I FACE THE WORLD AGAIN
Of all that I must write of my life, as it faced me after those tragic
happenings, certain pictures rise up in my mind, not easily to be
effaced. I who write this am poor and old, yet not broken nor downcast
any more. For, by the great grace of God, I am not alone; there is one
with me, whose tender loving eyes look always at me, with no remembrance
of any defects or frailties--with no recollection of anything I may have
done that would have been so much better left undone.
Of the pictures that rise before me as I look back, the first is that of
being absolutely alone in London, with the fear of death upon me. The
fear of death--because the man Jervis Fanshawe had killed lay hidden
behind a frail wooden door, that might at any moment be broken down;
thereafter I was to expect search to be made for a certain servant named
Tinman, sometime Charles Avaline, condemned to death twenty years before
for murder.
Yet, strangely enough, that never happened. I have the memory before me
now of a day when I walked the streets, and was faced suddenly by a
newspaper placard, flaring with the announcement--"Murder of an unknown
man in Lincoln's Inn Fields." Thereafter I saw other placards--this one
startlingly vivid with a clue, this one hopeless. And I even had the
temerity to stand in a little stuffy Coroner's court, what time twelve
good men and true brought in a verdict of murder against some person or
persons unknown. More than that, I stood one bitter winter evening
beside a pauper grave in a cemetery, and knew that the newly turned
earth covered all that was mortal of Murray Olivant.
Another picture rises in my mind--so near to the other that it seems to
be part of it. I remember that on this occasion I was in a poor
eating-house in a poor neighbourhood of London; I was looking through
the columns of a newspaper that was a day or two old. A man as poor as I
was is necessarily a little behind the times; news filters through to
him slowly enough. And looking down the columns of this paper I came
across an item of news that was startling:--
"LOSS OF A BRITISH STEAMER. _Only one survivor._--The S.S.
_Eaglet_, concerning the fate of which so many rumours have been
rife of late, is now known to have gone on the rocks off Ushant,
and to have become a total wreck. The fate of the vessel would
probably never have been known, but for the fact that a sailor
was washed ashore, and after being tended by the good people
there, was able to give some particulars as to the wreck. It
appears that the vessel went on the rocks in one of those dense
fogs peculiar to that coast, and broke up within a very few
minutes. There is not the slightest doubt that this sailor,
whose name is given as Henry Howard, is the sole survivor of the
ill-fated vessel. It may be mentioned that among the passengers
was a young gentleman of fortune--a Mr. Murray Olivant--who was
travelling to the Mediterranean on a pleasure cruise."
I sat with the soiled paper in my hands; I read so much more into the
paragraph than any one else could have done. The real Murray Olivant lay
in that pauper's grave beside which I had stood, and yet was buried as a
man unknown; and here he was proclaimed as having been lost in the wreck
of the vessel on which he was supposed to have sailed. More than that;
for the hungry sea had claimed as a victim that man Jervis Fanshawe of
the haunted eyes, who had killed him, and had gone on that voyage in his
place. Justice has a long arm.
My memories after that are confused; I think I must have suffered
greatly during that winter, when I was alone and friendless in London.
In my recollections of that time there is always a great roar and rush
of traffic in my ears, and I seem always to be standing in the rain, or
with the bitter wind ruffling my garments; at other times I am crouching
over fires in small lodging houses, in the company of other forlorn
wretches--outcasts like myself. I am always hungry, and I do not seem to
understand what reason I have for living at all. And I find myself, like
some uneasy ghost that has been forgotten, wandering about old familiar
places, and going over again scenes that only I remember, and that
belong only to the past.
I find myself again in Lincoln's Inn Fields--unable now to remember
clearly where a certain Gavin Hockley is--or whether I killed him, or
someone else; wondering vaguely what he had to do with a certain Murray
Olivant who died long ago--or was he drowned at sea? I find myself--an
old man, with the rain beating upon me, and the wind driving at
me--sitting on the steps of a house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and
wondering if I dare climb the stairs, to find what is hidden behind a
locked door.
Another picture rises in my mind: I am in a great clean place of many
beds, and I am ill. They talk of want and exposure, and then try to find
out who I am, and whether I have any friends. I remember one thing, and
one only: that my name is "Tinman"; I am glad to think that I have no
friends, and that it may happen that this is the end of my poor life,
and that I may finish here in peace.
But the spring comes, and with the spring some stirring of life in my
veins. I am so much better that I surprise them all; although they
cannot understand why I refer to myself, over and over again, as "No.
145." I beg that they will call me that, because it is what I have been
for twenty years. And I ask again and again that the governor will not
send me out into a world that I have forgotten, and where I know no one.
But the spring in my blood fights for me, after all; and I am presently
free, and a little grateful, perhaps, to be able to sit in the sun, and
watch the great glad life of a great glad city all about me. And this is
the last of the pictures--for all the rest is dear reality.
I remember that, as I grew stronger, a sudden passion of longing came
upon me, and drew me inevitably to the woods and the fields I had known
so long before, in a certain summer time, and had known later with the
snow upon them, and the chill winds of winter blowing over them. The sun
warmed me to life almost as if I had renewed my youth, so that I found
myself one day--poor shabby old creature that I was--with my feet set
steadily upon the road that led to Hammerstone Market, and with my eager
eyes searching the landscape before me to catch the first glimpse of it.
I was weaker than I had imagined, and it took me nearly two days to
get to it. But I came to it at last, on a bright spring morning--came
into the familiar bustle of the little country town, with the
market-place just as it had always been, and the _George Hotel_ as
comfortable-looking as ever, with its doors thrown hospitably wide
open. I was tired and faint after my long tramp, and I found in a
corner of a pocket in my shabby clothes a sixpence. I went into the
place, and ordered some bread and cheese and ale.
There seemed some excitement about the _George_ that morning. There was
an air of every one being in their best clothes; there was a young
coachman there, in particular, who was obviously smoking an unusual
cigar, and who had a white favour fastened to the lapel of his coat.
There was another coachman also, more elderly and staid; and the two men
were talking with the landlord. I passed unnoticed--a mere shabby
stranger, taking his modest refreshment in the corner.
"Well, an' it won't be half a bad thing to see the old place livened up
a bit," the landlord was saying. "They do say that the young chap 'as
come into a tidy bit o' money since 'is 'alf-brother was drowned in that
wreck--a very tidy bit o' money indeed. Well--well--that's the way o'
the world: 'ere to day an' gorn to-morrow."
"I mind 'er mother--Lord knows 'ow many year ago, when I was a young
chap," said the elder coachman, rolling his cigar between his lips--"an'
you take my word for it, if this young lady ain't the very stuck image
of 'er. I've only got to shut my eyes, an' I can see the child now--just
so like the mother as ever was. And both of 'em with the same names,
mind you. Miss Barbara then, an' Miss Barbara now."
I listened wonderingly; I began dimly to understand. Coming a little
nearer to them, I ventured to put a question, and they answered me
respectfully enough.
"There is to be a wedding to-day?"
"There is that," exclaimed the landlord heartily. "A quiet weddin', mind
you--because you can't exactly 'ave much fuss an' flummery with the
grass not quite grown on a grave yet, can you?"
"A grave?" I faltered.
"Ah, a grave," said the landlord, glad of a chance to talk to a
stranger. "Old Mr. Savell died some three months back--father of the
bride, you understand. Had a stroke early in the winter, an' never
recovered."
"Never spoke, did 'e?" asked the younger coachman.
"Never a word from the moment that the Lord struck 'im down," said the
landlord, with a shake of his head. "Merciful release, in a manner o'
speaking; the young folks must 'ave their chance, after the old 'uns is
put away. Now, boys, it's time you was goin'; I'm going to give a look
in at the church myself, in time to see a bit of the bride an' the young
gentleman. Why--would you believe it--in a sense 'e belongs here; used
to stop in this very place when first 'e came down a-courtin' the young
lady. So, you see, it's only right as the _George_ should be
represented, ain't it?"
I found my way out of the place, and towards the church. There was a
holiday feeling in the air, and a ringing of bells; I felt that I was
strangely out of place. A sudden impulse to hide myself came upon me,
and I went out beyond the town, and into that green wood--beautiful now
in its spring dress--that had meant so much to me so often before. And
there for a long time I sat, with the peace of God stealing into my
heart, listening to the ringing of the bells, and thinking gratefully
that all was well--that all was better, perhaps, because I stood outside
it, and could touch it no more.
Yet the bells drew me; they rang a tune in my ears that brought me at
last to my feet, and set me upon the road to the church. There was a
crowd about it now, and much jostling and laughter; I saw the round
jolly face of the landlord of the _George_, and he was evidently still
telling any one who would listen to him of his proprietary rights in the
bridegroom. I managed to slip into the church, and found my way into a
little curtained pew at the back of it, from which I could watch all
that was going on, and yet remain unseen.
I had no eyes for any one but the girl; she came in on the arm of an
elderly man I judged to be a family lawyer, or in some such position.
She looked very beautiful as she went slowly up the old church to join
her lover; I thought with a pang of how I had seen her mother--looking
just like this--step over these worn stones in her bridal dress, twenty
years before. I remembered, too, how I had stood there, with a bursting
heart, and had seen her going out of my life. I could not bear the
thought of that, even then; I knelt in my curtained pew, and hid my face
in my hands, while all the rustling and whispering went on about me.
Then the solemn service began, and still I knelt there, as in a dream.
But I was happier then than I had ever been; for in my dream this was
poor Charlie Avaline, far back in the years, wedding the woman he
loved--thereafter to live happily, without any shadow on his life.
I felt that I must see her as she came out of the church; so much at
least was due to me. So, with a new boldness, I stepped out of the pew,
and stood there in the shadows, waiting, while she came on the arm of
her young husband down the church. And the twenty odd years had taught
me so much that I could stand like that, and look at it all with no
feeling of envy, or bitterness for all I had suffered: only a great
gladness that this Barbara at least was to tread a path of roses. I
stood quietly there, watching her as she came down the church; if the
tears were in my eyes, they were only there because I remembered poor
Charlie Avaline, who had stood in the same place, and had watched that
other Barbara whom he loved.
She was within a couple of yards of me when she raised her eyes, and
looked straight at me. I would have drawn back, but she was too quick
for me; she came forward at once, drawing Arnold Millard with her, and
caught at my hand. And it seemed that I was no longer shabby and poor;
all in a moment I was greater than any one there.
"It's Tinman! It's dear Tinman!" she said.
In the strangest fashion she had disengaged herself from her husband's
arm, and was shaking my hands. We were saying the absurdest things to
each other: I congratulating her, and wishing her well, and half
laughing and half crying in my weakness and my joy; she murmuring over
and over again that this was the best thing of all, to see me like this
at such a time. And all about us the strange wondering faces pressing
nearer.
And then before them all she raised herself on tiptoe, and kissed me on
the cheek--yes, before them all! As she went out of the church, running
a little eagerly for a step or two, to join her husband, who was
smilingly waiting, she looked back at me, and waved her hand; and so was
gone out into the sunlight, amidst a roar of cheering. I felt strangely
alone; but that was, of course, inevitable. The Barbara I had loved had
gone for ever out of my life; she had told me so, on that day when it
had come to the parting of the ways for us. Each of us had done our
part. I had been privileged to see the end that day, and now I must go
out into the world, and live in loneliness just so many years as might
be given to me. But I was no longer tired or hopeless; I had drunk deep
of life, and although there were so many things I would have been glad
to have had altered, there was yet so much that was better than I could
have hoped. I would linger here for a little time, on this spring
morning, and then would go on, to take up the quiet burden of my days.
I found my way back to the old house, and peered in at the gate. All was
changed here now: the garden no longer neglected, and the house looking
bright and fresh. There was no one about, and I crept in, and stood
again on that terrace, looking into the room. There were bright flowers
there, and the place was very different from what it had ever been
before. I came away, and found my way into that wood that seemed to hold
all my memories. I sat down there for the last time--reviewing, as it
were, my life, and looking back to see the boy who had painted here
among the trees, and had seen coming towards him, with a smile in her
eyes, the Barbara of long ago.
And so it happened that I looked up presently, and saw coming through
the wood the Barbara I loved: and it almost seemed, despite the passage
of the years, that this was the Barbara I had always known, and who was
unchanged. The heavy soiled garment of the years dropped away from me; I
was again a man with hopes and longings; I suddenly realized how much
this dear woman was to me, and how much we both might be, each to the
other. I stood there, bareheaded in the sunlight, holding her hands, and
looking into her eyes; and I was no longer old or tired; I faced life
again, with the spring in my veins and in my heart.
"We are all alone, dear Tinman," she said, using that familiar name
naturally. "I am the unknown woman, who has stood beside my husband's
grave, and yet have not mourned for him; I am the woman who has stood in
God's house to day, and seen my child married--just as I might have
married poor Charlie Avaline, years and years ago. Such a strange life
ours has been, my dear," she added softly; "it seems almost as though
you and I are left alone together forgotten and unknown in the great
world--with all our work done."
"But we came to the parting of the ways before, Barbara," I said; "there
can be no going back now. God has been very good to me: I might never
have seen you again; I might have died that shameful death twenty years
ago. But I am a felon; I am branded with the brand of Cain; there is
blood on my hands."
"Spilled for my sake!" she cried quickly, taking my hands, as she had
done once before, and putting her lips to them. "And you lied to me,
Charlie; you did not kill Olivant."
"I did not kill Olivant," I said; "but I am guilty, in that I set out to
do it. Some one forestalled me: some one who has died a violent death,
and paid that penalty. But that, too, was some one who loved you, in
however poor a fashion. It was Jervis Fanshawe."
We talked there for a long time in the woods, and at last it seemed to
me that the moment had come when I must part from her. For I would not
link my life with hers; on that point I was resolute. Yet she clung to
me, and told me what was in her heart.
"Years ago, Charlie, when I knew that they would not kill you, but that
you must live out your life in bitter servitude for what you had done
for me, I made up my mind that there was a duty before me, and that I
was called to it inevitably. It seemed to me then that I must consecrate
what was left of my life to you, and to the memory of you; your love for
me had been so great a thing that in a sense I belonged to you, if only
in spirit. Dear, you came back to me wonderfully from out of your
prison; you fought for me again; you were ready to lay down your life
for that other Barbara, who was like the Barbara you had loved. I am
lonely now--lonely and unknown; do not send me away from you!"
"I am so poor a thing for any woman to cling to," I said pitifully. "I
have been down to the depths; I am a thing of poverty, and shame, and
degradation."
"You are the man I love," she said, putting her arms about me. "There is
a great world waiting for us--a world of sunshine, and life, and
laughter; you shall learn to forget all the horror through which you
have passed. Charlie, I took your name once--glad and proud to bear it;
let me take it now, and keep it to the end."
* * * * *
I have set down here the record of my poor life, so far as I have lived
it; yet it is as a slate, crowded with the awkward writing of a child,
and much of it obliterated and rubbed out--blotted a little here and
there with tears. Much, too, is being obliterated day by day of the
sorrow and the misery of it; for a woman's hand steals over mine
sometimes, and will not let me write of the sorrowful part that has been
mine, and is mine no longer. I have been greatly blessed; I pray my God
that when the time comes that He calls me to answer for my great sin, it
may happen that at the last her strong warm hand holds mine, and points
me to the road--that her strong brave lips whisper to me what I shall
say.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Apparent typesetting errors and inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation
and hyphenation have been corrected.