Kitabı oku: «Tinman», sayfa 13

CHAPTER VII
News of the Prisoner

In some unreal dream, as it seemed, I presently found myself walking through the ruined garden in the darkness, with that shadowy figure of the woman I had loved beside me. It was a shadowy figure then, because there seemed to be nothing tangible about her; I should scarcely have been surprised if she had suddenly melted again into the shadows of the garden, and been lost to me. I found myself, broken trembling creature that I was, walking beside her fearfully, and seizing an opportunity now and then to touch her dress or her hand, to be sure that I was not dreaming. And presently it happened, happily and naturally enough, that we walked out of the place under the winter moonlight hand in hand.

I would not have you laugh at us; I would not have you think that we were old. True, I was old, in the sense that I was broken and forlorn and poor, with no one in the world to cling to, except this dear woman who had so mysteriously come back to me. So intangible had been my dreams of her at all times, that there was less of a shock to me in finding her grown older than I should have thought possible. I had pictured her always, first as being of the age I had known her as a girl, and later as having died young, and never having grown to womanhood at all. But now, as she walked beside me, I found, when I had the courage to steal a glance at her now and then, that she had the eyes of the Barbara of old, and that the face, though changed and strengthened, was only the face of the Barbara I had loved in all its lines and in all its maturer beauty. It seemed fitting, too, that we should meet like this, with the night and the silence to ourselves; fitting that we should turn naturally towards that wood in which we had met, and presently sit down there, side by side, on a fallen tree to talk. Such poor forlorn lovers we were, that I remember regretting I had no overcoat that I could put about her; and she laughing, in the way I remembered so well, and telling me that it did not matter.

My head was bare after my escape from the house by the window; I remember that she touched my grey hair softly with her hand for a moment before she began to speak.

"My dear, I came first to the prison on the day that I knew you were to be released; I had seen it mentioned in a newspaper. But I was too late; you had already gone. And I had waited so many years, in the hope that I might take your hand, and be the first to give you welcome back to the world."

"But they told me you were dead," I whispered. "They said you had – had died at sea."

"When I came to you for the last time, in that dreadful place where they were to kill you the next day, I strove hard to keep your brave words clearly before me, and to do what you had begged me to do. It was as though you had died young, and so had ended the poor broken story of our loves; so at least I told myself. I would not have you think, my dear, that I was callous; but you had lain down your life, and I could serve you best, and serve your memory best, by taking up mine as you would have had me live it. So I went away with my husband out into the world, and I strove hard to set aside all my memories, and all my hopes, and all my wishes; I was as a numbed thing, existing only, and striving to forget."

I looked into her eyes, and I held her hands; and it seemed as though the broken useless years dropped away from me, and that I sat there that night, cleansed and purified; I would not have changed places with any one in all the world. I had not a coin in my pocket, nor a friend in the world save this woman as forlorn as myself; but I would not have changed places with any man living that night.

"I heard, of course, that you were reprieved," she went on; "and although I was glad to feel that you still lived, it hurt me most to think that you, who loved the sun and the free air and the woods, were condemned to that death in life. But I strove always to keep my promise to you, and long after my child was born I lived with my husband, and took up my dull round of daily tasks. But by degrees a change came over Lucas Savell; he grew morose and distrustful, and only long afterwards did I understand what had changed him."

"What was it?" I asked.

"When my father prosecuted your guardian, Jervis Fanshawe, I think he heard something about the poor innocent love story that had been ours. I think Fanshawe poisoned his mind and I believe my father breathed something of his suspicions to Lucas Savell. From that time he began to treat me badly, with little petty acts of tyranny at first, and then with open slights and small degradations, until at last my health broke down. I think he became a little frightened, and at the urgent request of the doctors he took me away on a sea voyage with the child."

"But from that sea voyage you never returned," I reminded her.

"My dear, be patient, and listen," she urged gently. "On that long voyage it seemed to me that life, as I had once hoped to live it, came back to me; in the long watches of the night, when I could not sleep, I thought of you in your prison, and my life seemed a thing shameful and horrible. I remembered your gentleness; even in the prison garb in which I sometimes thought of you, you stood before me always as a king – strong and self-sacrificing and wonderful. Because a man had dared to speak ill of me, you had gone out, without a thought of the consequences, and struck him dead; there was no man I'd ever met who would have done half so much for me."

I thought of a boy who was even then setting out to do the same thing again; I shuddered as I sat there.

"At last one night the thing had become intolerable to me," she went on, in a whisper that grew sharp and eager as she remembered that time. "I made up my mind that I could no longer live the life I was living; I must get away somewhere, and hide myself; I must, if possible, begin again. It seemed to me, my dear, as though your sacrifice had been in vain; I must consecrate what was left of my life to you, and to the memory of you. We were in mid-ocean – but I made up my mind to escape."

"How did you do it?" I asked.

"There was a stewardess on board – a strong, stern, repressed woman, whose confidence I had gained, and who seemed to be deeply interested in me. I told her just so much of my story as was necessary; I swore to her that I could not and would not meet the man whose name I bore again. I told her that I would, if necessary, fling myself into the sea rather than endure his presence any longer. And she showed me a better and a simpler way, yet a harder way to bear."

She sat for a moment or two with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward, and evidently thinking deeply; I did not dare to interrupt her. I stole a hand into hers, and she clasped my hand between her own, and so held it while she went on talking.

"At her suggestion I left a note for my husband, telling him that I was tired of my life, and that I meant to end it; I implored him to be good to the child. I left the note in our cabin, and I stole out, when all the ship except those on watch above was asleep, and met my friend the stewardess. She took charge of me; and she locked me into a tiny second-class cabin that had before been empty. And for the remainder of that voyage she tended me, and brought me food, and kept me hidden."

"And your husband – Lucas Savell? What of him?" I asked.

"After the first shock I do not think he cared very much," she replied. "We had lived very unhappily; perhaps he saw in this a release. I was told by the stewardess that the ship was searched; but she managed to put them off the scent, as far as my hiding-place was concerned – smuggled me into her own quarters while the search was going on. When we reached the end of the voyage she lent me clothes and a heavy veil, and I walked out unnoticed among the crowd of passengers and the other crowd that had come to meet them. I landed in England a free woman, and I began again, under another name."

"And what was that other name?" I asked.

She laughed softly, and coloured like a girl. "Barbara Avaline," she replied. Then more quickly she added: "I would not have you think that I took that name merely for a whim; it was because I loved you, and because I felt that in spirit at least I belonged to you. I have lived quietly, and not unhappily; I had my memories to sustain me. The hardest part had been, of course, the giving up of little Barbara; I almost failed in my purpose once or twice – almost went back to Savell for the sake of the child. But, thank God, I was able in all those long years to get news of her; I have been near her many and many a time – poor unhappy mother that I was! – and have known that she was well. I have had to work for my living, but that has not mattered; I might have gone mad if I had not had something to do."

"And what first brought you down here?" I asked after a pause, during which it seemed as though we sat together looking into the past.

"My father had left the business to Lucas Savell, but it was never any good in his hands. It went down and down, and I knew that Savell was borrowing money anywhere and everywhere. After a time they got quite poor – Barbara and her father – and I began to see a number of people gathering about the place, just as they say birds of prey gather when a man is dying and his hours are numbered. I did not think of Savell; I thought only of Barbara and of what might happen to her. And so, in a poor futile way, I've haunted this place, and watched her – even hungered for her more than I dare say."

"Where are you living?" I asked her.

"I have a couple of rooms at a cottage on the outskirts of the town," she said, "and I do needlework for a living. I lie hidden all day, and only come out like this when the darkness has fallen. And to think that I have seen you here before, and did not guess who you were."

"I am so changed," I reminded her sadly.

"I might have known that you would steal back to the place where for an hour or two we were happy; I might have guessed that. I have seen you once or twice about the house and the grounds, and wondered a little who you were, and why I was so strongly moved at the sight of you. But we must not think any more of ourselves," she went on eagerly – "we must think of those who have grown up to take our places."

"They have grown up to take our places indeed," I said. "The new Barbara rises up in your image, to find herself hopelessly in love with a boy who may be something like myself twenty years ago; like myself, the boy has no chance, from a worldly point of view. Some strange fate has cast us up here together, like ghosts out of the past, and it is for us to help them. That will be beautiful, Barbara, because in doing that we may mend that broken love story that was our own."

"I have thought of that, too," she replied. We had risen to our feet, and she was looking at me earnestly. "I saw Barbara go away to-night with a strange man: I was watching in the garden. She went reluctantly; I heard her question him as to whether he was sure of this and that. Tell me what it meant."

"Danger for her – ruin for her, unless she can be found," I replied. Then I told her rapidly of all that had happened that night, and of the plot that was afoot. She listened eagerly, questioning me on this detail and on that, speaking especially about the boy, and what attitude he would take in the business.

"Don't you see, Barbara," I exclaimed in a whisper – "don't you understand that he sets his feet to-night absolutely in the footmarks that were mine twenty years ago?"

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly, catching at my arm.

"Barbara, I set out twenty years ago to make a man eat his words, or to kill the lie that he had told about you. To-night this boy sets out on the same errand, with a new Barbara – your child – to inspire him. She is to him as pure and precious a thing as you were to me all those years ago. If he finds the man, he will strike him down, as I struck down Gavin Hockley; he will suffer as I suffered – although they may be more merciful in his case, and may take his life. Think of it!" I cried, wringing my hands as I stood there, bareheaded, trembling and helpless in the winter night – "think of it! I can do nothing, because I have no money and no strength left; you can do nothing, because you died to the world years ago, and at the best, even though you lived, you are poor and helpless as I am. While we stand here – two poor ghosts come back out of the world that is dead – this boy and girl take up the tale, and rush straight to disaster, just as we did."

"But we have come back to save her," she exclaimed quickly. "This is no time for despair, Charlie; we have a greater power given to us than you imagine. We shall work in secret – you and I – and we shall succeed. See now" – she held my hands, and looked into my eyes, and smiled encouragingly – "you are calmer already than you have been. It seems to me that the best thing we can do is to get to London at the earliest possible moment. Barbara has been taken there – the boy has gone there; this man Murray Olivant will inevitably follow. You know where he is to be found, and we may be able to trace the boy. There is nothing to be frightened of yet, Charlie; we will fight together, because we understand so much more than these other people do."

She was so wise and calm that she seemed to give me wisdom too. I presently found myself walking beside her back towards the town; it was her intention to shelter me for the night at that tiny cottage where she lived near Hammerstone Market. She had a key to the place, and we crept in silently; she gave me some poor food she had there, and insisted that I should stretch my weary limbs on an old couch in the sitting-room for the remainder of the night.

I slept heavily, and long before dawn, as it seemed, I found her standing beside me, gently waking me. She had prepared some steaming hot coffee, and I drank it gratefully, while she sat beside me and told me what I was to do.

"This man Murray Olivant still feels that you may be useful to him," she said; "in any case, you know too much about his plans to be lightly thrown aside. I have money here that will take you to London; you will go to those rooms where Fanshawe first took you, and you will wait there for Olivant. Do you understand?"

I said that I did, and that I would do all she suggested.

"Two things you have to remember," went on the calm voice. "The first, that the boy must be prevented, at the present time at least, from meeting Olivant; I shudder to think what might happen if they met now. Persuade Olivant to get away – to hide – anything. The second is to get hold of poor Barbara, and to bring her back to her father, if by any chance we do not find young Millard. It may happen that, if Olivant is frightened of what may befall him if the boy finds him, he may throw up the game, and get out of the way; then our course is clear. But in any case, Charlie, we must not travel together. You will go first, and I will come afterwards; we can arrange some place in which to meet in London."

She knew as little about London as I did; therefore she chose the first public place she could think of for our later meeting. I was to find her on one of the seats on the north side of Trafalgar Square, just under the terrace; it was the only place we could think of in the hurry of the moment.

I found that she had thought of everything; she had even bought an old discarded brown wideawake hat from her landlady for me, and had found out at what time the earliest train started for London. With a little money in my pocket I set off eagerly enough on my mission. I felt more hopeful than I had for many days past; I somehow felt that together we must succeed.

It was cold and raw, and there was a biting wind. There were but few people on the platform, and those for the most part were market folk going to intervening stations. I looked eagerly about, wondering if by any chance Murray Olivant had made up his mind to travel so early as that; but I saw nothing of him. Evidently he was so sure of the plans he had laid that he was not going to trouble himself to turn out on such a bitter morning, or to hurry to London.

I went straight to his rooms on reaching London, only to be told by the manservant that he was not there, and was not expected; indeed, the man seemed somewhat astonished at seeing me at all. I evaded his questions, and came away; turned back to deliver a message to the effect that if Mr. Murray Olivant came to the place, the man would beg him to stay until I came again; I had news for him of vital importance. Then I went away, and roamed the streets in the bitter weather, pursued and haunted by a thousand doubts and fears. And so back again to the rooms of Murray Olivant – to see the boy Arnold Millard pacing up and down outside, and keeping watch upon them.

I seemed to see myself again, twenty years before, raging up and down the pavement of Lincoln's Inn Fields, waiting for the man I was to kill!

I was afraid to go to him, or to let him know that I was there, because I feared lest he might think I was on the side of the enemy, fighting against him and the girl. And yet I was afraid, too, that Murray Olivant might at any moment come swinging into the street, and find himself face to face with the boy who had sworn to kill him. Keeping that borrowed hat well down over my brows, I set about to find Olivant, guessing pretty well which way he would come. I went to the end of the street, and presently saw a cab driving fast in the direction of Olivant's rooms; in the cab was the man I sought.

I ran along beside it, and called to Olivant excitedly. He threw up the trap in the roof, and told the man to stop; leaned out over the apron to speak to me.

"Hullo, friend Tinman," he said genially, "where have you sprung from? And who let you loose from the house?"

"There's danger – great danger," I panted, standing on the step of the cab and whispering to him. "Everything has come out; young Mr. Millard is waiting there up the street – has been waiting there for hours."

"Well – what of it?" he asked; but I thought his face went suddenly pale.

"He swears that he will kill you, and he means to do it," I said.

Something of my own excitement seemed to communicate itself to Olivant; he became suddenly serious. Thrusting open the doors of the cab, he caught up the bag that was beside him on the seat, and got out. He paid the cabman, and then handed me the bag. "Come along," he said quickly; "there's another way into the place down this side street. We can't stand talking here."

So we gained his rooms in that secret fashion; and the moment we entered the manservant began to explain to him that Mr. Arnold Millard had called, and would call again. Olivant cut him short quickly. "There – that'll do; I know all about it," he said. "Understand that no one is to be admitted; I have not yet returned from the country. Any one who comes can leave a message."

He seemed curiously perturbed, I thought; he did not even refer at first to my own escape, or to the fact of my being in London so strangely. He went to a window, and pulled aside a curtain, and looked out; turned away with an exclamation, and looked at me. "How long has he been there?" he demanded.

"As I have told you – some hours," I said.

He went to the sideboard, and poured some neat spirits into a glass, and drained it. Then he came back to me, and, after a moment's hesitation, began to question me.

"Now, in the first place, how did he connect me with the business?"

"I told him," I replied simply. "I had to tell him – I meant to tell him, for the sake of the girl."

"Well, Mr. Facing-Both-Ways, then what brings you here? You tell the boy where to find me, and then come skulking with your tail between your legs to warn me. I don't understand it."

"I wanted to save the girl," I answered fearlessly. "Don't you understand that he was to wait in a certain place, until I came to him, bringing the girl; he would have waited there for a time, and then have come to the house to find me? And don't you understand," I cried passionately, "that I'm not fighting for you now, but for him?"

He turned to me quickly; looked at me curiously. "Fighting for him?"

In the tense stillness of the room, as we looked into each other's eyes, it almost seemed to me that I could hear the echoing footsteps of the boy pacing up and down outside – waiting, with murder in his heart. My own heart was beating madly; I could scarcely get out the words I uttered.

"Yes – fighting for him," I whispered – "won't you understand that? Twenty years ago a man like you wronged a woman with his tongue, and died because of that wrong. A boy – just such another as the boy who walks up and down outside there now – struck him dead, and stood under the gallows for his crime. I was that boy; and he who waits below is but myself, come back to life to do what I did. I am not fighting for you – you are nothing; I am here to-night to save the boy from my fate. For as there is a God above us, he is here to kill you!"

He looked at me steadily for a moment or two, and then turned away. I saw him pull his handkerchief from the sleeve of his coat, and pass it once across his forehead, and then rub his hands with it hard, as though they were wet. Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, he came back to me, and looked at me steadily. His eyes were very bright – brighter and darker in contrast with the pallor of his face.

"You're not lying to me?" he demanded, in a whisper.

"I am not lying."

"And I suppose it doesn't happen by chance that you and this brother of mine are in league – and that you are to terrorize me, and find out about the girl – eh?"

"Don't you think in that case he would have come to you and made his threat in person?" I asked quickly.

"Yes, I suppose he would," he admitted. "In any case, I have to thank you for this; if you'd have held your tongue, he might have thought that the girl had run away, or that she wanted nothing more to do with him; he might never have connected me with the matter at all. And now, having caught me here like a rat in a trap, I suppose you think you can force me to do something, out of fear? Well, you won't do that; because in this unequal world it's the rich man that always scores in the long run. That poor beggar cooling his heels on the pavement outside may threaten as he likes; I am safe enough. But I wish I'd tied you up a little more securely, my friend," he added viciously.

"You can get out of this difficulty in a moment," I reminded him. "Say where the girl is, and produce her to this boy unharmed, and you are safe."

"No!" he exclaimed violently. "I'll not be threatened by him – I'll not be forced to do anything against my will. I can snap my fingers at him. Besides," he added with a grin, "there's another reason. I don't myself know where the girl is."

"But you sent her away with the man Dawkins," I exclaimed quickly.

"Who was to bring her to London, and to let me know where she was. And I haven't heard yet."

Even as he spoke I heard a sharp double knock at the outer door. I think for a moment Olivant imagined that this was but a ruse on the part of the boy to get in; I saw him move quickly to the further end of the room. But a moment later the manservant came in with a small salver on which lay a letter. Olivant, with almost a sigh of relief, picked it up and turned it over.

"Talk of the devil," he muttered with a laugh, and tore it open.

He seemed to read the thing through twice; and as he read his face grew harder and harder. Finally he turned to me, and spoke quietly, with something of the air of a man who is driven into a corner, but has set his back against the wall, and means to fight.

"This is from friend Dawkins," he said. "He tells me that he has brought the girl to London, and has put her in safe hands; he thinks, however, that he should have something for his trouble." He broke off, and turned to the letter. "'I am not a rich man,'" he read, "'and a small matter of five hundred pounds would be extremely useful to me just now. Didn't I mention this last night? Under the circumstances, and for the sake of the young lady, I think it better that you should know that I want this sum in exchange for her address. She's a dear girl, and quite worth it.'" He banged the letter savagely with his fist, and began to pace about the room, muttering to himself. "First one and then another – this threat and that; what do you all think I'm made of? So this dog thinks he'll hold the girl to ransom, does he? Sends me an address to which letters are to be forwarded." He suddenly strode to the door, and opened it.

"What are you going to do?" I asked quickly.

"I'm going out to face them – this fellow who threatens my life, and this other who threatens my pocket. I won't skulk like a dog here, and let them think I'm afraid of them."

I caught his arm, and strove to draw him back into the room. "Don't do that!" I pleaded – "don't do that!"

He came back into the room, and closed the door; suddenly he began to laugh in a grim fashion, as though he rather enjoyed the situation. "If I had anybody in whom I could put any confidence," he said, "I'd cheat them both yet. But you're not fighting for me – and you may be against me. If Fanshawe were here, I might be able to do something; Fanshawe's got a sort of deadly hatred of this girl that would carry him to any lengths. I wonder what is best to be done?"

Whatever he decided to do then he kept to himself; after pacing about the room for a time he told me I could go, and that if I came back to him on the following day he might have news for me. His last words to me as I left him were characteristic of the man.

"I'll beat you all yet – and I'll win my game!" he said.

In the grey of a winter twilight I found Barbara Savell – that older Barbara who had belonged to my life – pacing about at the north side of Trafalgar Square. We met – she full of eagerness and anxiety, I dejectedly enough. I told her that I had failed, but that I had hopes that I might yet find that other Barbara. She told me that she had secured a little lodging in a humble quarter, and told me where it was; I walked with her to it, and left her there for the night. Then, because I did not know what else to do, I went off to that place in which I had stayed before with Jervis Fanshawe – that shabby room in a shabby house near the river. I was worn out and miserable when I knocked at the door, and was admitted by the girl Moggs.

"'Ullo!" she exclaimed, her face expanding in a grin – "so you've come back, 'ave yer? The other party 'asn't bin 'ere fer days an' days; but I fink 'e's expected."

"Why do you think that?" I asked carelessly.

"'Cos there's some one waitin' for 'im – pleasant sort o' gent, wiv a smile that does yer 'eart good to see. Real genel'man, mind you," she added, with a confident nod.

"Has he told you his name?" I asked, in a whisper.

"Yus. Name o' Dawkins," she replied.

I went scrambling and stumbling up the stairs; behind me as I ran I heard the girl Moggs calling to me, but I paid no heed.