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?”