The Second Dandy Chater

If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary and disconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it is that part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of the Thames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, by anything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads and fields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, to play a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else which rises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if he happen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks more sullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, and glad to get to bed; there, the few travellers who have been so unwise, or so unfortunate, as to be left out of doors, are surly in consequence, and give but grudging greeting to any one they meet.

On just such an evening as this a solitary man, muffled to the eyes, fought a desperate battle with the various winds, something to his own discomfiture, and very much to the ruffling of his temper, on the way to the small village of Bamberton. The railway leaves off suddenly, some six miles from Bamberton, and the man who would visit that interesting spot must perforce pay for a fly at the Railway Inn, if he desire to enter the place with any ostentation, or must walk.

In the case of this particular man, he desired, for purposes of his own, to attract as little notice as possible; and was, therefore, tramping through the mud and a drizzling rain, as cheerfully as might be. He was a tall, well-built man, of about eight-and-twenty years of age; with strong, well-defined features, rendered the more so by the fact that his face was cleanly shaven; possibly from having led a solitary life, he had a habit of communing with himself.

“A cheery welcome, this, to one’s native land—to one’s native place!” he muttered, bending his head, as a fresh gust of wind and rain drove at him. “Why—if the devil himself were in league against me, and had made up his mind to oppose my coming, he couldn’t fight harder than this! ’Pon my word, it almost looks like a bad omen for you, Philip Crowdy—a devilish bad omen!”

Despite the wind and the rain and the gathering night, however, the man presently seated himself on a stone, near the roadside, and within sight of the twinkling lights of the village, as though he has something weighty on his mind, which must be thrashed out before he could proceed to his destination. Despite the wind and the rain, too, he took the matter quite good-humouredly, in putting a suppositious case to himself—even doing it with some jocularity.

“Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no getting away from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will not be welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of the respected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from that point of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and know exactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me better than daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater as possible, and observe him.”

The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment or two, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hear the sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of the village; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure but himself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet.

Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by that light, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and, although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air of grace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’s eyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite still before him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him to speak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdy spoke.

“What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.

The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too, although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces of tears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knew that he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no start of surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought she saw in him the person she wanted.

“Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touch of the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me again to-night.”

The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention of the name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time to collect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her.

“Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer! Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?”

“I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously. “You know why I can’t go. You promised to meet me to-night, in the little wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?”

“Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in this sudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—to give such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was, and what her errand might be. “What then?”

“Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a little nearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my good name—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”

How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in her eyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her, felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real Dandy Chater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have been so innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he had too much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously.

“I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I have promised,” he replied slowly.

“You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And you are going to take me to London—aren’t you?”

This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and Philip Crowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he had still much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he took it half laughingly.

“To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?”

She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon you forget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the old place—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the old place at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you say we might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thought of it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy and gratitude—and then—we are to be married!”

“There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy to himself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of the girl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, if he’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible, at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quite forgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——”

“Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man and wife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!”

“Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—I hope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to the girl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say we were to meet in the wood?”

“At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have time to walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the last train, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?”

“Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; till then—good-bye!”

He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towards the village, when the girl called piteously after him.

“Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?”

The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towards hers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was no change in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.

“That was a trial!” he muttered, when he had started again towards the village, and had left her standing in the road looking after him. “The likeness must be greater even than I suspected. Now to find Mr. Dandy Chater—or rather—to keep out of his way, until I know what his movements are.”

Coming, in the darkness, into the little village—a place consisting of one long straggling street of cottages, running up a hill—he found the road flanked on either side by a small inn. On the one side—the right hand—was the Chater Arms; on the other—the Bamberton Head. Standing between them, and looking up the long straggling street, Mr. Philip Crowdy could discern, in the distance, perched on rising ground, the outlines of a great house, with lights showing faintly here and there in its windows.

“That’s Chater Hall—evidently,” he said softly to himself. “Now the question is, where is Mr. Dandy Chater? Shall I go up to the Hall, and reconnoitre the position, or shall I try one of the inns? I think I’ll try one of the inns; if I happen to drop into the wrong one, and he’s there, I must trust to making a bolt for it; if he’s not there, I think the likeness will serve, and I may hear something which will be useful. Now, then—heads, right—tails, left!”

He spun a coin in the air—looked at it closely—returned it to his pocket—and turned to the left, into the Bamberton Head. Knowing that any sign of hesitation might mean his undoing, he thrust open a door which led into the little parlour, and boldly entered it. There were one or two men in the room, and a big surly-looking giant of a fellow, who appeared to be the landlord. The men exchanged glances which, to the man keenly watchful of every movement, seemed to be glances of surprise; the surly landlord put a hand to his forehead.

“Evenin’, Muster Chater,” said the man. “’Tain’t of’en as we sees anything o’ you this side the way, sir.”

“Wrong house,” thought Philip Crowdy. “So much the better, perhaps; I am less likely to meet the real man, until I wish to do so.” Aloud he said, with a shrug of the shoulders—“Oh—anything for a change. Bring me some brandy, it can’t be worse than that at the other shop—and it may be better.”

“A deal better, Muster Chater, take my word for ’t,” replied the landlord, hurrying away to execute the order.

During the time that the stranger sat there, and had leisure to look about him, he became aware of one unpleasant fact. He saw that, however great might be their respect for the mere position of the man they supposed him to be, there was a curious resentment at his presence, and a distrust of him personally, which was not to be disguised. When, having leisurely drunk his brandy, he left the place, to their evident relief, and came again out into the darkness of the village street, he expressed the opinion to himself, in one emphatic phrase, that Dandy Chater was a bad lot.