A CHASE IN THE DARK
Not daring to say a word in explanation to the Captain or Mrs. Quist,
Clara went out that night, when darkness had fallen, and waited near
the prison. Fortunately, it stood in a quiet spot—not much frequented
after nightfall; she found a convenient arched doorway, from which she
could watch the building unseen.
On the first night, nothing happened; the moon was set high in flying
clouds, and the night was very still; now and then, she heard the
passing feet of a pedestrian, crossing the end of the street in which
she stood; once, a man went along on the opposite side, under the high
walls, whistling—but did not see her. Mrs. Quist, having provided her
with a key, in her trustfulness of heart, the girl lingered until a
very late hour, and until the last footstep had died away. But still
there was nothing.
On the second night, with a growing hope, she waited again—wishing,
with all the strength of her love, that her eyes might pierce the heavy
walls, and discover what the prisoner was doing. She had almost given
up hoping for anything, and was preparing to return home to her
lodging, when a curious sound broke upon her ear, and she started
forward out of the gateway, keenly watchful.
She had heard a quick light thud upon the pavement, and then the rapid
feet of some one running. Almost before she had had time to collect her
thoughts, or to decide whether to hide again, or show herself, a figure
dashed straight towards her, down the street, in the shadow of the
wall. Some instinct causing her to spring out, the figure stopped,
drawn straight up against the wall, and then slowly crossed towards
her. The next moment her hands were in those of Philip Chater.
She had time, before he spoke, to notice that the hands which held hers
were cut and bleeding; that he panted heavily, as though after some
terrible exertion; and that he was covered with dust and lime-wash, and
was hatless.
“Show me the way,” he panted. “Hide me somewhere—quick!”
She hurried on with him, while he crouched in the shadow of the houses,
so that her figure might cover him as much as possible. They had
scarcely more than a hundred yards to go, before she put her key
swiftly in the lock of a door—drew him through, and shut it behind
her. Bidding him, in a whisper, wait where he was, in the darkness of
the passage, she softly opened the door of a lighted room, and went in.
Now it happened that evening, that Captain Peter Quist was in a great
state of excitement. He had completed, that very day, the purchase of
an absolutely ideal circus; a circus in full working order, the
proprietor of which was only anxious to pass it into the hands of its
new owner, and retire into private life. The delighted Captain had
discovered that his new property consisted of three or four well-fitted
caravans—a few small tents, together with one huge one for the
accommodation of his audiences—and some waggons, with the necessary
fittings for the concern. Horses—performing and otherwise—there were
in abundance; and the Captain had already been assured that the male
and female staff was only too ready to accept service under him. And
the proprietor, having expressed a desire that Quist should see the
show in working order, and be initiated into its mysteries gradually,
the Captain, at the very moment of Clara’s entrance into the room, was
busily engaged in packing a few articles which he considered proper and
appropriate to his new standing in life.
The chief of these articles consisted of a high and very glossy silk
hat, which was at that moment perched upon the Captain’s head; and a
pair of Wellington boots, as glossy in appearance as the hat, and into
which the Captain was struggling. Indeed, he had just got them on, and
was very red in the face from his exertions, when Clara darted in.
Before she had had time to utter a word, Mrs. Quist—who had been
regarding her lord and master with an expression half of admiration,
half of contempt—turned towards Clara, with a view to relieving her
feelings.
“Look at ’im, Miss,” she exclaimed, extending a hand towards the
Captain, who had got on to his legs, and was swaggering about the
little parlour—“did you ever see sich a figger in all yer born days?
Do yer think I’d ever ’ave led _that_ to the altar—if I’d knowed wot
’e was a comin’ to in ’is old days? Begin at the top”—she indicated
the Captain’s hat—“an’ ’e’s fit fer ’Igh Park, or a drorin’-room; come
to ’is middle”—the indignant woman indicated the Captain’s seafaring
blue coat—“an’ ’e’s a decent man an’ a sailor; look at ’is legs (if so
be as you’ll excuse sich a remark, Miss)—an’ ’e might be a coachman
out o’ work, or the bottom ’arf of a French Markiss. ’Im in a circus;
w’y ’e don’t know no more about ’osses than a bluebottle!”
“’Old ’ard, my dear—’old ’ard,” remonstrated the Captain, surveying
his boots with a very proper pride—“I’m merely a livin’ up to me
character; w’y, a get-up like this ’ere ’ll even make the ’osses ’ave a
proper respect for me.” Then, observing suddenly that Clara stood, with
clasped hands, looking from him to his wife appealingly, and with tears
in her eyes, he checked himself, and came slowly towards her.
“Why, my lass,” he said, in a tone of sympathy—“wot’s wrong with yer?
You look as if you’d ’ad a fright of some kind—don’t she, Missis?”
“I want your help,” said Clara, glancing behind her towards the door.
“My friend—the unfortunate man of whom I spoke—Mr. Chater——”
The Captain immediately began to back away, in some perturbation. Mrs.
Quist, on the other hand, readily divining that something was wrong,
nodded to Clara quickly to continue what she had to say.
“Mr. Chater has—has escaped—and is here at this moment.”
Mrs. Quist darted after Clara into the little passage; the Captain,
scarcely knowing what he did, took off his hat, and held it pointed
towards the door, as though it were a weapon, and he might defend
himself with it. When, a moment later, Mrs. Quist and the girl came in,
and the Captain, looking past them, saw Philip Chater enter the room,
he immediately dived down behind the table on his knees, keeping only
his eyes above the level of it.
“Take ’im away! Don’t let ’im come near me,” he begged, in a hoarse and
trembling whisper. Then, addressing Philip in a conciliatory tone, he
added—“I never done nothink to you, ole pal, w’en you was in the
flesh—an’ all I asks is that you’ll go back w’ere you come
from—w’erever it is—an’ sleep sound. I ain’t done nothink to deserve
spooks. Go back, my lad—go back!”
Philip, despite his own danger, burst into a roar of laughter. “There’s
nothing of the ghost about me, Quist,” he said. “I think I can
understand what you mean—and presently I’ll explain everything. But,
for the moment, I am in desperate peril; I’ve broken out of the jail
here, and may be searched for at any moment. I want you to hide me.”
The Captain rose from his knees, still somewhat doubtfully, and came
slowly round the table; approached Philip in gingerly fashion; and
finally ventured to take one of his hands; squeezed it—squeezed it a
little more. Then his face broke up into smiles, and he clapped Philip
jovially on the shoulder. Remembering, however, the more serious part
of the business, he darted to the window, and drew the curtain across
it; then sat down, breathing hard, and staring at Philip with all his
might. Finally, he got up, and came to Philip again, and shook hands
with him, as though to assure himself that he was solid flesh and blood.
“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” ejaculated the Captain at last.
“You gits yerself in the river—an’ very bloated you looks, I do assure
you—you gits into jail—an’ you likewise gits out of it; an’ you
frightens a honest sailor-man (leastways—sailor-man retired;
circus-man now)—you frightens him nearly out of ’is wits. But
still—it’s good to see you again; an’, if the Missis can find us a
drain o’ something’—jist a toothful apiece—we can talk over things
comfortable-like.”
It was just at this moment, as Mrs. Quist turned smilingly to get out
bottles and glasses, that Philip discovered, to his consternation that
little Clara Siggs, who had sat down on a sofa near him, was swaying to
and fro, with a very white face, although she bravely tried to smile.
He had just time to step forward, and catch her in his arms, when she
gave a sort of gasp, and fainted dead away. Overwrought for so long,
she had given way, now that the danger seemed over, and the tension
relaxed.
Bitterly blaming himself for having exposed her to such trials, he
picked her up tenderly in his arms, and, guided by Mrs. Quist, carried
her upstairs to her room. There, being assured by that good woman that
it was nothing more serious than a sudden attack of faintness, Philip
left her in charge of the girl, and rejoined the Captain in the room
below.
“One thing I must ask you, Captain,” he said when he was seated with
that gentleman at the table—“and that is, in regard to your taking me
for a ghost. What induced you to imagine I was anything but the Philip
Crowdy whom you knew on the voyage from Australia?”
On this, the Captain, with much detail, entered into a full account of
the finding of the body of the unfortunate Dandy Chater by himself and
Cripps; and, although he did not know, of course, the name of the
latter, the description he gave, and his statement that he had seen the
little man on the night of his invasion of the upper room at “The Three
Watermen,” enabled Philip to identify the man who had been with him
when the body was found. For the first time, too, he understood the
reason for the Doctor’s consternation on meeting him in the garden of
the Cottage.
“I’m not surprised,” said Philip, “that you should have been upset at
seeing me. The body you took from the river was that of my
brother—whom I never knew in life. He was, I have every reason to
believe, murdered; at all events, I found him lying dead on the river
bank. I took his belongings; I took his place—and, by Heaven,
Captain—I’ve taken his sins too. I’ve been chased and hunted like a
dog for his sins; I’ve had the best woman in the world turn from me, as
from a leper, for his sins; and I’ve been in jail for his sins. I put
on this hideous disguise, at the whim of a moment; and now I cannot
shake it off.”
“But there’s them as would swear to you, if need be,” urged the Captain.
“Not yet,” replied Philip, hurriedly. “The time may come when I shall
be glad to declare who I really am; for the present it is impossible.
Meanwhile—what of the body you found in the river?”
“Well—I’ve kep’a eye on the papers,” replied the Captain—“an’ I’ve
read accounts of the inquest. They set it forth, clear and reg’lar, as
’ow the body ’ad bin left on the river-bank, by two parties wot was
evidently afraid of ’avin’ their names mixed up in the business; of ’ow
there was nothink on the body to show who it was—an’ the injury to the
’ead might have bin caused by barges, or anythink of that kind. Verdict
in consequence—unknown man—found drowned. And, I suppose, buried
accordin’.”
“Yes—it merely leaves me in a worse position than before. So far as
all the world knows—as all the world believes—Dandy Chater is
alive—and must stand his trial for the sins he has committed. I have
taken his place—his papers—his keys; I should be bound to confess
that I saw his body on the shore. If they did not swear that I murdered
him, they might laugh at the story, and refuse to recognise any mass of
corruption dug up out of the grave as the real Dandy Chater.”
“Then wot are you a goin’ to do?” asked the Captain, in perplexity.
“There is but one chance for me,” said Philip, thoughtfully. “I have a
suspicion that I know who the real murderer of Dandy Chater was; if I
can once see him, and force from him any confession, my way is clear.
For that purpose I escaped to-night—that purpose and another. And in
that I want you to help me.”
“There’s my ’and on it,” said the Captain, quickly. “But I don’t think
you’ll want much ’elp, Phil,” he added, with a laugh. “Any man as can
go a breakin’ jail like you, ought to be a match for most people. ’Ow
_did_ yer manage it, Phil?”
Philip laughed softly to himself. “It was rather a tough business,” he
said. “It all had to be done in a few minutes. I was left alone in a
waiting-room for a moment, in going from one part of the prison to
another. There was a sort of skylight high up—with hardly too much
room for a cat to wriggle through. But there were ropes to it, to open
and shut it—and you know what I can do when there’s a rope handy,
Quist.”
The Captain nodded darkly and rubbed his hands; contemplated his friend
with admiration and begged him to proceed.
“I nearly tore my clothes off my back, in getting through; but, once
through, there was only a roof to slide down—a yard to cross—and a
wall. Luckily I found a builder’s pole lying against it and scrambled
up that; dropped over, and found that dear girl in the street. She
brought me here.”
The more they discussed the matter, the more evident it became that
Philip must be got away before daylight. For a long time, the Captain
ruminated over the matter, wondering what to do. He suggested, from
time to time, the most absurd and impracticable disguises—even
offering to lend his precious top-boots for the occasion. But at last a
really brilliant idea suggested itself to him.
“The circus!” he exclaimed, slapping his leg with much vehemence.
“That’s the very thing! I’m a goin’ out to see them move the show,
quite early to-morrow morning’—just to see ’ow it’s done. They’ve got
to start precious early, so as to reach the town they’re a goin’ to in
time for the performance at night. Now—wishin’ to identify myself with
the business as early as possible—I’ve asked ’em to send in one of the
caravans to fetch me—so as to make a sort of percession of it. As the
show’s mine, of course they don’t mind a gratifyin’ a little weakness
like that. Now—if you can’t ’ide in a caravan—w’ere can you ’ide,
Phil?”
“It sounds like the very thing,” replied Philip. “You can drop me
quietly on the road, when we are clear of the town, and nothing need be
known of me. But what of this girl, who has been so brave and loyal to
me? I can’t leave her behind.”
“That’s easy arranged,” responded the Captain. “Let ’er stop ’ere; the
Missis ’ll be glad to give ’er shelter as long as you like; an’ you may
be sure she’s in good ’ands.”
Philip gratefully accepted the offer; and, neither of them being
disposed for sleep, they sat and talked the night away, or such part of
it as remained. Philip duly impressed upon the Captain the necessity
for preserving silence concerning the real story of Dandy
Chater—making his plea more forcible by telling the worthy man of the
difficulties he might find himself in, should it become known that he
had harboured a fugitive, or assisted him to escape.
Soon after four o’clock in the morning, wheels were heard outside, in
the quiet street, and a knock sounded at the door. The Captain—spying
out the land from the window—signalled to Philip that all was right,
and they prepared to set out. Mrs. Quist had come downstairs, and had
announced that the girl was sleeping soundly.
“Then I won’t disturb her,” said Philip. “I know that she will be well
cared for, and I am more grateful than I can express. Will you tell
her, when she wakes, that I am safe, and have gone with the Captain;
that I will find an opportunity of seeing her mother, and assuring her
that her child is safe? And now, if the Captain can lend me a cap of
some sort, I am ready.”
The Captain would have pressed his own gorgeous silk hat upon his
friend, but being dissuaded from this with some difficulty, provided
him with a cloth cap, which would be less likely to attract attention.
Then the Captain sallied out, to be sure that the coast was clear; and,
there being no one in sight, Philip took leave of Mrs. Quist, and
darted into the caravan, which moved off at once.
It was still quite dark when they got clear at last of the streets of
Chelmsford; and Philip Chater was beginning to congratulate himself
upon the fact of having got out of his difficulties so neatly, when the
man who acted as driver, and to whom the Captain must have given some
word of warning, rapped smartly on the side of the vehicle.
The Captain, who had begun to fill his pipe, and had quite settled down
to the enjoyment of his ride, popped open the little window in the side
of the caravan, and put out his head. “What’s wrong, mess-mate?” he
asked.
The man informed him rapidly that there was a gig—so far as he could
make out, judging by the twin lights—coming over the hill behind them
from the town—and evidently coming at a great rate. Indeed, in the
silence—the caravan having stopped—they could hear the swift beat of
a horse’s hoofs.
“Ask him what road we are on,” said Philip.
The Captain did so, and the man replied promptly that they were heading
towards Bamberton.
“Just where I want to go,” whispered Philip to the Captain. “Now—I
don’t want to get you into trouble, old friend—as you would most
assuredly, if I were found in your company. Therefore, you can drop me
here by the roadside, and go on without me.”
“I’m damned if I do!” said the Captain, sturdily.
“But you must,” replied Philip. “If I remain here, I shall certainly be
taken, quite apart from getting you into difficulties. On the other
hand, if I drop out in the darkness, I can lie close under a hedge
until they’ve gone by. And you, for your own satisfaction, can give
them a false direction.”
This last point appeared to settle the matter with the Captain; Philip
left him chuckling hugely to himself. Just as the caravan was beginning
to move on again and while Philip lay crouched behind a hedge, the gig
dashed up, and drew rein within hearing of him.
“Wot!” exclaimed the Captain, in a voice of apparent indignation, the
moment he heard that a prisoner was missing, and was believed to have
taken the road to Bamberton—“You don’t mean a tall clean-shaven dark
chap, without a ’at?” On being assured that that was a correct
description of the fugitive, the Captain became more indignant than
ever.
“If you goes along that ’ere road to the left, about a ’underd yards
further back—you’ll nab ’im—sure as eggs,” he exclaimed. “’E was
runnin’ like a good ’un—tol’ me ’e was a doin’ it for a wager. W’en
you ketches ’im, guv’nor—’it ’im one fer me—will yer—for a tryin’
ter deceive.”
“I should like to have a look inside your caravan,” said the man,
quietly, jumping down from the gig.
“W’y—certainly,” responded the Captain. “It’s a nice roomy place,
pervided yer don’t git yer feet in the fireplace. I’d ’ave ’ad it
painted special, if I’d knowed you was comin’.”
The man looked in at the open door of the vehicle; looked sharply at
the Captain, and at the driver; and climbed into the gig again.
“Drive on,” he said; and the gig turned back on the road it had come.
“Drive on, mess-mate,” said the Captain, climbing into the caravan.
Philip Chater, lying behind the hedge, watched the two vehicles until
they were out of sight in the darkness; then, when there seemed nothing
more to be feared, he crept out, and struck off towards Bamberton.
“What was the message?” he muttered to himself. “‘I love him—and
believe in his innocence.’ Dear girl! I’ll see you to-night—if I die
for it!”