Tinman

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.

CHAPTER VI

Love with the Veiled Face

I crouched there on the floor, with my arms securely pinioned behind me, and unable to cry out. The man Dawkins had seated himself, after making certain that he had secured me; Murray Olivant had finished his perusal of the note, and was standing tapping his lips with it, evidently deep in thought. He pulled out his watch and looked at it; slipped the watch back into his pocket, and turned again to the note. He read it aloud – with interpolations of his own.

"My Dearest (like his impudence, I must say!), —

"That good fellow Tinman (oh, you sly devil!) will tell you what I have decided to do. I will be waiting at the path that leads into the wood at about eight o'clock; you are to come with Tinman without fear (brave, sweet, kind Tinman, so very useful in a crisis!). He will bring you to me, and after that you will have nothing to trouble about. Trust me as much as I know you love me, and all will be well. Until we meet in an hour or two,

"Ever your own,"Arnold."

He twisted up the note, and came slowly across the room to where I crouched waiting. While he talked to me, in that hard deadly level voice of his, he launched a kick at me every now and then to punctuate what he said.

"You thought I was safely out of the way." – A kick. – "You meant to play me false, and send this boy flying, with love for company – eh?" – Another kick. – "You dog! – do you think you're likely to win in such a game as this, when you're fighting against me?" – Another kick more savage than the others. – "Look at him, Dawkins; see how brave he is now!"

If I could have got my hands free, I know that I should have made a fight for it, and that in my despair I might have killed or maimed one or other of the men. But I was too tightly bound to be able to move; Dawkins had most skilfully knotted a long bath towel about my elbows, so that my shoulders ached with the strain upon them. I struggled to my feet, and leant against the wall, glancing from one man to the other, and wondering what they meant to do.

"I set you to watch, my dear Tinman," said Murray Olivant between his teeth; "and the better to be sure of you, I had you watched also. You've interested yourself a little too much in regard to this young lady, who, at the present moment I expect, is waiting in the cold and the darkness for you. That's a pleasant thought, isn't it? There they stand – the pair of them; the girl, impatient to hear your footstep; the boy, shivering at the edge of the wood, waiting for you both. Think of that, Tinman; they so near together, and never by any chance to meet."

I stood there, with the sweat dropping off me, straining vainly at my bonds, and striving to work the gag loose with my teeth. Olivant laughed at my struggles; flicked the note at me, and went on derisively —

"Our friend Dawkins here gave me the tip this morning, and I decided that it might be a good idea to make you believe that you'd got the day and the night to yourself. I didn't get into the train, and my luggage is still at the station. I came back, after a decent interval, and waited for you, Tinman. Now the only thing to be decided – and we have just ten minutes in which to decide it, unless we are to keep the lady waiting in the cold – is what to do in regard to these two people, who stand so far apart, longing for you to bring them together. I can't remove your gag, Tinman, or you might shout; but I should like to know what you would do if the choice rested with you."

I stood there, enduring a torture greater than any I had endured yet. I seemed to see Arnold Millard standing at the edge of the wood, waiting and longing and hoping; saw the girl watching the house in which I was held prisoner, and miserably blaming me in her heart for having turned traitor. The two men in the room with me must have guessed what was passing in my mind; they were whispering together, and shaking with laughter.

"But you shan't go disappointed, Tinman; that wouldn't be fair," exclaimed Olivant after a pause. "You may not go yourself to meet the lady, but you shall send a letter to her; we must be polite at all costs. You shall explain that you are unavoidably detained; more than that, you shall send some one in your place. Dawkins shall take up the tale you have begun; Dawkins is quite the ladies' man at a pinch – aren't you, Dawkins?"

"I'm always for a bit of sport," exclaimed Mr. Dawkins, grinning.

Murray Olivant went across to a window, and pulled aside the curtain; he looked cautiously out into the grounds. After a moment he turned, and jerked his head, as a sign to the other man to join him.

"There she is, Dawkins – there by the gate," he said, in a low voice. "See how patiently she waits – how certain she is that the faithful Tinman will not fail her in this hour of need! You can see the moonlight on her, Dawkins – and mighty pretty she looks!"

I went across the room suddenly, and fell upon my knees before the man, and raised my face to his. I could not speak, but I tried to throw into my expression the prayer to him that was in my heart. He watched me as he might have watched some one with whom he was not concerned at all; touched the man Dawkins on the arm, to call his attention to me. Then suddenly his manner changed; he bent down and looked into my eyes, and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"You have set your puny strength against mine, and have learnt your lesson," he said. "Now you shall hear what I mean to do – you shall understand what you and the impudent dog who pretends to love her have brought upon her. I meant to marry her; that was part of the plan I had formed, if she had behaved properly and as her father wished. But her kisses have been for her lover, and for that she shall pay. I'll have her taken away to-night under false pretences – I'll drag her down through the mud; she shall crawl to my feet, and beg me to kill her for very shame of what she is. And then I'll send her back to the boy she set before me. And you, Tinman – you, my jail-bird – you will have done it!"

I knelt there in agony, praying madly and vainly that God would set me free or strike me dead. Olivant had turned to Dawkins; together they were examining the note they had found upon me.

"It's scarcely likely that she knows this fellow's writing," said Olivant, indicating me with a glance. "If you're careful you can take a note to her that will seem to come from him; you're a plausible rascal, Dawkins, and she may fall into the trap. You know where the boy's waiting; we'll tell her the plan's been changed, and she's to go in the other direction. Take her to London, and wait instructions there. Now for a little forgery in a gentle cause."

They chuckled together over the note that was to be signed with my name. It was short enough, and they brought it to me that I might hear it read.

"I am suspected, and dare not leave the house. I have had to change the plan at the last moment, but have been lucky enough to find a good friend to help you and Mr. Millard. I thought he was a friend only of Mr. Olivant, but in that I was mistaken. Trust him completely; he will take you straight to Mr. Millard. This is the only way in which it can be managed; if I left the house now I should be followed.

"Tinman."

"By Jove – that's devilish clever!" exclaimed Mr. Dawkins, looking at it in admiration. "The only thing is – I'm afraid the lady may be suspicious."

"That's quite unlikely," said Murray Olivant impatiently. "The mere fact of your carrying a note signed by Tinman shows that you must know all about the business, and you can only have known all about it from him. To London with her; I'll join you in twenty-four hours, after I've decided what to do with this fellow and with my worthy half-brother. I must tread warily, for I have two desperate men to settle accounts with." He laughed, and kicked me softly again.

Dawkins shook hands with him, and went out of the room, closing the door after him. Olivant turned the key in the door, as though he feared I might run out, bound and gagged as I was, to try to stop her; and indeed that thought had been in my mind. Then he took up his position at the window, and with a mocking smile on his face began to describe what was happening.

"She starts and turns her head, Tinman, when she hears his step," he began. "Now she comes slowly towards him; they meet, and she is listening intently. Now she reads the note; in the politest way, my dear Tinman, he has lighted a match, and is shading it with his hands while she reads. I know you're praying hard, Tinman, that she may suspect, and refuse to go; I'm praying hard that she may be fool enough to believe, and to trust herself to Dawkins. I wonder which prayer will avail?"

I was indeed praying hard, but there was no hope in my heart that my prayer would be answered. He looked again out of the window, and laughed, and nodded at me.

"She has hesitated but for a moment," he said. "They move towards the gate; he opens it for her. She looks back at the house for a moment – see, I kiss my fingers to her, although she does not know it! – now they are passing out. The gate shuts. They are gone."

He left the window, and dropped into a chair, and burst into a shout of laughter. I crouched on the floor at his feet, with my arms bound behind me, and with my head bowed on my breast.

"I know your story, Tinman," he said at last, when his mirth had subsided a little; "Fanshawe told me something of it. You were a Quixote, I believe; you killed a man because he spoke ill of a woman, or would have done her harm. Look at you now! – a broken worn-out thing, with all your bombast and bravado gone; all your threats and your heroics mere words blown away by the wind. And if you were free – what would you not do? – what doughty deeds of heroism – eh? And behold, the excellent Dawkins is on his way to London, with a trusting girl for company; behold also – I shall follow very shortly. Bow your head, Tinman, for you are indeed a ghastly failure!"

After that for a time he busied himself about the room, casting a word at me now and then over his shoulder. I had got to my feet, and was sitting dejectedly enough on a chair, thinking miserably of what I had done; I no longer felt the discomfort of the gag or the ache in my shoulders; I was past physical suffering of any kind. After what seemed a long time, Olivant went across to the door and unlocked it; stood for a moment there, looking back at me contemptuously.

"You'll be safe here for a time, Tinman," he said. "A little later I'll come and release you. I'm sorry for your young friend, shivering in the wood and waiting hopelessly; but some one had to suffer. And when I see that other friend of yours – sweet little Barbara – in London, I'll exonerate you, and explain to her that it wasn't really your fault. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Tinman, under disagreeable circumstances."

He took the key out of the lock, and transferred it to the outside of the door; then went away, locking me in. It did not seem to matter; I had failed hopelessly, and I did not mind what became of me. I had striven to do so much – had flung myself into this business with the ardour of a youth; but my youth was a thing of the past, and I was only a tired old man, easily beaten in an unequal struggle.

I sat there for a long time, picturing horribly enough to myself all that might be happening to those in whom I was interested. I saw the boy waiting among the trees, and listening for every sound that floated to him – now certain that I was coming with the girl fast along the road to him – now blaming me bitterly because by carelessness or intentionally I had betrayed him. I saw the girl, too, in the hands of the scoundrel with whom she had so willingly set off on a journey that must end in disaster; and I ground my teeth on the gag that had been forced between them, in bitter despairing rage at the man who seemed to hold us all in the hollow of his hand.

Slowly the shame and degradation of the thing seemed to drop into my soul like a subtle poison. In a world that should be fair and bright – a world made for lovers – it was horrible and unnatural to think that such a creature as Murray Olivant should triumph over love and beauty and purity. Poor sorry knight that I was, for ever tilting at such monsters as himself, I had already been worsted once in the battle, and rendered, as it seemed, for ever useless; and now again, when I would be taking up the fight with fresh vigour, I had been flung at the first encounter, and my enemy triumphed. What a poor sorry spectacle I had made of myself, and how little good I had really done!