The Second Dandy Chater

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER IV

  A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED

  The sun, shining brightly over the trim lawns which stretched beforeChater Hall, seemed to declare, deceitfully enough, the next morning,that winter was dead and buried, and spring come in full force to takeits place. Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater, as we must now callhim—waking in the unaccustomed softnesses of a great bed, andgradually opening his eyes upon the luxuries about him, awoke asgradually to a remembrance of his new position; looked at it lazily andcomfortably, as a man will who wakes from deep sleep; and then came toa full realisation of all it meant, and sat up quickly in bed.

  “Yes,” he muttered softly to himself, nodding his head as he lookedabout him—“I am bound to admit that when one has slept—or tried tosleep—for a few weeks, in a narrow berth aboard an evil-smellingsailing vessel, with a scarcity of blankets, and no pillows worthmentioning, this”—he looked round the big bed, and smiled—“this is avery decent apology for Heaven. And—such being the case—I want tostop in Paradise as long as possible.”

  He stretched out his hand, and pulled the bell-rope. In a moment ortwo, the young servant Harry made his appearance—coming softly intothe room, and regarding his master with some surprise. Philip Chater,quick to take his cue from the other’s expression, glanced carelesslyat Dandy Chater’s watch, which hung near his head.

  “Rather early, Harry? Yes—I know it is; but I’m restless this morning.I shall get dressed at once. Put me out some things—you know what Iwant; I don’t want to be bothered about it—and get my bath ready.Oh—by the way”—he called out, as the young man was moving away—“Ishall go to church.”

  The servant stopped, as though he had been shot—even came back a paceor two towards the bed. The expression of his face was such anastonished one, that Philip knew that the day, from a point of view ofgood luck, had begun very badly.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Harry, with something very like theflicker of a smile about his mouth.

  “I said,” repeated Philip Chater, slowly and emphatically, beingdetermined to brave the matter out—“that I should go to church.”

  “Very good, sir.” The young man had recovered his composure, and walkedthrough into the adjoining bath-room, after another quick glance at hismaster.

  “Ah—Dandy Chater was evidently not a professing Christian,” mutteredPhilip. “I’m half sorry now that I suggested going; but I suppose it’sbest to take the bull by the horns, and plunge among the people I shallhave to meet as rapidly as possible. Well, if they single me out as alost sheep, and call me publicly to repentance, I can’t help it. But Ishouldn’t be surprised if the living were in my gift; in which case,they may be disposed to forgive me, and treat me leniently.”

  Finding, to his satisfaction, that the clothes belonging to the lateDandy Chater fitted his successor as accurately as though made for him,Philip went down to breakfast in an improved frame of mind. Afterbreakfast, when he lounged out into the grounds, there came another ofthose little trials to his nerves, which he was destined thereafteroften to experience.

  Coming near to the stables, a dog—a fine animal of the spanielbreed—leapt out suddenly, with joyous barks, to meet him; came withina foot or two—sniffed at him suspiciously—and then fled, barkingfuriously. Turning, in some discomfiture, he came almost face to facewith the servant Harry, who was looking at him, he thought, curiously.

  “Something the matter with that beast,” said Philip, as carelessly ashe could. “Have it chained up.” Turning away, and reëntering the house,he said softly to himself—“The moral of which is: keep away from theanimals. They are wiser than the more superior beings.”

  It was with very uncomfortable sensations in his breast that PhilipChater—after discovering, in his wanderings, a small gate and pathleading direct from the grounds to the churchyard—strolled carelesslyacross, and entered the church. He had been careful to wait until thelast moment, when the slow bell had actually ceased, before venturinginside; and it was perhaps as well that he did so. Fortunately forhimself, he came face to face, just inside the porch, with an ancientman, who appeared to act as a sort of verger or beadle; and who was somuch astonished at his appearance, and stepped so hurriedly backwards,that he almost tripped himself up in the folds of his rusty black gown.But he recovered sufficiently to be able to shuffle along the church,towards the pulpit, and to pull open the door of a huge old-fashionedpew, like a small parlour, with a fireplace in it. Philip was glad tohide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himselfshut in by the ancient one.

  But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seatedhimself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a fewcracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless awareof a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When,presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, hediscovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on alevel with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedlywithdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the oppositeside of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, wasanother pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but verybeautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of thisyoung girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered intheir glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of thathigh pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, andwhat interest she had in Dandy Chater.

  Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to hisfeet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in thedirection of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fellon another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thoughtwith something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pairof eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; andthey were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was notso tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed aglance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was onewholly of defiance.

  “The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish Iknew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at thebottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”

  The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance,of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew andits single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice,on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men sostubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from thepulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.

  The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infiniteastonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, thewhispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.

  “I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craninghis neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The nextmoment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man whohad ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him tocome out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregationwaited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should havepassed out of church.

  Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater facedthat small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in hisdirection; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been,familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.

  He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat andgloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within thesame short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped fromthe pew came the most astounding event of all.

  The young girl with the kindly eyes looked full at him, as he steppedinto the aisle; hesitated a moment; and then, with a quick blushsweeping up over her face, rose to her full height—(and she was tallerthan the average of women)—and
stepped out into the aisle beside him.Quite mechanically, and scarcely knowing what he did, he offered herhis arm; and they passed slowly out of the church together, with thesilent congregation, still seated, watching them.

  Not a word was spoken by either of them, until they had almost crossedthe churchyard; glancing back over his shoulder, Philip could see thepeople emerging from the porch, and breaking up into groups, andevidently talking eagerly. And still no word had been said between thetwo chief actors in this amazing scene.

  At last, the girl turned her face towards his, (she had seemed quitecontent to walk on beside him, in silence, until this moment) andspoke. Her voice, the man thought, was as beautiful as her face.

  “Well, Dandy dear—have you nothing to say to me?”

  In a flash, light broke in upon Philip Chater. From the girl’sappearance, style of dress, and easy assurance with him, in thepresence of a church-full of people he felt that this must be theMargaret Barnshaw whose letter he had read—the letter in which shepromised to marry Dandy Chater. But, not being sure even of that, or ofanything indeed, he decided to grope his way carefully; looking at herwith a smile, he asked lightly—“What would you have me say to you?”

  She clasped her other hand on his arm, and her face suddenly grewgrave, and, as he thought, more tender even than before; her voice,too, when she spoke again, had sunk to a whisper.

  “Nothing—not a word, dear boy,” she said. “You’ve said it all so manytimes—haven’t you? And I’ve sent you back, with a heartache—oh—everso many times. But—from to-day, we’ll change all that; from to-day,we’ll begin afresh. That’s why I took your arm, before them all,to-day—to show them my right to walk beside you. Did you understandthat?”

  There was no reasonable doubt now that this was the Madge of theletter; unless the late Dandy Chater had made proposals, of a likenature, in other quarters. He answered diplomatically.

  “Yes—I think I understood that,” he said. “I—I am very grateful.”

  “Do you remember,” she went on, “what you said to me when last wemet—when I told you you should have your answer definitely? Do youremember that; or have you forgotten it, like so many other things?”

  “I said so many things, that perhaps I may have forgotten which one yourefer to.” Philip Chater felt rather proud of himself, after thisspeech.

  “You said—‘I’m going to be a stronger, better fellow than I have everbeen before; you shall find me changed from to-night; you shall findI’ll be a new man.’ Do you remember that?”

  It was a trying moment; and, for the life of him, Philip Chater foundit difficult to keep his voice quite steady, when he answered, after apause—“Yes—I remember.” For this girl, with her hands locked on hisarm, and with her eyes looking so trustfully and confidingly into his,had heard those words, of repentance, and hope, and well-meaning,however lightly said, from the lips of a man she would see no more, andwho was now washing about horribly, a disfigured thing, with the lifebeaten out of it. And the man who stood beside her, in his place—inhis very clothes—was a fraud and an impostor.

  “Did you mean it, Dandy dear? Was it true?”

  He answered from his heart, and spoke the truth, in that instance atleast. “Yes—God knows it was true,” he said.

  They had left the road, and had turned through a gate into a littlewood, which belonged, he supposed, to his own estates. Here, quitesuddenly, she stopped, and held out both her hands to him. Verygravely—and, it must be said, with a growing anxiety which matched anexpression in her own eyes—he took the hands in his, and looked, assteadily as he might, into her face.

  “Dandy—my dear boy—as friends—as man and woman—we have said somebitter things to each other—have parted in anger, more than once. Youhave been wild, I know—have made some blunders, as we all must makethem, in our poor journey here on earth. But you have sworn to me thatthose old tales, about you—you and Patience Miller—forgive me; Ipromised never to mention the subject again; but I must—I _must_—youhave told me that all that story was mere malicious gossip. As Heavenis my witness, I believed you then; but tell me once again. Tell me,”she pleaded—“that no woman need hide her face to-day, because of you;tell me that—reckless and foolish as you may have been—no livingcreature weeps to-day, because of you.”

  He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dartthrough his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to hismemory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on thenight of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater wasto have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London.But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts atrest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place,the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach ofany earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, ofcourse, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after thatmomentary pause—

  “Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he feltthat he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start ofsurprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank youfor it. I wish I could think that I deserved——”

  “Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with;haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—whoknows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhapsI’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’tbelieve a word that any one says against you—never any more!”

  With a gesture that was all womanly, and all beautiful, she leanedsuddenly forward, and kissed him on the lips. Then, as if half ashamedof what she had done, she released her hands, and, with a quickhalf-whispered—“Good-bye!”—sped away from him through the wood.

  Philip Chater stood looking after her, for a few moments, in abewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let hishead drop into his hands.

  “Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best inthe world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips,and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and theman she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to bea mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live theking!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s anotherbusiness altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and staredhopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I breakher heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up thismad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s owncheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!”

  He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the nextmoment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising hishead slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trimlittle pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neatwaist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and inthat face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in soaudacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishlyenough now.

  “Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen wasimperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“Iwant to know what you mean by it?”

  The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. PhilipChater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and,indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by ayoung lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to trythe stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, andseeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman fromwhom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might—

  “And what’s the matter with _you_?”

  The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she worepetulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed,passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and Iknow wh
y you went _there_—for the first time since you werechristened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to melast week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarfat this point—“when you kissed me.”

  Philip Chater rose hurriedly to his feet; advanced to the girl, andtook her by the shoulders. “Look here, my dear,” he said—and his voicewas really very plaintive—“if I kissed you, I’m very sorry—I mean—Iought not to have done it. In fact, there are a lot of things I’ve donein the past—and I’ve left them behind. You’re a very pretty girl—andI’m quite sure you’re a good girl; but you’d better not have anythingmore to do with me. It’s only too evident that I’m a bad lot. Ithink—in fact I’m quite sure—you’d better go home.”

  He turned away, and walked further into the wood. Looking back, aftergoing a little way, he saw her crouched down upon the ground, weepingas if her heart would break. Hastily consigning the late Dandy Chater’slove-affairs to a region where cynics assert they have their birth, heretraced his steps, and raised the girl from the ground. She was verypretty, and seemed so much a child that the man tenderly patted hershoulder, in an endeavour to comfort her.

  “There—don’t cry, little one. I know I’ve been a brute—or, at least,I suppose I have; and I——”

  “No—you haven’t,” sobbed the girl. “And please don’t mind me; you’dbetter go away; you’d better not be seen with me. He’ll kill you, if hefinds us together—he said he would.”

  “Who’ll kill me?” asked Philip, glancing round involuntarily.

  “Harry.” She was still sobbing, but he caught the name distinctly.

  “And who the deuce is Harry?”

  “As if you didn’t know! Why, Harry, of course—your servant. And he’llkeep his word, too.”