MASTER AND SERVANT
For a long time, Philip Chater sat staring, in a stupefied fashion, at
the packets of bank-notes, and at the paper he held in his hand. He was
at first utterly at a loss to understand why such a sum of money should
have been paid into his hands, together with a similar sum for the
mysterious man, his cousin, known as the Count. Gradually, however, a
light began to dawn upon him; remembering the talk about diamonds, and
about the young girl who was to receive no hurt, the horrible business
began to piece itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Once again he
seemed to be looking into the evil faces, in that upstairs room in the
low public-house at Woolwich; saw that the giving of the packets—one
for himself, and one for his cousin—had been but a dividing of the
spoils of some successful robbery. More than that, the paper seemed to
point to the fact that another robbery was planned, at the house of
Madge Barnshaw.
Everything seemed to point to this. The affair had evidently been
arranged by this same mysterious man Ogledon; and that he was a
frequent visitor to Bamberton was obvious, from the mention made of him
by Mrs. Dolman, the housekeeper, on the day of Philip’s first journey
to Chater Hall. Again, the mention of the young girl who was not to be
hurt—of the fact that they only expected to have to deal with
women—all pointed to robbery, to which possible violence was attached.
“My God!” whispered Philip to himself, in an awed voice—“I’ve landed
straight into the midst of some tremendous conspiracy. Dandy
Chater—the Squire—the gentleman; yet Dandy Chater, the associate of
thieves and footpads. Dandy Chater, professing love for the sweetest
woman in the world, yet mixed up with scoundrels who are plotting to
rob her! And, in the meantime, where in the world is this precious
cousin of mine—Ogledon? Did Dandy Chater meet his death at that man’s
hands, and is that the reason the fellow keeps out of sight? Well—two
things 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 to
plunder Madge’s house, on Friday next, soon after midnight.”
He began to pace up and down the room, in an agitated fashion; stopped
suddenly, with a look of resolution on his face.
“Well—one thing is clear; I must find the rightful owners of this
money, and restore it——Great Heavens—I can’t do that! This plunder
belongs to Dandy Chater, and he belongs to the gang that stole it—and
I—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, at
all 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 suddenly
upright in bed, in the darkness.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, softly—“I shall be able to find my way to the
cottage 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 Dandy
Chater, Esq., Bamberton,” to apprise that respectable young man-servant
of 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 Chater
Hall, I can blame it on the post office, and swear they left out the
name.”
To his satisfaction, however, the Harry he wanted was awaiting his
arrival at the little railway station, with the smart dog-cart in which
he had driven before. But, ever on the watch for some sign of suspicion
in those about him, Philip Chater noted, with a quick eye, that the
pleasant manner of this young servant was gone; that he answered his
master’s greeting, by merely touching his hat, and without a word in
reply. More than that, he seemed to avoid Philip’s eyes as much as
possible—glancing at him covertly, and, as it appeared, almost with
aversion.
As they drove in the direction of Bamberton—Philip having the reins,
and the young man sitting silently beside him—Philip broke an
uncomfortable pause, by asking abruptly—“Anything happened since I
went to town?”
For quite a long moment, Harry did not reply; Philip Chater, looking
round 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 a
little as he spoke—that Philip, scenting danger, guessed that
something 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 with
a certain strong determination in his voice.
“Come, Harry—something _has_ happened; I am convinced of it. You are
hiding something from me; what is it?”
Another long pause, while the horse paced slowly along the road, and
the hearts of both men beat faster than ordinary. At last, the servant
spoke—still without looking at his master. He spoke doggedly, and as
though repeating something he had trained himself, with difficulty, to
say.
“There’s nothing I’m hiding, Master Dandy,” he said, slowly and
distinctly—“and nothing has happened—since you went away.”
It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him; Philip touched
the horse smartly with the whip, causing it to break into its former
rapid pace, and said quietly, with something of reproach in his
tone—“You _are_ hiding something, Harry. I am sorry; I thought you
were my friend.”
“God knows I am, Master Dandy!” broke from the other, almost with a
groan. But he said nothing more, and they swept up the long drive to
Chater 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 prompted
him to stroll down to the Chater Arms. Truth to tell, he had a very
strong desire to pay a visit to Madge Barnshaw—which would have been
easy, now that the plan on the scrap of paper was in his hands. But he
hesitated, for more reasons than one.
In the first place the natural chivalry of the man rebelled against the
thought of taking advantage of the fraud he was compelled to practice
upon an innocent woman. Some feeling, stronger than mere interest in
her, had begun to stir in his breast, from the time when she had placed
her hand upon his arm, in the church, until she had blushingly kissed
his lips, and fled from him. For this man, so strangely made in the
likeness of the dead, and so strangely placed, in the masquerading game
he was forced to play, was desperately and bitterly lonely. Surrounded
by unknown dangers—necessarily suspicious of every one with whom he
came in contact—resenting, as an honest man, the lie he was obliged to
live—he craved most earnestly for some sympathy and tenderness. All
unconsciously, this woman had given them both to him; and, in the midst
even 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—“Let
her love me; she will never understand; I am as good, or better, than
the man to whom she thinks she is giving her caresses. Born of the same
mother, in the same hour, and fashioned so strangely alike—he, the
younger, has had all the luxury and beauty of life hitherto; I—the
elder—all its hardships and privations. Surely it is my
turn—rightfully—now.”
Nevertheless, he thrust that thought from him, and resolved to see no
more of her than was consistent with the keeping up of the fictitious
character he had assumed. And thus it was that, in desperation, and
haunted by troublesome thoughts, he betook himself to the Chater Arms.
The moment he entered the door of that respectable inn, he regretted
having done so; for, behind the neat little bar, there sat, to his
infinite surprise, the young girl whose black eyes had looked at him so
reproachfully in church, and whom he had left weeping in the wood.
However, he felt that he must make the best of it; and he therefore
advanced, boldly and smilingly, and gave her greeting.
The girl was evidently disturbed in her mind by his appearance—yet not
unhappily so; she blushed prettily, and rose, with some nervousness, to
fulfil his demands. And, just at the moment when, as she was bending to
pour out the liquor he had ordered, and, as he lounged on the bar, his
own 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 of
the late Dandy Chater might have been, Philip had a natural personal
objection to drinking in public with his own servant. But, however he
might have been disposed to resent it, the sight of the young man’s
face gave him pause.
It had been white when they drove together in the dog-cart; it was
white now—but with a different sort of whiteness. Then, his face had
borne the expression of deep emotion—of a struggle to repress
something—almost of a deadly fear; now, it was set into a look of
stern and ill-suppressed anger. Moreover, he made no attempt to give
his 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 could
be avoided, Philip stepped quietly up to him, and, with his back
towards the girl, said, in a low voice—“I don’t desire that you should
be seen here, at this hour of the day. When your duties at the Hall are
ended, you can, of course, please yourself—but I can’t have you
drinking here now.”
The once respectful Harry looked at him steadily for a moment, and
returned a remarkable answer—speaking in the same suppressed voice as
his master.
“I’ll please myself now, Master Dandy—and I’m not drinking. I’m here
for a purpose.”
The nature of the elder man was too strong to be put off, even with
such a rebuff as this; his manner changed, and his voice, when he spoke
again, 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 his
head doggedly. “No, Master Dandy,” he replied—“I’m going to stay
here.” His eyes wandered, for a moment, towards the girl with the black
eyes behind the little bar.
“Very good. Then you understand that you leave my service from this
hour. 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 utter
bewilderment and amazement of Philip Chater, his eyes—full of some
mute appeal—had tears in them.
Baffled in earnest now, Philip Chater, after looking at Harry for a
moment 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 of
them, walked out of the place.
He felt that some mystery was brooding, behind the extraordinary
attitude of his young servant. Remembering the girl’s mention of him in
the wood, he felt that mere foolish jealousy was at the bottom of the
matter; and, knowing that this was one of the difficult legacies left
behind by the late Dandy Chater, he accepted it philosophically. At the
same time, he was puzzled at the young man’s last remark, and at the
evident emotion he had displayed. Being in no mood to return to his
solitary home, which seemed always full of unfamiliar ghosts of people
he had never known, he struck off across some fields, and sat down on
the 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. Anger
at the thought of being followed, and spied upon, brought him hurriedly
to his feet.
“What do you want? What right have you to follow me, in this fashion? I
suppose you’ve come to plead something, in extenuation of your
rudeness—eh?” he exclaimed. “I’ll hear nothing—I’ve nothing to say to
you.”
He turned away angrily, and walked a half-dozen paces; twisted on his
heel, and came back again. Harry had not moved; he stood, with his
hands clasped tightly together before him, and with his head bowed on
his breast. When he spoke, his voice was low, and had a curious
mournful 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 of
the great world, and knows but little of the rights or wrongs of
things, more than whatever good God put in my heart can teach me. But
I’ve only known one life, Master Dandy—and that’s you!”
He took a half step forward, and stretched out his clasped hands, in
mute appeal—dropping them again the next moment. Philip
Chater—humbled and awed by the pathetic dignity of the lad—was silent.
“The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed out
to 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 took
notice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me your
servant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(but
there’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—my
everything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as you
did your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.”
Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather an
unsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he could
muster—“what has all this to do with the matter?”
“Master Dandy,” went on the appealing voice—“I’m not a great
gentleman, like you—and I can’t put my poor thoughts into the right
words. But—Master Dandy—won’t you—won’t you try to run straight with
me—won’t you let me help you? Master Dandy”—he came a step nearer, in
his 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 girl
in 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 the
feelings of a man, and I know that a gentleman like yourself doesn’t
pay court to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, with any good intent.”
“Why—what the devil do you mean?” cried Philip, startled for the
moment into answering out of his own honest heart.
“Master Dandy—I’ve stuck up for you through thick and thin—and I’d
kill the man who dared to say a word against you. But you know what has
been said, about these parts—God forgive me, I’m speaking as man to
man, and not as servant to master—and you know that decent mothers
warn their girls about you. Master Dandy—I suppose these are
gentlemen’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. But
she’s mine, Master Dandy—and she’s a child—and innocent. God in
Heaven, man!”—all social distinctions seemed to be swept away, for the
moment, in the passion which overwhelmed him—“was not one forlorn
woman’s life enough for you?”
Staggered by the words, and even more by the tone in which they were
uttered, Philip Chater turned upon him swiftly, and caught his arm.
“What do you mean? ‘One forlorn woman’s life!’ What are you talking
about?”
All the passion had faded from the face of the other man; but the eyes
which looked into those of Philip Chater had a horrible deadly fear
growing in them.
“Master Dandy—before God, I think I’m the only man who knows it. There
is time for you to get away—to hide beyond seas—never to come back to
this place, where you have been led to do such wrong. Master
Dandy!”—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 you
when you were a bright faced lad, laughing in the sunshine, and with no
stain 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 the
other. “It isn’t for me to see into a gentleman’s heart, or to know
what temptations he may have, above such as I am. But the thing is
done, and all high Heaven can’t undo it now. Master Dandy—there is yet
time 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 all
about him fearfully first, as though afraid there might be listeners,
even in that spot.
“Listen, Master Dandy,” he whispered. “Last night—restless, and
thinking of you—for you haven’t been as kind to me lately as you once
were, Master Dandy—I crept out of the house, and went out in the
moonlight. I walked a long way, without knowing it—and I came to the
wood behind the old mill.”
Like an echo, there came to Philip Chater certain words, spoken by a
girl who called herself Patience Miller, and who had met him on the
night of his arrival at Bamberton. As in a dream, too, while the other
man went on speaking, he seemed to see a figure dart out into the
highway—a figure that afterwards scraped heavy clay from its boots, in
the light of a flickering lamp—a figure which now lay at the bottom of
the Thames.
“Master Dandy,” went on the agitated voice—“I came, by accident, to
where she lay, with blood upon her—dead—in the moonlight. Master
Dandy”—he put his hands before his face, and shuddered—“say it isn’t
true, Master Dandy—for God’s sake, say it isn’t true!”
“What do you mean?” asked Philip, hoarsely, with an awful sweat of fear
beginning 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.