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.’”