Kitabı oku: «Tinman», sayfa 11

CHAPTER V
I Touch Disaster

I kept that watch upon the stairs until long after the house was quiet. I drew back into a recess once, when Murray Olivant and Dawkins went roaring up to their respective rooms; and again when presently Lucas Savell fumbled his trembling way up to his particular quarters. Even after that there was a great deal of noise for a time, because Dawkins and Olivant appeared to take a particular delight in shouting to each other from one room to the other as they undressed.

But presently even they were quiet, and the dreary old house seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the shadows of the night. Keeping my lonely watch there, I dreamed of all that had happened in the years that were dead; thought chiefly, too, of my own utter helplessness now. I was to have been strong and purposeful; I was to have helped those who, like myself in an earlier time, were helpless; I laughed bitterly to think how weak I was, and how little I could do. I tried to tell myself what my years were, and how I ought to be strong and lusty; and then I remembered that my hair was grey, and my face shrunken and old, and my body weak. I had thought that I could cope with the powers of position and strength and riches; and I could do nothing.

Thinking I heard a noise above, I determined at last that I would not go to bed yet; the girl seemed so absolutely alone in that great house. I knew the room in which she slept, and I presently crept up there, and lay down across her doorway, to snatch some sleep in that fashion. Even as I fell asleep I smiled to think that it might have been the old Barbara I was guarding, and not this new one, after all.

I awoke with a light on my face, and the consciousness that some one was looking down at me. I started up in a sitting posture, only half awake, and saw that the door of the room was open, and that Barbara stood there, with a candle in her hand, bending over me. Our faces were very close together when she spoke in a surprised whisper —

"Tinman! What are you doing there?"

"I did not mean that you should be disturbed," I said. "I only wanted to feel that you were safe."

"Dear kind Tinman!" she whispered, as the tears gathered in her eyes. "I have not slept at all; I have lain awake – thinking. You moved in your sleep, I think, and brushed against the door, and I wondered what it was. Come inside a moment."

She spoke in the faintest whisper, stopping every now and then to listen intently. I got slowly to my feet, and went just inside the door of the room; she closed the door, and stood there with the candle in her hand, looking at me. I remember that she looked very frail and young, with her hair falling about her shoulders.

"What am I to do, Tinman?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Indeed, I don't know," I replied. "Life is always so hard, and there are so many to make it harder for us. You did not quite trust me to-day when I spoke to you," I added regretfully, "or I might be able to speak to you more frankly."

"I do trust you," she said earnestly. "You stood between me and that brute to-night; I peeped out and saw you. I could not hear what you said; I only saw him go down again. I bless you for that, Tinman."

"You see me only as a servant," I whispered, "but I was not always like that. I want to say to you what is in my heart. Your eyes smile at me, and so I can speak with more confidence. You love this boy?"

To my surprise she was not in the least annoyed at my bluntness of speech; she blushed quickly and prettily, and nodded. "Yes," she said.

"And it is easy to see that he loves you. And you ask me what you are to do?" I went on. "Surely it is in your own hands, and in his?"

"But I would like you to tell me," she coaxed. "Of course I know in my own mind what I want to do, or I suppose I shouldn't be a woman; but one likes to hear what a friend will say about a matter like this. Tell me."

"I should advise you – both of you – to get away from this house, and to start your lives in the best sense somewhere else," I whispered earnestly. "You have no friends here – no, not even your father; he would marry you to this other man in sheer dread of him. Youth only comes to you once, child, and you must grasp it with both hands, and hold it as long as possible. Take your lives into your hands, and go away, out into the big clean world that loves lovers."

"You say just what is in my own heart, Tinman," she whispered, smiling, "and you speak as though you knew all about it."

"Oh, ever so long ago I knew something about it – and one never forgets. My life went down into the shadowy places of the world, and was wrecked and lost; I would not have yours do that."

"Why do you think so tenderly of me?" she asked.

"Because you look at me with the eyes of the woman I loved," I answered her.

"Where is she now? – what became of her?" she whispered gently.

"She's dead."

She took my rough hand, and gave it a little squeeze. I opened the door to go out, and she whispered that I had comforted her, and that now she could sleep. For a little time after that I sat outside the door, with my arms round my knees, staring into the darkness, and thinking that, after all, God had blessed me rather more than I deserved. In the grey dawn I stole up to my room at the top of the house, and lay down, dressed as I was, on the bed to snatch some further sleep.

It was late next morning when I heard Murray Olivant bawling my name, and demanding with oaths to know where I was. Somehow or other some of my dread of the man had left me; I had a power I had not before guessed at. I went to find him, and stood before him – a stronger man than he, in the sense that I was calm and silent, while he raved at me, and cursed me, and showed himself a meaner, smaller thing with every word he spluttered out. And I think he knew it, and chafed at that violence he could not repress.

"There's something I want to say to you," he said at last when he had exhausted himself a little. "You threatened me last night – actually had the audacity to threaten me, and to boast about what you had done, and what you might do again."

"I did not threaten you – and I did not boast," I said slowly. "And I only told you that I was afraid – afraid of what I might do."

"Well, that was a threat. You talked of killing a man – hinted that you might do it again. You know what I told you would happen if you gave me any trouble. I said I'd kick you into the gutter – and I'll do it. You can go to-day; get back to London, and shiver in its streets – sell matches or beg. I've done with you."

"Not yet," I replied, shaking my head. "You will not get rid of me so easily as that, Mr. Olivant."

He stared at me with a dropping jaw. "Why, what the devil do you mean?"

"I mean that you will find it better to have me with you than against you," I said. "If you wanted an ordinary servant, you should have taken an ordinary man; you have taken me, who have nothing to lose, and who troubles nothing about what he may gain. Don't you understand," I asked impatiently, "that I have stood under the shadow of the gallows, with Death beckoning; what more have I to be afraid of? If you kick me into the gutter, as you term it, I shall only rise up again, and fight against you. More than that, I might do worse; I might kill you if you gave me too much trouble."

I must say one thing for Murray Olivant; he had a sense of humour. He stared at me for a moment or two after I had finished speaking, and then sat down, and began to laugh. He laughed more and more as he let my words sink into his mind; and finally sat up and looked at me, shaking his head whimsically as he did so.

"My word! – but you're a cool one!" he exclaimed. "So you think I'm not to shake you off – eh? I'm not to have a word to say about the matter; you're to play a sort of old-man-of-the-sea to my Sindbad, are you? Well, I think I like you for it – and I think you may be more useful because you have so little to lose. Only you mustn't threaten, and you mustn't get in my way again when I've a joke afoot. We'll say no more about it; we'll forget it." He got to his feet, and went striding about the room, laughing to himself as at some excellent jest. "You might even kill me! Oh, Lord – what a man I've saddled myself with, to be sure!"

I stood still, waiting until he should have got over the fit of laughter that was upon him; I waited grimly for whatever other move might come. Presently he sidled up to me, and with his arms akimbo dug at me sideways with one elbow, and grinned into my face.

"Protector of the poor, and the weak, and the helpless – eh?" he taunted. "A sort of elderly Cupid, setting out in the world fully equipped save for the wings. Tell me, Cupid – what plot is hatching? What are they going to do – these lovers?"

"I didn't know they were lovers," I replied. "I thought you'd seen to that."

"And I have," he exclaimed, with sudden heat. "You may be sure of that. The boy may fly into tantrums, and the girl may sulk and cry – but the poor folks can't do anything. I hold the moneybags, and I can afford to let these people weep, and gnash their teeth, and cry out against me; I shall have my own way in the long run."

"You always do, you know," I reminded him slyly.

"Of course I do, Tinman," he assented. "But won't you tell me what plot's afoot, or what the simpletons think of doing? What's the game: do they kill me first, and run away together afterwards – or is old Savell to be brought to his knees – or what's the game?"

"I don't know of any game," I said. "As you have already said, the game's in your hands, and I expect you'll win it in the long run."

"Of course I shall," he cried quickly. "Only you're a devilish sly fox, and I'm rather suspicious that you may be thinking of playing tricks. For your own sake, Tinman, you'd better not."

So soon as he had dismissed me I went off to try and find Barbara. My position in the house did not make that an easy task; for she was with her father, and I had no excuse for breaking in upon them. I went into the grounds at last, in the hope that she might come out there, and that I might have a chance to speak to her. But I had to wait for a long time before she came towards me, trailing through the dead leaves dejectedly enough. I watched her out of sight of the house, and then went towards her.

She seemed glad to see me – grateful for what I had done, and eager to thank me again. I urged upon her the necessity for seeing young Millard at the earliest possible moment, and making some arrangement with him.

"I dare not go away from the house," she said, glancing at its windows through the trees. "I am watched everywhere, and I might bring fresh trouble upon you. After last night, Tinman, I am afraid to see those two men together."

I thought for a moment or two, and then turned quickly to her. "I can see him," I said, "and arrange with him what is best to be done. I'll slip down into the town and try to find him. You must get away, both of you; there is nothing else to be done." I was as eager as a boy about it; I wanted to see them running off into the world, hand in hand, to face it together.

"Go to him then," she said, "and tell him that I will do anything and everything he suggests. Only pray him, for the love of God, to let it be soon. I cannot stay much longer in this house."

I had just begun to assure her that I would slip away at the earliest opportunity when a change in her face warned me that some one was approaching us; I turned guiltily, and saw, not a dozen yards away, the man Dawkins, as smiling as ever, lighting a cigarette. I did not know where he had sprung from, nor how long he had seen us talking together; from his appearance he might have been taking an aimless stroll through the grounds, and so have lighted upon us suddenly.

"Good morning, Miss Savell," he said, ignoring me, and waving a hand to the girl. "We've been disconsolate without you – wondering what had happened to you, and all that sort of thing."

"I have been with my father," she replied hastily, making a movement towards the house. "You will not forget, Tinman," she called back to me, as though reminding me of some order she had given me.

"No, miss; I will not forget," I said. I watched her as she walked back to the house, with Dawkins strolling beside her, evidently talking airily as he waved his cigarette.

It must have been an hour after that, and I had not yet found an opportunity to get away, when Murray Olivant summoned me, and told me he was starting at once for London. I found him in a room with Dawkins – the latter was seated in an armchair, reading a newspaper and smoking; he took no notice of Olivant or of myself. Olivant, for his part, seemed worried about something; mentioned to me quite confidentially that he had decided to go to London that day, on account of some sudden business he had forgotten. He was quite cordial with me; told me to put a few things together in a bag, as he did not expect to be back that night.

I saw in a moment in this the golden opportunity for which we were all waiting. With Olivant out of the way we might do anything; for I did not reckon Dawkins in the matter at all. If I thought about him in any way, it was as an amiable fool, who had nothing to do with the matter.

I packed the bag, and then quite naturally suggested that I should carry it to the station in the town. Olivant thanked me quite cordially, and said he should be glad; and I laughed to think how easily and naturally I was going to get down into the town of Hammerstone Market, to find young Arnold Millard. I think I rather despised Murray Olivant for being so simple over the matter.

"Why don't you come with me, Dawkins?" asked Olivant at the last moment as we were starting. "There's nothing for you to do here, you know."

"No, thanks," growled the other from behind his paper. "I'm jolly comfortable."

"Oh, all right," retorted his friend. "Ring the bell if you want anything; Tinman will look after you."

We set off to walk to the station; I understood from Olivant that there was a train he would quite easily catch. I wondered what he would say when he returned from London on the following day, and discovered, as in all probability he would, that the two poor birds he was trying to crush had flown. I was quite exultant over the way things were playing into my hand; I found myself mapping out in my mind exactly what I should say to him, when on his return he should demand an explanation.

He had some ten minutes to wait when we reached the station; he lit a cigar, and began to pace up and down the platform, with his mind evidently bent on the expedition before him. I stood obediently near his bag, waiting to hand it to him when the train should arrive, and going over in my own mind how I should set about the task before me. Suddenly Olivant strolled towards me, watch in hand.

"You'd better not wait, Tinman," he said, more kindly than he had spoken yet. "It's a cold morning, and there's no necessity for you to stand about here. Thanks for carrying the bag; I can manage with it now."

"I don't mind waiting in the least," I began; but he pushed me away good-naturedly.

"Nonsense; get off with you!" he cried. "And don't forget what I told you about being watchful," he added in a lower tone, and with his hand on my shoulder. "Not one alone, mind – but everybody."

I went out of the station, and took my way down into the town. I had scarcely gone a hundred yards when I heard the whistle of the train in the distance; I stood still in the little High Street, pleasing myself with the thought of how at this moment Olivant was opening a carriage door, and now was in the carriage ready for his journey. I heard the whistle of the train again, and knew that he had started on that long journey to London, and that I was free. I laughed to myself, and turned round, and went on my way in search of Arnold Millard.

I failed to find him at the little hotel in the town; they told me there that he had gone out, and would probably not be back until much later in the day. I chafed at the delay, because I knew that time was of value, and whatever had to be done must be done before Olivant returned. While I was standing in the High Street, wondering what I should do, I felt a touch upon my arm, and turned, to see Jervis Fanshawe standing beside me. He beckoned to me mysteriously, and I followed him down a little lane which turned off from the main street of the town, and led down among some tumbledown cottages. There he stopped, and fronted me, with a nervous grin upon his face.

"Well, Brother Derelict," he said, "and how are things going with our friend? What takes Murray Olivant to London just now?"

"Business," I replied shortly. "He won't be back until to-morrow."

"And in the meantime you plot mischief – eh?" he suggested. "Oh, I know you – and I know what you mean to do – and I don't blame you. Serve the brute while it pays you, but work behind his back all the same. That's the ticket."

"I don't understand you," I replied, looking at him steadily. "I've just seen Mr. Olivant off at the station, and I'm now going back to my duties at the house."

"Exactly," he sneered, as he thrust his face into mine. "And that was the reason that you went into the George just now, and so anxiously inquired concerning the whereabouts of our young friend Millard – eh? I was in the bar at the side, and heard every word. Idiot! – why can't you be more candid with me? I only want to work with you; I'm not against you."

"I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "At all events, I mean to do whatever is in my mind solely on my own account. I'm fighting now not only for the boy, but for my own dead boyhood, away back in the past. It won't be wise of you if you attempt to stop me."

"My dear Charlie, I'd be the last to stop you," he asserted, seizing my hand and giving it a squeeze. "We work together; our interests are the same. Trust me, Charlie – you'll never regret it."

"I don't intend to trust any one," I said. Then, in an incautious moment, I added exultantly – "I mean to snatch both these young people out of the clutches of Olivant; I mean to set them free. And not you nor all the world shall prevent me."

"My dear boy, I wouldn't prevent you, even if I could. It won't be half a bad thing to do; I shall be quite pleased for you to take a rise out of Murray Olivant; I hate the man."

"Your feelings have changed somewhat too rapidly," I said. "I won't trust you, Fanshawe."

"Well, I'll help you, whether you like it or not," he said, with a laugh. "Young Millard has gone down into the woods. I followed him there not an hour ago."

I looked at the man doubtfully; I did not know what to believe. I was so utterly alone in this business of plotting and counterplotting, and I wanted so much to rely on some one for help and advice. I decided, however, that I would have nothing to do with him; with a nod I turned away.

"You'll be sorry," he called after me. "I could help you if you'd let me."

I took no notice of him; I went on my way steadily. I began even to regret that I had made that bombastic speech to him about snatching the two young people out of the clutches of Murray Olivant. I saw that there was the more need for hurry; I went on with long strides towards the wood.

After a long search I found the boy; he was making rough sketches of a part of the wood, not with any serious intention to work, I am convinced, but because he hoped that Barbara might pass that way. I stole upon him unawares; suddenly presented myself before him, and blurted out what I wanted to say.

"Mr. Millard, I have been looking for you everywhere," I said. "It is on account of Miss Barbara Savell."

He turned to me quickly. "Do you come from her?" he asked.

"Yes – and no," I faltered. "Last night, after you had gone, the man Olivant tried to insult her; I was so lucky as to be in the way – and I – I stayed near her for the rest of the night. You must take her away from that house at once."

"I'll go to the house first, and see Olivant," he exclaimed fiercely, as he began to pack up his things. "Tried to insult her, did he?" While he spoke he was savagely tugging at straps and buckles, in a violent hurry to start.

"Stop!" I entreated. "In the first place, Olivant is not there; he's gone to London."

"Are you sure?" He looked up at me quickly.

"I have seen him start myself," I assured him. "This is your opportunity; let him come back to find the bird flown. If the child were here, she would be able to explain to you so much better than I can – would be able to tell you that I am her friend and yours – fighting for you both, for a reason you will never understand. You must take her away, out of that frightful house; you must marry her – and face the world with her."

"Why – has she told you – about me?" He had got to his feet, and was looking at me curiously. "What has she told you?"

"That she loves you," I replied simply. "I that am but a poor servant – a nobody in the world – tell you this, and beg you with all the strength that is in me to take her away. She will go gladly; she will make your life what it could never be without her."

"You're a strange man," he said wonderingly. "But if she trusts you – well, so will I. What is best to be done?"

"There is another man in the house – left behind by Olivant," I replied eagerly – "and he will have his instructions, no doubt, to be on guard. If you will wait till darkness sets in, I will arrange that Miss Barbara shall slip out of the house, and meet you where you like. It must be to-night; to-morrow will be too late."

"Why could she not come earlier?" demanded the boy. "There is the rest of the day before us; surely she could slip away?"

"And be called for by her father, or watched and followed by the man Dawkins," I reminded him. "No; if she slips away after her father and Dawkins have settled down for the evening, there will be time for you to get to the junction, and get a train from there to London; she will not be missed for hours – perhaps not till the morning – and then pursuit would be useless. Give me a message to her, and I will go back at once and deliver it."

"Could you not manage to bring her to me, Tinman?" he suggested suddenly. "If they were watching, it would not do for me to come too near the house, and I do not like the thought of her wandering about in the darkness by herself."

"Yes, I could do that easily," I replied, "as Olivant is away. But you must arrange a meeting-place."

"I will be at the point on the road where the path leaves it to enter this wood," he said, after a moment's thought. "I can stand back among the trees there, and watch you coming. I will not leave that spot until you come, however late it is. The rest must be a matter of chance. If we can't reach the junction in time for the train, I'll find a cottage somewhere, and some good woman into whose hands I can put the girl. I'll write a note to her now, just to tell her that she is to put herself in your hands."

He tore a sheet of paper from his sketch-book, and rapidly wrote. "That is just to tell her that I will be waiting, and that you are to bring her to me," he said, as he folded the paper and gave it to me. "Some day, Tinman, my dear wife and I will be able to thank you. I wish I knew why you have done this."

"Perhaps some day you may know that too," I replied, as I thrust the paper into my pocket. "I shall be at the spot you mention at about eight o'clock."

I went back to the house, and was fortunate enough to find Barbara at once. She was crossing the hall, and I stopped her eagerly, and began to whisper the message, even while I fumbled clumsily in my pockets for the note.

"I've seen Mr. Millard, and he has arranged everything," I began. "You are to meet to-night at the end of the path leading into the wood – "

"Yes, I shall want you to wait at lunch, Tinman," she broke in loudly, and drawing away a little. I knew at once that we had a listener; as I bowed and turned away, I saw the man Dawkins standing in the doorway of the dining-room. He smiled with that dazzling smile of his at Barbara; transferred the smile to me when he asked me to be good enough to get him a whisky and soda. There was nothing for it but for me to turn away; I saw his eyes following me, and I knew that I dared not pass the note to the girl then. As she moved away a little, however, I went after her with a quick – "Excuse me, miss," and whispered again: "Be ready at eight at the outer gate of the grounds. I will be there to take you."

I strove during the remainder of that day to deliver up that twisted scrap of paper I had in my pocket; but I was baulked on every occasion. Now it was Savell who came suddenly upon us as I was approaching Barbara; now it was Dawkins, strolling about the house, and bringing his smile to bear suddenly round a corner. Once when I went to her room I found it empty, and I dared not leave the thing there. The day wore on, and I was counting the hours until the moment should arrive when I could meet her in the grounds.

It was more than half-past seven, and the house was very still, when I thought I heard a noise in one of the rooms above. Thinking it might be Barbara moving about, and that here was the opportunity to speak to her, I stole cautiously upstairs. The sound came from Murray Olivant's bedroom; I opened the door quickly, and walked in. Some one was standing at the further side of the room, in the dim light that came through the windows; but before I could see who it was, I felt myself seized in a powerful grip from behind, and forced to my knees. I was too surprised even to cry out; but I had a vague idea that something dreadful had happened to me and to my schemes, when the figure at the further end of the room twisted quickly round, and turned up the gas, which had been burning as a mere tiny speck of light. Then I saw that the man was Murray Olivant.

I was going to cry out in earnest then, with some vague idea of raising an alarm, when I felt a twisted cloth forced into my mouth and tied tightly behind; my arms were already secured. So I remained on my knees, helpless; I turned my head, and saw Dawkins standing beside me, smiling as delightfully as ever.

"Thank you, Dawkins," said Murray Olivant, with a nod; "that was rather neatly done. Now, will you have the goodness to run through his pockets, and see if you can find anything?"

I made a feeble attempt to struggle, but it was useless. The deft fingers of Mr. Dawkins swiftly brought to light the note that young Millard had written but a few hours before; he tossed it across to Olivant. The latter opened it slowly, and read what was written there by the light of the gas jet. Then he turned to me, and shook his head.

"Oh, you sly devil!" he said in a whisper.