Cursed be the treasure
me of my knife, for he remembered it from of old; and it was he too who
brought me my stale crust and mug of water, three times a day while I
was in the cells.
I wasn't in very good spirits when Worthing returned, but his steady
companionship soon restored me to something of my usual cheerfulness.
I clung to him for a while with a sort of yearning affection because
of the loneliness of my heart now that my father had left me and this
strange narrow life had closed about me like a prison wall. And yet our
friendship wasn't all milk and honey. For Worthing, with a passion I
suppose of setting me in the right path as he conceived it, lectured
me and scolded me, sometimes stinging me to the soul with his cold
rebukes, till at times I broke from him impatiently, and in desperation
turned to the wilder of my companions where I was sure to find an
appreciative welcome. And then would follow some escapade, the more
daring and risky share of it always falling to my lot, which would lead
to a further encounter with authority and the inevitable flogging, and
perhaps another day or two in the cells. And at these times Worthing
stood silently by with no look of compassion; nor in my confinement did
he attempt to break through to bring me any comfort, as I knew I should
have done were he in my case. And when I was released he had such an
air of passing it all over, as though I had committed some personal
offence against himself which he had forgiven, that it was difficult
sometimes not to upbraid him for his callous indifference.
Once I remember he turned on me with a passion not usual with him, and
said, "I suppose when you've made an unmitigated ass of yourself you
want me to weep over you and stroke you and pet you like a baby! I tell
you if you think that's what it means to be a friend, you'd better find
some one else; that's all."
"Why, Worthing!" I exclaimed, trying to appease him; for he seemed
almost on the verge of tears; an unprecedented thing, the mere
possibility of which dismayed me.
"Look here, Tommy," he cried, "let's thrash this thing out once for
all. If you think it doesn't hurt me to see you--to see you--"
"Flogged," I said, helping him out.
"Well, _you_ said it," he cried, "_I_ didn't," as though the mere
mention of such a commonplace event were something terrible to him. He
went on, still in the strange excited way which I couldn't understand:
"If you think it doesn't hurt me; if you think I _like_ it," he
emphasized the word almost spitefully, "then you're just one of those
blind shallow fools who think every emotion must be written large
across the face. In my profession, Tommy, the face is a mask, not an
index."
I could have laughed at the fine sense of self-importance which rang
through the remark, but I only took his arm affectionately, and would
have said something to mollify him, but he shook me off with, "I
haven't finished yet," and continued: "I want you to understand me,
Tommy; that's all. I tell you I think you a silly little fool the
way you're going on; and just because you're my friend I can't think
you're any better than you are. Also I can't help being fond of you;
and that's what makes it so infernally hard for me to look on and see
you behaving as you do. But if my friendship's to be worth anything at
all, it won't be by pandering to your folly. That would simply make it
a fawning piece of flattery which would do you more harm than good. And
now you know."
He flung away from me, and left me gazing after him in amazement; for
usually he was so reserved, so controlled, that I couldn't understand
this uncustomary passion. His eyes were moist as he turned away, and
his whole face quivering. But when we next met he was the same severe
little figure as before, neat, commanding, uncompromising; but I
thought I could feel beneath the mask something human stirring there in
the shadow.
I was constantly suffering from remorse of conscience for some
unkindness to my friend; for on the one hand my vanity was stirred by
the evident admiration which my daring aroused among my fellows, and
on the other hand I was constantly meeting with some stiff rebuke from
Worthing, usually in the flush of success after some adventure; and
the result was that my tongue too often proved a traitor to my real
affection for him. I did my best to make it up by extra confidences
as tokens of my repentance. Whether I overstepped the mark of prudence
I don't know; but in any case if at times I thought I had done so, I
felt reassured by my knowledge of his secrecy and reserve; a confidence
to him was a sacred thing. And so it was that he learnt of my dealings
with the smugglers, for I thought they had no concern with the central
secret of my father's life, whatever that might be. But I didn't
mention Drift-Wood Cavern, though I told all I knew of Ebb-Tide Cave
and the Smugglers' Tunnel, for these were open secrets now and lay
exposed to all. Also I remember I confided to him how my father always
took me to the _Dolphin_ for the summer. And as the spring was very
near now, if indeed it wasn't already with us, I said my father would
surely reappear some day and take me away.
But to all my confidences Worthing returned but little. He rather
sniffed at my talk of smugglers. They were creatures outside the law;
his natural enemies. All he told me was that he would soon be going to
his uncle in London to study law. His father lived in York, but there
was no opening in the provinces, Worthing informed me in his grown-up
manner, for a fellow with real brains.
We paid several visits to Sunset Towers; for though my father was away,
I thought it was only for a while, and I still looked upon the house
as my own, and without scruple used to take what chums I chose for a
scramble and a game there. But I was wise enough to keep my own counsel
about the ghost and the skeleton. I didn't even tell Worthing of the
strange visitation which had sent my father fleeing from the place.
But we were both very much concerned to find the secret passage where
I had lost my way and had gripped the skeleton by the hand. Again and
again we came to the corner where Worthing had found me, but the wall
continued to confront us, grim and unyielding, refusing to give up its
secret.
I remember how I admired the business-like way in which Worthing
set about his investigations. For my part, I gave the reins to my
imagination. If a place seemed shadowy and mysterious I promptly
concluded that it hid some secret door or stairway; but Worthing would
point out how impossible that was by the mere configuration of the
building. For he took careful measurements and made elaborate plans,
till after some weeks every known corner of the huge straggling house
lay clearly in its right place and proportion. And then it was obvious
where the mystery was concealed by the spaces that lay blank and
unexplored though according to the plan built in. In fact we could
almost trace the path of the passage we were in search of; and that to
me explained the mystery of that last night which my father and I had
spent there. For the passage wound away from the corner where Worthing
had found me, though of course on the other side of the wall, up a
flight of stairs, into a chamber high up in the roof, and then down
again by a twisting stairway, it must have been, by the side of the
great chimney in our bedroom. And there it ended.
It wasn't long before we were examining the oak wardrobe; though still
I said nothing of the ghost that had appeared there.
It was most tantalizing to know so much, yet to be baffled by a secret
of the entrance. For tap and shake and scrutinize as we would, we
learnt nothing. The wall remained stolidly dumb, and the wardrobe was
firm and sound except for one worm-eaten panel in the side against the
chimney. But though this looked suspicious, yet it gave no clue to the
quest we were on.
Once I suggested knocking a hole through the wall; but Worthing pointed
out that that would destroy the secrecy of the thing. So we persisted
in our investigations whenever we were able to slip away for an
afternoon.
There was one curious thing that puzzled us. We knew there was a hidden
room high up in the house, and we knew where it was, though of course
we couldn't reach it. But as far as we could see there was no window to
it. Worthing suggested there must be a window somewhere in the roof,
so one day we climbed up to search for it. And there we found that by
clever planning and building the room still guarded its secret, except
for the over-curious who were willing to risk a fall which would mean
a broken neck for sure. For we discovered that the great chimney-stack
above the bedroom my father and I had used was much larger than
necessity warranted, and was supplied along one side with a complete
row of false pots. It was built almost foursquare, and it didn't need
much astuteness to surmise that if we could only scale it we should
find enclosed between its walls the window we were seeking. But it was
too high to scale. However, having pushed our examination so far we
weren't to be turned back merely by a risk; so we determined next time
to bring ropes and grappling hooks, and climb the barrier.
Even Worthing couldn't quite conceal his excitement as we set forth
one Saturday well equipped for the last phase, as we hoped it would
be, of our search. Indeed, if anything could move my self-possessed
friend to any show of excitement it was to feel himself on the clue of
some mystery. And I suppose it was this lawyer's instinct precociously
developed in him which always made him side with authority against
rebellion.
But we were to be sadly disappointed; for arriving at the house we
were met by the ferrety little landlord who soon packed us about our
business, having first eloquently expressed his opinion of prowling
urchins, not to mention house-breakers and thieves, and threatening
to let them know at the school of our goings-on. Worthing looked at me
amazed, and I turned to the landlord with, "But this is my father's
house!" Evidently this was an unfortunate speech, for he burst out at
me with a tirade which I couldn't quite follow, but the drift of it
seemed to be that my father had quitted the place most unjustifiably.
The sore point, I guessed, was that it was no easy matter to find a
tenant, and so he bore a grudge against my father for having remained
so short a time.
We turned away, for my part feeling very disconsolate, especially as
now my fears seemed confirmed that my father had really left me, and
hadn't merely vanished for a season. Worthing was very quiet, and I
didn't break into his silence, for my mind was filled with doubt and
concern for my father; and the new light thrown on his disappearance
sent a sudden pain of longing to my heart. I felt very lonely and
deserted, and I knew that above all things I wanted to see my father
again. But spring was well advanced, and I told myself the summer would
bring him. And as we walked back to the school I looked this way and
that wondering if he were already lurking near at hand, waiting for a
chance to speak with me. I listened, thinking at times I could hear a
faint whistling from far away, but all the while I knew it was merely
my own fancy shaping the sound. Still I assured myself he would be
wanting me soon; and there would come a sign. Though what the sign
would be I couldn't imagine. I only knew that I must be continually on
the alert to catch what slightest hint he would send me, be it ever so
subtle or obscure. If he wanted me I mustn't fail him; I must keep my
wits bright and ready for the signal that would come.
But no signal came that day; and my thoughts were suddenly whipped
back to the present and the actual by Worthing saying bitterly, "So