I had no fear that any one would recognize me; the mere thought of that was absurd. Indeed, there was but one disturbing thought in my mind—the fear of meeting the new Barbara, and so of coming face to face with that figure, cut, as it were, out of the life I had once lived in that very place; I feared I should not be able to trust myself or my voice at that time. For the rest, I only knew dimly that I should probably have to see much that might goad me almost to madness, and yet that I must say nothing; I was in a sense fumbling in the dark, with only my memories to guide me.
The door was opened at last, and I stepped, as it were, straight back into that night when I had first come to this house with my guardian—twenty years before. Nothing was changed, save only that everything seemed to have dwindled in the years, and that the furniture was shabbier and meaner looking. I felt my heart beating fast as I looked towards that broad staircase down which I had once seen the Barbara who was dead coming, with tears in her eyes, and with her laughing bridesmaids surrounding her. It seemed almost as though she might at any moment turn the corner of the staircase, and come down towards me.
An elderly woman in a dingy black dress took my letter, and bade me stay where I was. She appeared to be a servant; and I watched her as she climbed the stairs slowly, and went away, leaving me standing in the hall. I was looking about me when I heard above a quick, light footstep; looking up, I saw Barbara coming down the stairs, with one hand lightly resting on the rail, and with her eyes turned straight towards me. I stood there watching her; I wondered vaguely what she would have thought had she known who I was, and under what circumstances I had last stood in that place, twenty years before.
When she came up to me she spoke with her mother's tongue, and with a little quick smile that had belonged to the dead woman. "My father sent me to you; he is not—not very well to-night. He understands, of course, that Mr. Olivant is coming down"—the smile died from her lips, and she seemed to draw herself up a little stiffly—"everything shall be got ready for him. You are strange here; you won't know your room. Your name is Tinman?"
I acknowledged the ridiculous title, and at her suggestion carried the luggage up into a room that was evidently to be prepared for Murray Olivant; it was a large room on the first floor. My own was at the top of the house—a little meagre room, with odds and ends of furniture in it. I saw that she was looking at me curiously as I stood in this little room; I had a dreadful fear for the moment—ridiculous though it was—that she must know my real name.
"I have given you a lot of trouble, miss," I said, for the want of something better to say.
She shook her head. "Oh, I don't mind," she replied. "You see, in these days, Tinman, we have no servants—at least, only the woman you saw, and a young girl. Not that it matters much, because there is only my father and myself. He wants to see you; will you come down, please?"
I was following her down the half-lighted staircase in that silent house when she turned suddenly, and waited for me; dropped her hand on my arm, and spoke in a whisper. "Have you ever seen ghosts, Tinman?"
"Yes," I faltered, staring at her, and beginning to shake.
"There are ghosts in this house," she whispered, glancing about her quickly. "I hear them rustling on the stairs, and in the old rooms that are shut up, and at night among the trees. You needn't be afraid; they're nothing to do with you."