Kitabı oku: «Tinman», sayfa 10

CHAPTER IV
The Coming of the Wolves

I slept but badly that night; it seemed so strange that I should be under that roof in these days of ruin and disaster – hiding, as it were, from the sight of men, and striving to plot, in my own feeble futile way, against forces that must in time inevitably overwhelm and sweep me away. I had been a poor prisoner for so many years; I was like a child in the world now, with whatever powers I had once had dulled and blunted. Passionately I desired to help this girl, who already smiled at me with the eyes of her dead mother, and whose speaking of that absurd name of mine – Tinman – was like a caress. Yet what could I do? – how could I help her or the boy she loved?

I thought, too, more than once of that shadowy figure I had seen on the terrace, hovering like a lost soul outside the house – of that face that had stared in at me from the darkness outside into the room where the father and daughter were. Unless by any chance I had been deceived, who was this woman who moved silently about the grounds at night, and what was her interest in the girl? I tried to dismiss from my mind the whole thing as a mere hallucination – a something bred of all the dreams that once had been mine in that house; but I could not shut out that face that had stared in at me. I remembered how the eyes had held mine for one long moment before I cried out; I remembered in a puzzled way that there had been something curiously familiar about them – as though that figure, too, had come out of the dreams of the past to haunt me. I remembered what the girl had said on the staircase about the ghosts in the great dreary house; I found myself sitting up in bed in the dark room, with my hands clasped round my knees, thinking about it all, and asking myself over and over again what I should do. Almost I wished myself back in my cell in prison, with the certain knowledge upon me that nothing could ever disturb me there, and that the world outside was dead. I hated the thought that I had been dragged out again into such a tangle as this.

Better resolves came with the morning; the wintry sunlight seemed to warm me, and to warm any faint resolution that was beginning to shape itself in my mind. I would be strong and watchful; I held a power here that no one suspected, because I knew so much, and had loved so strongly, and was, after all, only a poor creature with whom fate had done its worst and could do no more. Yes – I would be strong.

There was, of course, nothing for me to do, save to kill time; I was allowed to wander about as I liked. Yet there was in me an insane desire to see the girl – to watch this new Barbara that was to me the old Barbara come alive again. I hung about, foolishly enough, on the chance of seeing her – watched her when presently she went out of the house and started for a walk. She was so much to me, and I desired so strongly to watch over her, that I found myself following, perhaps with the fear that some harm might come to her, and that I might be able to prevent it.

I had meant, of course, to keep out of her way; I had not intended that she should see me. But as I was going on eagerly to turn the corner of a wall round which she had gone, I came face to face with her; she was turning back, and so had met me. I stood shamed and foolish before her.

"Tinman! Were you following me?"

I could not lie to her; I raised my eyes pleadingly to hers, and stammered that I had followed her from the house.

"But why? Were you spying upon me?" She drew herself up, and looked at me scornfully; I trembled before her like a beaten dog. "I should have remembered that you are the servant of that man," she said.

I had almost flung myself at her feet; I know that I stretched out my hands to her, and clasped them in my frantic eagerness to make her understand. "Don't think that – don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "You don't understand – and I may not tell you; but I am your friend. If I could tell you what is in this poor bruised and broken heart of mine, you would understand, and would pity me and trust me. I am your friend – and his."

"His?" She looked at me with a sudden frown of astonishment.

"The boy you love – the boy who meets you sometimes in secret – "

"Ah! you have been spying, then!" she cried, drawing away from me.

"No – no – no; indeed I have not. It was by the merest accident I saw you meet him in the woods, and no living soul knows of that but myself. If I could only make you trust me!"

She came nearer to me – looked at me closely. "Who are you, or what were you?" she asked in a whisper. "You are no servant; you speak like a gentleman. Who are you – and what have you to do with me, or – or with any one else that concerns me?"

"I am one who died long, long ago," I said to her. "If you think of me at all, think of me as some one who long ago touched such a story as yours – such a story of love and hope and faith, all broken and cast in the dust. Think of me as some one who loved – and lost what I loved; think of me as some one who, seeing you as young and fair and bright as the woman I loved, would give the very heart out of me to see you happy. As God's above me, I'm your friend!"

She looked at me in wonder, but I saw that she believed me; I think she was half inclined for a moment to confide in me. If she had done so then, much of the horror and tragedy and despair that were to come upon us both and upon others might have been averted. But I suppose she remembered that I was only Tinman, the servant of the man who had that power over her father and herself; she shook her head perplexedly, and turned away.

"You must not follow me," she said.

"I will not again," I assured her. "But you are the only creature on earth that has spoken gently to me for many, many years; I only followed you as a dog might do, to see that you were safe. Besides, you look at me out of the eyes of a woman I loved – a woman who is dead."

I turned, and went away quickly on the road back to the house. In a moment I heard her calling after me, and I turned about and faced her. "Indeed, I do trust you," she whispered, "and I know that you are my friend. Some day you may have a chance to prove that," she added.

"I pray God the time may come soon," I answered fervently, as I took her little hands in my rough ones, and raised them to my lips. It was as though I stood again on that terrace outside the house – a boy of twenty – and bowed my head over the hands of the woman I loved.

I got back to the house in time to see the boy of whom I had been speaking striding towards it. He was but a little in advance of me, and he turned his head sharply on hearing my feet crushing the dead leaves; then waited for me to come up to him. When I reached him he looked me over quickly; I remember that I longed to tell him where Barbara had gone, that he might run to overtake her. But I felt that I had plunged far enough into the story for one day.

"I haven't seen your face before," he said, not ungently. "Do you belong here?"

"Yes, sir – for the present," I replied. "My name is Tinman; I am Mr. Olivant's servant."

He looked at me frowningly for a moment, as we stood together watching each other. "Is my brother here – Mr. Olivant, I mean?"

"He comes to-day, sir, I believe," I replied.

As if in confirmation of my words, I heard the sound of wheels at that moment, and stepped back with young Millard as the fly from the station drove past us towards the house. Murray Olivant was in it; he turned for a moment, and waved a hand towards the young man; me he regarded with a scowl. Arnold Millard walked on quickly after the vehicle, and I followed. The boy was younger and quicker than I was, and he reached the house some few moments before I did. When I got to the door and passed into the hall I saw the pair of them talking – Olivant seated, with his hat on the back of his head, on an oak chest, with his long legs stretched out before him, and the boy facing him. I was obliged to pass them to go into the house; I was slipping past when Olivant called to me.

"Tinman, I want you." He turned to his brother, and spoke insolently enough. "That's the last word I have to say about the matter; I can't do anything for you at the moment. You shall have your money all in good time, but you mustn't be so deuced sudden about it. Where are you staying? I didn't know you were down here at all."

"I'm staying at the George," said the boy. "But I tell you, you must let me have some money to go on with; I'm nearly penniless. And, after all, Murray, it isn't as if it were your money; you're only holding it for me."

"I know that; I don't need reminding of my responsibilities," retorted the other. "I can't talk about it now," he added, getting up as though to put an end to the conversation. "Come up here to-night – dine here, if you like – and I'll tell you what I'm prepared to do. I can't say more than that. Will you come?"

The boy's face had flushed darkly red; there was a pleased look in his eyes. "Of course I'll come, Murray – if Mr. Savell will have me," he replied eagerly.

Murray Olivant laughed. "Oh, it's nothing to do with Mr. Savell; I do as I like in this house. Dinner at eight; we'll talk business afterwards. Now, Tinman, just come and attend to me, will you?"

He strode away up the stairs, and I meekly followed him; it did not seem at all necessary that he should be announced in that house as having arrived. He curtly told me to unpack his things; cursed me a little because I had forgotten that important duty before. While I unstrapped the luggage, and knelt beside it to take the things out, he seated himself in an easy-chair, and watched me, and asked questions. He seemed to be in a good temper, and inclined to be indulgent with me.

"Well, my faithful one, and how do you like coming back among the ghosts?" he asked. Then, as I glanced up at him with what I suppose was a scared look in my eyes, he went on gaily: "There – there – you needn't look so frightened; I won't give the game away. But tell me – what do you think of the place – and the people? – how do you like it all?"

"I have not yet had time to notice anything," I said, without looking up.

"Nonsense; you can't fool me in that fashion. You've been keenly watching everything – eager to find out all you can. What of Savell?"

"He seems much broken and changed," I replied reluctantly.

"Bah! – he's a fool – and a whining fool at that," he exclaimed violently. "He's no good to himself or any one else; he muddles himself with drink night after night; one of these days he'll go off suddenly – snuffed out like a candle in a draught. What of the others?"

"The – others?" I looked up at him stupidly.

"Well, the other, if you like," he retorted. "The child – Barbara. What of her?"

"She is very beautiful – and very sweet – and kind," I faltered, bending low over my work.

"Kind, is she?" he said, with a laugh. "So you've begun already to screw your way into her good graces, have you? That's right, Tinman; that's what you're down here for, you old rascal. Watch all she does – follow her about – pounce on any letters that may chance to come for her, and let me see them first. Spy on her, you dog – find out all about her."

I did not answer; I was glad to think that this brute could have so little knowledge of me as to suppose that I should do it. He was evidently satisfied with my silence; after a moment or two he went on talking again.

"You're going to see company, Tinman. I've got a friend coming down here to stay – man named Dawkins. He's a sly devil, and I may want him; incidentally, you can watch him too. Fanshawe also is coming."

"Jervis Fanshawe?" I looked up at him quickly in surprise.

"Yes, but not here. He'll lie low in the town; I'm going to get a lodging for him. Stirring times, Tinman – eh?"

He got up, and strode about the room, rubbing his hands and laughing; I did not dare ask what was going to happen. Presently he stopped, and faced me as I knelt beside a portmanteau. "Look up at me, Tinman, and speak the truth, if you can. You saw that young man downstairs just now?"

I nodded slowly. "I saw him coming up to the house," I replied truthfully; "he asked who I was, and whether you had arrived."

"Ever seen him before?" he demanded. "Look up at me; I want no lies."

I looked up at him, but I lied nevertheless. "Never," I replied steadily.

"The young fool thinks he's in love with the girl, and believes that she's in love with him. It's all right while he thinks so; but I don't mean to have any nonsense. He's another one to be watched, Tinman; if by any chance you should discover them meeting, or whispering together, or any such nonsense as that – let me know. Do you hear?" He kicked me softly on the leg as he asked the question.

"I hear," I replied.

"Very well then – see that you do it. And don't forget, at all times when you may be tempted to do anything against my interests, that I've taken you out of the gutter, and that I'll kick you back there again, to starve, if you don't behave yourself. I don't do dirty work myself; I employ men like you to do it for me. Understand that?" He kicked me softly again, and laughed.

"Yes, I understand," I replied.

"Good. See that you remember it," he retorted. "Understand also that in this house I do as I like, and that my word is law. Above all things, be meek and humble with me, Tinman; I want no fiery words or looks from you. Your fiery youth is gone past, and is done with."

"I know that," I said, almost in a whisper.

"Yet you killed a man once, Tinman, so I've been told," he added musingly. "It doesn't seem possible, when one looks at you now, that you had hot blood in you to that extent. What did it feel like – to kill the man?"

"I have forgotten," I told him. Yet I thought then, as I knelt and looked up at him, that it might be possible that I should know what it felt like again, if he drove me too hard or goaded me too much. The shabby garment of my slavery was slipping off me, rag by rag, and leaving me something of what I had been before; I began to be dimly afraid of myself, and to what my inborn recklessness might drive me. For I, who had died once, had no fear of any consequences. I wondered if he thought of that, or remembered it.

He put an added torture upon me that night; he made me wait at table. I don't know how it was arranged that I should do that; I only know that at the last moment I was told that I must be there to hand the dishes – above all, to stand behind his chair, and wait upon him specially. And so I stood in that room where I had once been a guest, and waited upon him and the others humbly enough.

At one end of the table sat Lucas Savell, with his trembling hands fluttering about his plate and his glass; at the other end – defiant, intolerant, insolent, – sat Murray Olivant, talking loudly, and generally dominating the occasion. At one side of the table, at his right hand, sat Barbara, and next to her the man Dawkins – a man who may best be described as one having a perpetual smile. He even seemed to smile as he ate; the most commonplace remark addressed to him was met always with that smile, which seemed indeed a part of the man. It was a smile that became absolutely slavish whenever Murray Olivant threw a word to him; but it was a veiled insolence when Lucas Savell ventured a remark.

On the other side of the table young Arnold Millard was seated, watching the girl. I saw ghosts again then, when I saw Barbara with eyes downcast, and when I watched the boy's hungry glances at her; I – the servant who waited, and was unknown in that house save to one man – saw myself watching hopelessly enough the Barbara who was dead; my heart ached for the boy, as it had ached years before for poor Charlie Avaline.

The insolence of Olivant grew as the meal progressed. I saw him once stretch out his arm, and lay a hand strongly on the hand of the girl as it rested on the table. "Now, my pretty Barbara," he said, "let's have a word from you. You shouldn't be dumb at your father's table."

"Is it my father's table?" she asked him, as she raised her white face for a moment to his.

"Oh, don't let's talk business, for the Lord's sake!" he exclaimed. "At least, you might try to cheer our friend opposite here," he went on, indicating the boy; "he's as glum as you are. What's the matter, Arnold? – are you in love?"

"I should scarcely talk about it, if I were," replied the boy, with a glance at Olivant, and another at the imprisoned hand of the girl.

"Of course you're in love," went on Olivant, still holding that little hand tightly, and glancing from one to the other across the table. "I wonder what she's like; I wonder what sort of beauty would most attract you. Come, Dawkins, let's have your opinion."

"Oh, my dear Olivant, don't ask me!" exclaimed Dawkins protestingly, and smiling more than ever. "Perhaps, if I might hazard a guess – " He glanced as he spoke at Barbara next to him.

"I think Arnold would take rather to a full-blown sort of beauty – something big and high-coloured," broke in Murray Olivant. "He'd be a bit of an amateur at the game – and I doubt if she'd have any money."

"Let go my hand!" It was the merest whisper, but I heard it as I stood behind Olivant; I saw the girl's distressed face, and I saw, too, that the boy's hand had gripped a knife beside him, and that his look was absolutely murderous. Olivant bent towards the girl as though he did not understand; looked down at the hand he held, and laughed.

"But it's such a pretty hand," he said – "belonging to a pretty Barbara. Tell me, Dawkins," he called to the other man, "hasn't one a right to hold a lady's hand if one likes?"

"Oh, surely, surely," said Mr. Dawkins. "Most certainly."

Even as the words were spoken Barbara wrenched her hand away, and sprang up; it seemed as though Olivant and the boy sprang to their feet at the same time. Barbara went quickly to her father, and whispered him for a moment, while he feebly protested; then she made towards the door. The boy sprang to the door to open it; Olivant moved quickly round the table to intercept them both.

"Here, come back, come back! What the devil – "

The door was opened, and the girl was gone; in the tense silence that had fallen upon the room I heard distinctly what Arnold Millard said, as he stood with his back to the door looking at Olivant.

"Go and sit down!" Then, as the other man still stood blusteringly before him, he made a sudden movement, and I heard the words again: "Go and sit down!"

Murray Olivant backed away from him, and got to his place at the table; sank into his chair with an uncomfortable laugh. The boy, after a moment's hesitation, came back and sat down also. I noticed that Savell's weak hands were fluttering about nervously, but he said nothing, and the meal was resumed in silence. Suddenly, however, Olivant, desiring some vent for his feelings, turned fiercely upon me who was standing looking at him.

"What the devil are you staring like that for?" he demanded ferociously. "Don't you see that my glass is empty? – can't you see that other people want wine also? What in the name of all that's wonderful do you think I keep a lout like you for?"

I went about my duties, and the man relapsed into a sulky silence. He pushed his food away from him, and began to mutter presently that he didn't know what the world was coming to, when puppies were allowed to bully their betters, and when slips of girls failed to understand what a joke was. And at last called down the length of the table to that poor master of the house, Lucas Savell.

"Come now, Mr. Savell, if you've quite finished we can adjourn. I don't want to sit here all night."

"Quite finished, Olivant, quite finished," said Savell hastily, as he rose from his chair. "Sorry there should have been any little unpleasantness – but perhaps you don't quite understand the child. She didn't mean any unkindness – " His voice trailed off, as he went muttering and mumbling from the room. At a sign from Olivant the man Dawkins followed him; Olivant remained behind with the boy. Of me he took no notice; I was but a piece of furniture in his eyes.

"Well, my friend," began Murray Olivant, setting one foot upon a chair, and leaning his arm on his raised knee – "I believe you want some money, don't you? Don't be afraid to speak; you must surely understand that I am in the best mood for giving you all you ask."

"I have asked for nothing," replied Arnold. "One thing, however, I demand."

"Hear him, Tinman; he demands something, this young jackanapes," exclaimed Olivant, turning to me, and so dragging me into the business.

"I demand that you shall behave decently to that young lady whom you insulted just now," said the boy, growing very white, but speaking very distinctly. "You dare not play the brute and the bully with men, not even when, like my unlucky self, they're poor as Job and are dependent upon you; you must bully women instead."

"Silence – you young fool!" exclaimed Olivant. "Do you think I'll be browbeaten by you? As for your money, you can wait for it until I choose to give it to you."

"There is no question of any gift; the money belongs to me by right," exclaimed the boy. "I have had to beg for every penny that I have ever had, although it has all been mine from the beginning; if I can't get it from you, I'll take some other measures – legally."

"Hear this beggar, Tinman; hear what he's going to do!" cried Olivant, pointing to the boy, but looking round at me. "It's a proper way to get what you want, that is." He took a turn or two about the room, and then came back to where Arnold was still standing. "Let's have an understanding – once for all," he said, in a changed voice. "Before you go out of this house I want you to know that this tone of yours must cease. You'll have money when I care to pay it to you; and for the future you'll keep out of my way, and out of the way of my friends. You have dared to lecture me as to how I shall behave to this pretty baggage in this house; she's nothing to you, and never will be. One of these days she's going to belong to me – by her father's wish; you'll find yourself left out in the cold. I can put up with a boy's foolish whims and tricks for a time; but I've put up with yours too long. Now you can go."

"I shall go when it suits me; this house is not yours," replied the other coolly, as he walked to the door, and opened it, and went out.

After a moment or two Murray Olivant followed him; he seemed at a loss to know what to do. I heard his voice raised presently in the room on the other side of the hall; I opened the door and listened. I was able to see out into the hall also; I saw that Lucas Savell stood at the foot of the stairs, as if he were just about to climb them, and that Olivant was speaking to him in his strident voice.

"Fetch her down, I say. I won't have her sulking upstairs. If she won't come for you, I'll come myself."

"My dear Olivant!" began Savell pleadingly; but the brutal voice broke in again quickly.

"There – no words about it; tell her she's to come down. It's an insult to me and to my guest."

Savell went slowly up the stairs, and Olivant went back into the other room. Presently, through the half-opened door, I saw Savell returning, with Barbara walking by his side; she walked stiff and straight, as her mother once had done on that very staircase, when she went out of the house for the last time with her husband. They disappeared together into that other room.

For my own part, I was in a fever of doubt and dread; I did not know what was going to happen. I knew that presently the boy must leave the house in any case; I knew, too, that that useless father would presently drink himself into a muddled condition, and so would remain, until in the small hours he contrived to crawl away to bed. And I doubted and feared the temper of Murray Olivant, as much as I doubted and feared that perpetual smile on the face of his friend Dawkins. I resolved to watch and to wait; for this night at least I was again that unhappy boy, Charlie Avaline, who had once suffered such tortures as young Arnold Millard must be suffering now.

I crept out on to the terrace, outside those lighted windows; peering in, I saw Olivant lounging at the piano, evidently talking to the girl, who was seated there; young Millard was listening to something Dawkins was saying, but was evidently paying no attention to him; his eyes were upon the two at the piano. Presently, as if he could bear it no longer, he made a movement to go; shook hands with Savell, who feebly responded, and then crossed towards Barbara. She rose to meet him, and with a courage for which I should scarcely have given her credit, walked with him towards the door. But even there Olivant interposed; took the girl by the arm, and drew her away. I saw the look in the boy's eyes, and it sunk deep into my mind, so that I did not lightly forget it.

I went back into the house, and presently made my way up towards my room. While I was yet on the stairs, a door down below me opened; peering over, I saw Barbara come out into the hall. At the same moment Murray Olivant came out also, and behind him in the doorway I saw the smiling face of Dawkins. Olivant seized the girl before she had set foot upon the stairs.

"Come, my dear, you're not going like that!" His voice was thick and unsteady as he lurched against her.

"Let me go!" she cried, in a subdued voice. "Let me go, Mr. Olivant – or shall I call my father?"

"Call him, by all means; he's not likely to hear, or to trouble much if he does hear," exclaimed Olivant. "Come, you little witch – you're only shy because Dawkins is looking on. You shall kiss me good-night at least!"

She broke away from him, and darted up the stairs. He stumbled in his blind rush after her, and she fled past me like a hare; I heard her sobbing as she went, and it seemed to set my numbed blood on fire. As he stumbled up the stairs he came suddenly face to face with me, standing looking at him. Dawkins, still grinning awkwardly, stood in the doorway below.

"Out of the way, you fool!" exclaimed Olivant, making a rush at me; but I did not move. I stood like a thing of stone, staring at him, although in my heart I was desperately afraid. Not of him – never of him for a moment; but of what I might do.

"Stand back!" I said, in a voice that was not in the least like my own. "Stand back!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, involuntarily recoiling a step.

"Stand back!" I said again. "I killed a man once; there is a dread in me that I might do it again!"

He slowly retreated down two or three steps, still looking at me; muttered something about talking to me in the morning; then stumbled down to rejoin his friend, and disappeared with him into the room. And I sat on the stairs in the darkness, shaking from head to foot, and desperately afraid of myself.