"I am one who died long, long ago," I said to her. "If you think of me at all, think of me as some one who long ago touched such a story as yours—such a story of love and hope and faith, all broken and cast in the dust. Think of me as some one who loved—and lost what I loved; think of me as some one who, seeing you as young and fair and bright as the woman I loved, would give the very heart out of me to see you happy. As God's above me, I'm your friend!"
She looked at me in wonder, but I saw that she believed me; I think she was half inclined for a moment to confide in me. If she had done so then, much of the horror and tragedy and despair that were to come upon us both and upon others might have been averted. But I suppose she remembered that I was only Tinman, the servant of the man who had that power over her father and herself; she shook her head perplexedly, and turned away.
"You must not follow me," she said.
"I will not again," I assured her. "But you are the only creature on earth that has spoken gently to me for many, many years; I only followed you as a dog might do, to see that you were safe. Besides, you look at me out of the eyes of a woman I loved—a woman who is dead."
I turned, and went away quickly on the road back to the house. In a moment I heard her calling after me, and I turned about and faced her. "Indeed, I do trust you," she whispered, "and I know that you are my friend. Some day you may have a chance to prove that," she added.
"I pray God the time may come soon," I answered fervently, as I took her little hands in my rough ones, and raised them to my lips. It was as though I stood again on that terrace outside the house—a boy of twenty—and bowed my head over the hands of the woman I loved.
I got back to the house in time to see the boy of whom I had been speaking striding towards it. He was but a little in advance of me, and he turned his head sharply on hearing my feet crushing the dead leaves; then waited for me to come up to him. When I reached him he looked me over quickly; I remember that I longed to tell him where Barbara had gone, that he might run to overtake her. But I felt that I had plunged far enough into the story for one day.
"I haven't seen your face before," he said, not ungently. "Do you belong here?"
"Yes, sir—for the present," I replied. "My name is Tinman; I am Mr. Olivant's servant."
He looked at me frowningly for a moment, as we stood together watching each other. "Is my brother here—Mr. Olivant, I mean?"