TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD
Philip Chater was so stunned, in the first shock of the thing, that he
did not know what to say, or what to do. Standing, as he did, an
absolutely innocent man, he yet had time to recognise that he had taken
upon himself the identity of another; and stood answerable, by reason
of 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 this
unfortunate girl. Her words to himself, on the night of his coming to
Bamberton—her reminder, to the supposed Dandy Chater, of his promise
to marry her—the mysterious appointment made, for that same night, in
the wood behind the mill; all these things seemed to point to but one
conclusion. Again, the man running, as for his life, to catch the
train—and without the girl; her disappearance, from that hour; all
these things, too, pointed, with unerring finger, to the common sordid
story, ending, in an hour of desperation, in the blow which should rid
the man of his burden.
These thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind, even in the few
seconds which elapsed after the other man’s halting declaration, and
while that other man still crouched at his feet. Then, the instinct of
self-preservation—the desire, and the necessity, to hide that
blood-stained thing, which seemed to point to him—innocent though he
was—as surely in death as it would have pointed in life—swept over
him. He caught the lad by the arm, and dragged him to his feet; the
while his mind was fiercely working, in a wild attempt to settle some
plan of action. Even in that hour of danger, a keen remembrance of the
part he still had to play was full upon him; in his brutal roughness of
voice, when he spoke, he played that part of Dandy Chater, as he
imagined Dandy Chater would have played it himself.
“Get up, you fool!” he cried, roughly. “Is this a time to be snivelling
here? Suppose she is dead—it was an accident.”
Harry sadly but doggedly shook his head. “You won’t find many to
believe that, Master Dandy,” he said. “She lies there—stabbed in the
breast. There is a trail of blood for some yards; she must have tried
to crawl away—and have bled to death. Master Dandy, can’t you see that
she will be found; can’t you guess what they will say, and whom they
will question first? All the village has linked your names, for months
past.”
“She—it must be hidden,” whispered Philip, weakly. “God—man”—he
cried, with a sudden burst of petulant anger—“why do you stand staring
like that? It may be found at any moment; it may have been found before
this!”
“There’s no help for it, Master Dandy,” replied the other, with a
groan—“it must be found, sooner or later. I tell you, you must get
away—beyond seas, if possible.”
“And draw suspicion on myself at once!” exclaimed Philip. Then, some of
the real Philip Chater coming to the surface, and sweeping aside the
false personality under which he lived, he added, hurriedly—“But you
must have nothing to do with it, Harry; we mustn’t get you into
trouble. No—I’ll take the thing in my own hands, and in my own
fashion. 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 getting
out of it, Master Dandy.”
“A way of getting out of it!” muttered Philip to himself, as he watched
the retreating figure of his servant. “There seems but small chance of
that. 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 Dandy
Chater. And I cannot speak, because the real Dandy Chater is gone, and
I 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 something
with the body, urged him to see it. But, here again, the bitterness and
the strangeness of his position came strongly upon him; for, though he
stood in deadly peril of being charged with the murder of this girl, he
was actually ignorant of the spot where her body lay. He shuddered at
the thought that he might stumble upon it, at any step he took. Still
casting about in his mind for the best method of finding the place, he
went 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 no
appetite—unless I were a hardened villain indeed. Being innocent, I’ll
make the best of things, until they come to the worst.”
With this wise resolution, he dined well, and drank an excellent bottle
of wine. The world beginning to look a little better, in direct
consequence, he lit a cigar, and put the matter philosophically before
himself.
“Men have been hung, I know, on slighter evidence than that which
connects me with the dead girl. Yet, after all”—he derived very
considerable satisfaction from the remembrance of this point—“I am not
Dandy Chater—and never was. If I can only as readily persuade people
that 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 what
the danger of discovery is, and exactly where I stand, before I do
anything else. Then—if there is nothing for it but flight, the
question 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 his
ignorance of the neighbourhood, he rang the bell, and requested that
Harry might be sent to him. In a few moments, the servant who had
answered 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 be
somewhere 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 to
me when he returns.”
The man withdrew, leaving Philip Chater in an uneasy frame of mind. He
saw at once that, great as this lad’s devotion might be to Dandy
Chater, he had already, in a moment of passion, defied his master. He
was scarcely more than a boy—and in that boy’s hands hung the life of
Philip Chater. That he should have gone out, in this fashion, without a
word, was a circumstance suspicious enough at any time; that he should
have done so now, was alarming in the extreme to the man who dreaded
every moment to hear unaccustomed sounds in the house, which should
denote that the secret of the wood was a secret no longer, and that men
had 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 to
me—perhaps only a matter of minutes. Come—what shall I do with the
time?”
A certain recklessness was upon the man—the recklessness which will
make a man laugh sometimes, in the certain approach of death. With that
feeling, too, came a softer one; in that hour of difficulty and danger,
he turned, as it were instinctively, towards the woman who had kissed
him—the woman who had whispered that she loved him. In his bitter
loneliness, as has been said, his thoughts had turned to her, more
often than was good for his peace of mind; and now a longing, greater
than he could master, came upon him, to touch her hand—perhaps, by
great good fortune, her lips—once again.
“Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not been
so much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throw
it churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweet
girl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yours
is coming to see you.”
With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece of
paper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by which
he should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that it
was 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 very
clearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to the
place he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, and
rambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in the hedge
which surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction of
certain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which the
warm glow of lamps and fires was shining.
But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and from
out the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For a
moment, 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 his
gladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes giving
him welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her.
“Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how I
have longed to see you!”
“Not more, dear heart, than I to see you,” he replied. “But I—I have
been—been very busy; so many things have occupied my attention—so
many things have needed to—to be done. Why—what a poor lover you must
think me!”
“Indeed—no,” she said. “Only I feared—such a foolish thought, I
know—I feared that something might be wrong with you—feared that you
might be in danger. Dandy”—she was twisting a button on his coat round
and round in her fingers, and her eyes were bent down, so that he could
not see them—“you remember once a long talk we had, about—about your
cousin—Mr. Ogledon—don’t you?”
He did not, of course, remember it, for an obvious reason; but, as he
was desirous of hearing as much as possible about that gentleman, he
answered 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 very
angry with me, when last I spoke about him; you said——”
“I promise that you shall not make me angry this time—no matter what
you say about him,” broke in Philip, gently.
She raised her head quickly, and looked at him for a moment or two in
silence. “Dandy,” she said at last, looking at him strangely—“you have
never been so good to me as you are to-night; never seemed so near to
me. That old impatience of yours seems to be gone. Something has
softened you; what is it?”
“Perhaps it is my love for you, dear Madge,” he said; and indeed, he
thought then that the love of her might have softened any man.
“Do you think so?” she asked, smiling at him happily. “And you will
promise not to be angry at anything I say?”
“Most faithfully.”
“Well, then, I mistrust that man. I think a woman sees deeper into the
hearts of her fellow-creatures than a man can hope to do; perhaps it is
God’s gift to her, for her greater protection. The world is a sweet and
precious place to me—especially since we have been drawn so much more
strongly together—you and I; but I say from my heart that it would be
a better place if that man were dead.”
He looked at her in some astonishment; a rising tide of passion had
flushed 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 I
have seen that in his eyes, when you have not observed him, which has
told me that he would not hesitate to do you a mischief, if you stood
in the way of anything he desired.”
Philip Chater suddenly remembered, even in the interest he took in what
she said, that he had a part to play. Therefore, with a shrug of the
shoulders, 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 you
paint him.”
Yet, how he longed, at that time, to tell her how true he believed her
words to be! How he longed to fall at her feet, and tell her that the
man to whom her heart had been given had been unworthy of it; that he
was dead, and that another stood in his place—ready to take his place
in a yet greater sense! But he knew that that was impossible; only, in
his heart, was growing up a dreadful insane jealousy of the man who was
dead.
“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 cousin
Ogledon. See—the moon is rising—the moon that calls to lovers, all
the world over, to worship him, and swear by him. What shall I swear to
you, dear Madge?”
“Swear first of all,” she said, still with that note of anxiety in her
voice—“swear that you will have as little as possible to do with that
man. Ah—do let me speak”—this as he was about to interrupt her—“I
know, only too well, that I have reason for my anxiety. Come—if you
love 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 quite
like that newer, better self, which you promised I should see in you.
There”—she bent forward, and kissed him lightly—“that in token that
the matter is ended between us. Now—what shall we do? The moon is
rising, as you say, and I don’t want to go inside yet; Miss Vint plays
propriety, 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—and
talk.”
After pacing up and down the garden once or twice, they stopped, side
by side, at a little gate which opened from the further corner of its
somewhat limited extent; as the girl laid her hand upon it, Philip
inwardly wondered where it led. She swung it open, quite as a matter of
course, and as though that had been a favourite walk of her own and her
lover; and they passed through, into a sort of little plantation. The
moon was high, and the sky clear; their own shadows, and those of the
trees, were sharp and distinct upon the ground. Still almost in
silence, 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 you
speak—for disliking Ogledon so much.” He said it slowly, having been
at some pains to work the thing out in his mind.
“I thought we had done with the matter, and were not to speak of it
again?” 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 at
every step. So intent was he upon the girl, and so eagerly did he
listen for her answer, that he did not observe that the plantation had
changed to something of denser growth, and that the trees about them
were thick and heavy, and the ground broken and uneven.
“Yes—I suppose you have the right,” she said at last. “I always
suspected the man, Dandy—I always disliked him. But a little time
since, presuming upon a chance meeting with me, he protested—oh—you
will not remember this afterwards—will you?—he protested his love for
me, in a fashion so violent, that I have feared him ever since. He said
that the stories about you and that girl—Patience Miller——”
Do what he would, he could not repress a start—could not keep his face
wholly within control. So violent had the start been, that she had
stopped 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. “My
God—what’s that?”
In the silence of the place, as the man and the woman stood looking
into each other’s eyes, there had come, borne upon the still air, the
unmistakable thud—thud of a spade in stiff earth. A question forced
itself to the man’s lips, and found voice, quite as though some other
voice had spoken.
“Madge—in Heaven’s name—what place is this?”
She stared at him, in mingled amazement and terror; while he, for his
part, seemed to count the steady thud—thud near to them, as he might
have counted his own heart beats, if life were ebbing from him.
“What place? Dandy—you are dreaming! Surely you know that this is the
wood—the wood behind the mill—you know——”
With a cry like that of a wounded animal, Philip Chater sprang from
her, and went plunging among the trees, in the direction of that
frightful sound. He came, in a moment, upon something which brought him
to his knees, with a suppressed scream; the body of a young girl, about
whom all the earth seemed stained a dreadful crimson. Beyond that
sight, was the young lad Harry, up to his knees in a long shallow
trench, in which he was digging away like a fury. He neither heard his
master’s approach, nor glanced up for a moment.
Philip turned, and crashed back through the wood, until he reached the
woman’s side again. “Come away,” he whispered, hurriedly—“it—it is
nothing; come away—for God’s sake!”
But she broke from him, and went racing in the direction he had himself
taken, and was lost to sight in a moment. He heard, through the silence
that brooded awfully upon the place, a piercing scream; and the next
moment she came plunging headlong past him, and went, staggering
blindly, with her hands before her eyes, in the direction in which they
had walked so calmly but a few moments before.