HAUNTED
That one thought dominated all else in the mind of Philip Chater. She
believed him innocent—and she loved him. True, the message was not for
him, in reality; it was for the man who lay in an unknown grave. But,
having taken that dead man’s place, he claimed this message also, as
belonging to him.
“I have taken the burden of his sins upon me—I am in peril of my life
on account of them,” he thought. “Surely I have the right to claim this
sweeter portion of what was his, as some leaven in the weight of my
punishment. Yes—I’ll see her first; after that, if they capture me,
I’ll go back with a light heart.”
Caution was necessary in approaching the village; for, by the time he
reached it, daylight had fully come, and the people were astir. Keeping
well on the outskirts of it, and yet in a place from which he could
easily and rapidly reach the spot he had marked out in his mind as his
destination, he came to a little copse, on the edge of some fields, and
settled himself, as comfortably as possible, in a deep dry ditch,
overhung with brambles and bushes, which completely hid him from the
sight of any one passing near. Knowing that he must wait until
nightfall, before daring to venture out, he resolved to remain in this
place, with all the patience he could muster.
He had borrowed from Captain Quist a little tobacco and a pipe; and,
after cautiously looking about him, he filled and lit this, and began
to feel more resigned to his position. From where he lay, he could see,
through the tangled growth above him, the towers and chimneys of Chater
Hall; raising his head a little he could see a path, which wound across
some slightly rising ground, and appeared to lead from the Hall down to
the road near which he lay—entry to the road from it being obtained
through a wooden gate in the high paling, which surrounded the grounds
at the point where they joined the road. The Hall being high above him,
he could see this path in its windings and twistings very clearly; and,
as it was a short cut to the village, it appeared to be used pretty
often.
It amused and interested the fugitive, lying hidden there, to watch
this path, and those who came down it; he found himself wondering idly
whether he should ever tread that path again or set foot in Chater
Hall, and under what circumstances.
Knowing nothing of the locality, Philip had not chosen his hiding place
so well as he had hoped; for presently he was startled by the noise of
wheels behind him. Rising hurriedly, he looked over a bank, sheer down
into a road below—a road not so broad as that which lay at some
distance in front of him, but broad enough for vehicles. Indeed, the
vehicle which Philip had heard had stopped immediately below him, and a
man in it was alighting. So close was it, and so immediately underneath
where he lay in the thick undergrowth, that Philip could hear
distinctly what this man said to the driver.
“I brought you this way—because I have a fancy for going up to the
Hall unannounced—just a mere whim of mine. I can get over from here.
It’ll be—ha—ha—a little surprise for them—won’t it!”
The man muttered something, which Philip could not catch; received his
fare; turned his horse’s head, and drove back the way he had come. The
man stood quite still in the road, until the vehicle was out of sight;
then began to climb the bank, which led to the place where Philip was
concealed.
At first, Philip was afraid that the man had seen him, and was coming
straight for him; he dived down, and lay flat, scarcely daring to
breathe. But the stranger, who evidently knew the place well, came on
steadily, until he stood within a few yards of the spot where Philip
crouched; then he stopped, and looked straight across at the distant
chimneys of Chater Hall. As he stood there, Philip found himself
watching the man with an eagerness greater than he would have felt at
the appearance of any chance stranger; for he knew the face of this
man. Once again, he seemed to stand at the entrance to a little court,
leading down to the river, at Woolwich; once again, to see a man dash
past him, and to catch a glimpse of a face—gone in an instant, and
seemingly forgotten—but well enough remembered now. Again, too, he
seemed to stand on the terrace at Chater Hall, on that night of the
burglary, striving to peer in through a window; to see the curtain
suddenly flung back, and the room bright with lights, and that same
face staring out at him. Small wonder that his heart beat heavily, as
he lay crouched among the bushes, looking up at the man above him.
The stranger, for his part, seemed to hesitate what to do; made a step
forward more than once, as if to go boldly across the road, and up the
path to the house before him; and as often stopped, and turned about,
and waited where he was.
Philip Chater was beginning to wonder what was to happen, and was half
resolved—in the wild hurry of the thoughts which came crowding upon
him—to spring out, and confront the man, when another figure seemed to
spring almost from the grass near at hand, and to make rapidly towards
the first comer. Philip, raising his head quickly, no sooner caught
sight of this second man, than he dropped down flat again, at the
bottom of the ditch.
It was Inspector Tokely; and that gentleman came forward with a
threatening aspect, and stopped within about a yard of the other, who
was much taller than himself.
“Mr. Ogledon, I believe,” said the Inspector, grimly; and Philip almost
jumped out of his place again, at the mention of that name.
“Well—what of it?” was the surly reply; and it almost seemed to the
listening man as though the speaker looked Tokely up and down
superciliously as he spoke.
“What of it, sir!” cried the other, fiercely. “This of it, Mr.
Ogledon—that you have insulted and maltreated the Law, as personified
in me—in _me_, sir! That I have been lured into your presence, and,
while in the execution of my duty, have been struck on a tender
spot—to wit, the head—by a debauched companion of yours, and with a
hard and heavy substance—to wit, a decanter; such assault being
committed in order to delay, frustrate, postpone, or prevent the arrest
of a certain person against whom I held a warrant. Damme, sir—what
have you to say to that?” exclaimed the little man, suddenly losing his
legal technicalities in an outburst of fury.
“I dare say you think you have cause of complaint against me”—began
the other, coolly; but Tokely burst in again, more furiously than ever.
“Cause of complaint!” he almost shrieked. “When a man—and that man an
officer of the Law—has a bump raised on his head, which compels him to
wear his hat like a giddy youth on a bank-holiday excursion, and which
prevents his lying with comfort in his bed—and the abettor of the
outrage talks about cause of complaint!—I wonder, sir, what you will
think when you occupy a cell, on account of this—eh, sir?”
“I am extremely sorry,” replied Ogledon—“very sorry indeed that you
should have been caused any inconvenience. My friend is not—not
responsible for his actions at times—and he—he mistook you for some
one else.” All this time, Ogledon was working round the Inspector, and
watching him narrowly. The Inspector, for his part, respecting the size
and apparent strength of the other, began to move away; but flung back
a taunt or two as he went.
“You shall hear from me again, sir!” cried the little man, savagely.
“You and your decanter! You may like to know that I got my prisoner,
after all.”
“To the devil with your prisoner!” cried Ogledon without looking round.
The little man stopped, although at a safe distance, and even came back
a pace or two.
“Oho!” he cried, with a vicious laugh—“I thought he was a friend of
yours? I suppose you don’t own him now—eh?”
“I certainly own no interest in any prisoners,” said the other,
glancing round at Tokely for a moment, and then turning away again.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Inspector, more loudly even than before. “Yet
you don’t mind living in his house, and knocking people about with his
decanters!”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Ogledon, with a new and
sudden interest.
The Inspector came a little nearer. “About your friend—Mr. Dandy
Chater!” With this last shot, he turned and began to walk away down the
hill.
Philip, looking out cautiously, saw the man who had been addressed as
Ogledon start, as if a blow had been struck him; hesitate for a moment,
with a face that was ghastly; and then start off at a run after Tokely.
The Inspector, who was totally unprepared for pursuit, was overtaken in
a few strides; seized; swung round; and confronted with the startled
face of the other man.
“Stop—stop—and listen to me!” cried Ogledon, wildly. “What of
this—this man—this prisoner—this”—he appeared to have some
difficulty in getting out the name from his throat—as though it stuck
there a little—“this Dandy Chater?”
“Ah—that stirs you up a bit—does it?” said Tokely, grinning. “Let me
tell you then, that your friend Mr. Dandy Chater lies at this moment in
Chelmsford Jail, awaiting his trial for murder—ah—that makes your
face turn white—eh?—murder committed in this very village.”
Ogledon had dropped his hands from the other’s shoulders, and was
staring at him, with an expression of stupid wonderment, incredulity
and deadly fear. After a moment or two, he said, in a sort of
whisper—“Then I did read of it; I haven’t merely seen the name in
every paper I’ve picked up—just in the same fashion as I have seen it
on the lips of every man I met; heard it in every wind that blew; seen
it spelled in the stars on every night-sky.” He broke off suddenly, and
looked at the other man, as if only just aware at that moment of his
presence; looked at him silently for a space; and then burst into a
peal of the most frightful laughter imaginable.
“There’s nothing like being merry, when you’ve got a chance,” said the
Inspector, savagely.
“Merry!” cried the other, with another shout of laughter. “You’d make
the dead rise from their graves, to laugh at such a jest as this!
Merry! And so you’ve got Dandy Chater safe in Chelmsford Jail—have
you? Well—keep him safe; lock and bolt and bar him in—and stop up
every chink and keyhole—or, by Heaven!—Dandy Chater may give you the
slip, my man! Dandy Chater in Chelmsford Jail!”
He burst into another frightful roar of laughter, and turned away;
while the Inspector, after looking at him oddly, for a few moments,
continued his way down the hill towards the road. Ogledon stopped in
the same spot as before, near where Philip still lay, and sat down on
the bank, above the very ditch in which the fugitive crouched, but with
his back towards him.
“My God—what does this mean?” He spoke aloud, quite unconsciously, in
the strong emotion which was upon him. “Is this some devil’s trick, to
frighten and trouble me? Or has Something come back to earth, to take
up again its old way of life, and mock me?” He stretched out one
clenched hand, and looked at it. “With this hand I struck him down; my
eyes saw him lying dead; other eyes have seen him—food for
worms—taken from the river. Yet this Thing starts up again, full of
life, the very next day; haunts the places where he was known; appears
even to me; stands out as a living fact to all men, and is even printed
about, in black and white, before my eyes. Am I going mad; is this some
distortion of the brain? Do I dream that every one talks of him, even
in a chance meeting like this a few minutes since—or what is it?”
After a time, he got up, and spoke more resolutely.
“I’ve allowed myself to think of him too much; I’ll do so no longer.
I’ve heard of men who, dwelling on one frightful vision always, grow at
last to see it in everything about them—hear it in every word that’s
uttered—until it fills every fibre of their being, like some horrible
disease, and saps their reason and their life. I’ll have no more of it;
the man is dead, and I stand in his place; let that end it.”
He turned about resolutely, and went down by the road the Inspector had
taken. After a little time, Philip, from his place of concealment, saw
him mounting the path opposite, on the way to Chater Hall.
Through the weary hours, Philip waited, crouched where he was, cramped
and stiff, until night came on, and the moon rose, in ghostly fashion,
over the hill before him. Then, very cautiously, and looking all about
him in case of surprise, he started for the Cottage.
There was a recklessness upon him, greater than any he had felt yet.
What happened after this night he scarcely seemed to care; to see that
one woman once again, and hold her in his arms, and hear from her own
lips the message she had sent him, seemed enough. Whatever Fate might
have in store for him after that did not seem to matter; this one
night, at least, he was free, and he was going to the woman he loved.
Still, with all his recklessness, he was careful not to expose himself
to any danger of capture; in a little time, he became quite an adept at
dodging behind hedges, or dropping down flat among thick undergrowth,
when any one came near him. But he reached the boundary hedge of the
garden he remembered so well at last, and crouched behind it, striving
to peer through—wondering how he should reach her, or make his
presence known.
Voices in the garden, quite near to him, struck upon his ear; voices of
a man and a woman—that of the man soft, smooth, and pleading—that of
the woman angry, contemptuous, and scornful. And he knew both voices at
once.
The two who talked in that garden in the moonlight appeared to be
further up the lawn than the spot where he was; looking eagerly in that
direction, he saw that the regularity of the trim hedge was broken by a
thick growth of small trees, whose branches swept down to the ground.
Gliding along noiselessly, he got amongst these, and lay flat, within a
few feet of the pair upon the lawn; could see them distinctly, standing
there facing each other—Ogledon and Madge Barnshaw. That they had
arrived at a crisis of some kind in their talk was evident; for Madge
stood proudly erect and defiant, looking at the man, who slashed
savagely at the grass with a cane he held.
“Will nothing move you?” Ogledon was saying, without looking up at her.
“Do you think it is nothing for me, who am no mere boy, to be the sport
of a girl—do you think it’s nothing for me to have to plead, again and
again, with you, when it is my nature to bend people to my will, and
gain what I desire by force?”
“I have told you—many, many times already—that you might as well
fling yourself against a rock, as strive to move me by any pleading.
You are a coward, in any case, to assail me like this, when I have
already told you that my heart is given to some one else——”
“Bah!—a mere girlish whim—a boy-and-girl affair, that should have
been forgotten and done with in the days of pinafores. Besides, Dandy
Chater is”—he hesitated, and seemed for a moment uncertain what to
say; turned the sentence swiftly, and asked instead, with his keen eyes
raised to her face—“By the way—where is this wonderful lover of
yours?”
There was a pause for a moment, while the listener almost held his
breath, and while Ogledon never took his eyes from her face. Then she
went a little nearer to him, and held her head more proudly still.
“In a prison—there to await his trial on a fearful charge—of which I
believe him innocent. But, though he appeared twice as black as men
paint him, and as you, his evil spirit, have tried to make him, I would
hold to him to the last; would cry, before you and all others—‘I love
him—I love him—I love him!’ Now, what think you your pleading will do
for you?”
The man had turned, and walked a step or two away; his hand had gone up
nervously to his lips. “What does it mean?” Philip heard him mutter.
“They all say it—even she says it. Go where I will, this Thing follows
me—this name is dinned into my ears.” He turned swiftly towards her.
“Why do you lie to me?” he cried harshly; “why do you repeat what every
one else repeats? Do you think to frighten me away by such——” He
stopped confusedly, and laughed. “There—I don’t know what I am saying;
I—I lose myself sometimes. I—I’m not well; I’ll come—some other
time—to see you.”
Without another word he turned quickly and hurried out of the garden
leaving the girl standing alone in the moonlight. Philip waited until
he heard the gate click, and the footsteps of the man dying away in the
distance; then he came out of his hiding-place, and spoke her name in a
whisper. She turned about swiftly, and would have cried out, but that
he caught her in his arms, and laid a hand lightly on her lips.
“Hush, dearest,” he whispered—“I have escaped from prison, to come to
you; just to look into your dear eyes—to touch your lips—to know that
all is well with you, and that you are not changed towards me. Don’t
speak for a moment; there is much that I must say to you. There is
small chance of my final escape; I must I fear inevitably be caught,
and taken back again to stand my trial.”
“But you are innocent, Dandy dear,” she whispered, hurriedly; “and you
can prove your innocence.”
“As God above is my witness, I am absolutely innocent,” he replied.
“But I cannot—I dare not prove it; some day you will understand the
reason. If I was never firm upon this matter before, I am firm from
to-night. But, if it should go hard with me, and there should be no way
of escape, I want you to promise one thing.”
“Anything—everything,” she whispered, earnestly.
“If it should come to that, and there is no other way—find the man who
was here with you just now—and ask him to tell you all he knows about
Dandy Chater. He—and he alone—can establish my innocence. But this
must only be done as a last resource. Will you promise that?”
She had begun to question him wildly and eagerly, when he suddenly
raised his hand to silence her; they both stood listening. The garden
gate had clicked again.
Philip dropped down among the shadows of the trees, and crept in
amongst them again. Across the turf came a figure, noiselessly, and
stopped before Madge, who had walked a few paces away from where Philip
lay. The figure was that of Ogledon.
“I had no intention of troubling you again—at least, to-night”—he
said, in a curiously strained voice, as though he were keeping control
of it with difficulty—“but there is something I should like to ask
you. I have been away—on the Continent—and have only returned a few
hours ago. This lover of yours and cousin of mine—this Dandy
Chater——”
“In Chelmsford Jail,” she reminded him, with a smile.
“In Chelmsford Jail. When—when did you see him last?”
She was on the point of answering, in some equivocal fashion which
should not betray the fugitive, when she stopped, struck dumb by the
expression on Ogledon’s face. He was looking past her, at something
behind; turning, she saw Philip standing bareheaded and perfectly still
in the moonlight, against the background of dark trees.
Ogledon stood for a moment, with his eyes starting, and his breath
coming and going in gasps, while Philip stood absolutely rigid; then,
with a terrible cry, he dropped forward upon his knees, and covered his
face with his hands. When he ventured to look up again, Philip had
vanished into the shadows.