and mother, now in theirgraves. But there it ends; for you’ve got some other black heart inyou, that never belonged to them. There’s not a man or woman, in thecountryside, but wot won’t shake their ’eads, w’en they ’ears yourname—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 lastdespairing phrase from her lips; indeed, as she bowed her old face downon her hands, with a moan, he made a sudden movement, with outstretchedarms, as though he would have taken her within them and comforted her.But when, a moment afterwards, she looked up, with the former sternexpression settling on her features, the man was simply watching herkeenly, 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 thoughtthe 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 matternow; an’ I’d like you to know, Master Dandy, that for all yourpride—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 ofappearances, however, he let a smile play round his mouth, and thenbroke into a laugh.

  “Ah—you may laugh, Master Dandy. Wot if I tell you that you had abrother—an elder brother, Master Dandy, though only by a matter ofminutes.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” asked the man; though only forthe sake of appearances again—for he had heard the story from herlips, a long, long time before.

  “The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not _one_ child, Master Dandy, came intothe world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but _two_—twins; an’ theother 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 togit rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; oleCripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, thoughsound 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 forme—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side ofthe world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with fivehundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed theweakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, to fight over the property, an’ cut itup 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 andstrong—lookin’ on me as ’is mother, an’ ’avin’ my name, as it wasthen—Crowdy; Philip Crowdy, we called ’im. Then I met Siggs—myToby—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 wasten then, an’ I told ’im the story, on’y a week or two afore ’ewent—your father bein’ dead, an’ my lips sealed no longer.”

  “A pretty story, Mrs. Siggs,” replied Philip. “And you never heardanything 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’ thepoor lad must ’ave got lost in it, an’ starved to death. Even men ’avedone that,” she added, with her apron at her eyes.

  “And why did you return to England?” he asked, in the same dull levelvoice.

  “I couldn’t abear the place, after we’d lost ’im; an’ things wentwrong, an’ Siggs an’ me lost most of our money. Besides, I was alwayslongin’ 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 ChaterArms—an’ settled down.”


  Carried away by the remembrances of years, Betty Siggs had forgottenthe real object with which she had started the conversation; sheremembered it quickly now, and her tone changed. But it was no longerharsh; the remembrance of her boy, as she called him, had softened her,and she turned to the graceless Dandy Chater—(as she imagined him tobe)—and spoke pleadingly.

  “Master Dandy, won’t you listen to an old woman—won’t you tell mew’ere I can find this poor girl—Patience; won’t you——”

  Philip Crowdy, remembering suddenly the part he had to play, got upimpatiently, 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 wastroubled. “Poor old Betty!” he muttered to himself—“she thinks I’mDandy Chater—and a blackguard; what would she think, if she knew thatthe boy she lost in the bush was saved, after all; and that he standshere to-day, in his dead brother’s place, and under his dead brother’sname? What would she say, if she knew that I am her boy, as she callsme—Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater?”