Cursed be the treasure
sea-captain of my imagination; a face to love and yet to fear a little,
with that kind of fear which is a delight, for it carries with it a
sense of trust and reverence; and a face to wonder at and brood upon,
for it was eloquent of old adventures and far sojournings and strange
and secret things.
What prompted me to speak as I did, I can't say. I think something of
my father's power of acting was born in me, for more than once in my
life I have found myself playing a part with such ease and naturalness
as for a while to have deceived even myself. And now I suddenly
reverted to a simple, confiding, unsuspecting child, though half
wondering what made me assume such a mask.
"Everybody calls me Tommy," I said. "And I go to school at Rancey
Bridge, 'way yonder, but I hate it, because they won't let me play when
I want to, and they've taken away my knife. But"--and here I looked
cautiously round, and slowly drawing my pistol held it out to the
stranger, saying--"but they don't know I've got this."
He chuckled merrily, and taking the pistol turned it over in his hands,
while I watched him. He seemed to be hiding something behind his smile,
something I couldn't quite read.
I held out my hand and said, "I want it back, please;" and he gave it
me, asking, "And do you know how to use it, my little man?"
"See," I said, raising it and taking aim, "I can hit that ousel."
"No," he cried quickly, "no. Poor thing!"
"Poor thing?" I said enquiringly.
"Well, there," he passed it over. "Put up your pistol; you may need it.
I can see we're going to be great friends."
Again his eyes surveyed me twinklingly.
I continued with my chatter: "I should like you to be my friend. I
think you can tell me stories. I like stories."
"You like stories, eh?" he said.
"Exciting ones," I answered in an awed voice, "that make you feel
_hrrrrh_!" I shuddered to express my meaning, and he laughed aloud.
"Ghost stories?" he asked.
"I've seen a ghost," I replied very quietly.
"The devil you have!" he cried.
"I tell you, yes," I went on, with something of my father's tense
expression in my voice. "I've seen a ghost. Here. This house is
haunted. You like ghosts too, that you've come to live here?"
I put the question with a simplicity that surprised myself; for by now
I knew I was acting a part, and yet couldn't bring myself to speak
naturally. A constraint was upon me to carry on the play. I think the
old man was delighted, for he broke out into a great peal of laughter,
such as I associated with my imaginary type of jolly sea-captain, and
exclaimed, "Like ghosts, eh? Well, they're not exactly friends of mine.
Though I suppose we shall all be ghosts some day, eh?"
"Yes," I said in a hushed voice, "all ghosts some day."
I was appalled at the change in his face. All the merriment died out
of it, and his eyes became bright and piercing. "What do you mean, eh?
What do you mean?" he cried, gripping me by the arm.
I was alarmed at this sudden transformation, for the shadow which I
had seen lurking like a little speck in the corner of his eyes seemed
to have overspread his whole countenance. There was something, too, of
that awful imbecile look I had seen that night on my father's face when
he had told me the story of the Mad Captain.
I stood looking stupidly up at him, and presently he relaxed his hold,
and with a sigh drew his arm across his face as though to brush away
the pain that had so suddenly overshadowed it.
I said, "I think you've seen a ghost too."
It was an unfortunate speech, for the frenzy surged back to his
countenance, and his eyes blazed savagely at me. Again he caught me
in his hands, and his whole body was quivering. "Ghosts!" he cried.
"Ghosts! Ah, don't you ever speak of ghosts. They wake you in the dark,
and you open your eyes, and they are staring at you, staring.... And
they die away with a moan, till the blood runs cold about your heart.
And your throat is dry, and you can't speak. And your limbs are stiff,
and won't move.... Ghosts!..."
"Yes," I said, "I know."
"You know?" he shouted; and laughed foolishly.
"I've seen. Here. This house is haunted. And I've heard them. They cry
in the night, and sob bitterly, and call to you, till you want to go to
them; but they only lead you on and on and trap you somewhere, or drown
you in the river, or take you to the quarry where you'd fall and kill
yourself."
"You've heard them, eh?" he said.
"Yes, at night-time; when the wind is out; and sometimes when it's
still. It sounds very sad as though some one is lost or dying or is
looking for a friend. It hurts you to listen."
Again he released me, and wiped his brow; and growing calmer said, "So
then, if you heard crying here you'd know it was a ghost?"
"Yes," I answered; "everybody'd know that."
"Ah!" I thought he seemed relieved. But he put another question to me,
watching me intently for the answer; "And if you heard--heard me crying
in the night, would you think it a ghost?"
"Know it," I said positively, "that's what they do, to lead you on.
I've heard them, crying like something in pain; and once I followed;
but----"
I paused, wondering whether I had said too much; but he urged me on.
"Yes, yes," he said eagerly.
"Ah, I don't remember," I said. "I was lost, and there was something
terrible, and in the morning it was all gone."
There was a pause, and then I said deliberately, as though imparting
some piece of profound advice, "If you hear them crying to you, don't
go; don't go."
I nodded my head sagely, and once again I heard his merry burst of
laughter, and his face cleared.
"Oh," he cried, "we shall be famous friends, Tommy; famous friends." He
patted me affectionately on the head.
But I was busy thinking out the situation into which my confidences had
led me. Why didn't he ask me how I knew all this? He would guess I had
lived here; and that might be dangerous. So I said, "I come here often.
I run away from school, you see, because I don't like it. And then I
hear things: and sometimes at night I see a shadow, and feel things
breathing on me; very soft, you know, as though a butterfly passed. I
don't know whether I like it or whether I'm afraid. It's--it's funny,"
I finished feebly.
He was gazing at me with increased amusement. "So," he said, "you run
away from school, do you? Well, how'd you like to come and live here,
eh?"
"Yes," I said, "thank you," as though the matter were settled.
That seemed to amuse him more than anything I had yet said, and he
chuckled more delightedly than ever.
"Very well," he said, "we'll see about it. Rancey Bridge, you say?
Well, I'll be round in a few days, and we'll see about it."
"Not to-night?" I asked.
"To-night, eh?" he laughed. "You want to come to-night, eh?"
My thought was that I ought to have been back at school long before
now, and there was a certain punishment in store for me. If I
could accept the invitation straight away I might avoid unpleasant
consequences.
My answer was too subtle even for me to follow its drift.
"You see, I like you," I said.
And then I heard a halloo, and a high voice crying, "Daddy, daddy!"
The familiar word sent a gush of memory to my heart, and my eyes
moistened. But the pain passed as quickly as it came, for a little girl
came racing round the corner and drew up wide-eyed and motionless a
foot in front of me.
"Why, Jenny!" exclaimed her father.
But she took no notice of him, her gaze fixed on me.
CHAPTER XV
JENNY
Girls were creatures outside my circle of experience. Indeed, so
little did I know of them that I wasn't even bashful at this sudden
apparition. I returned stare for stare, taking very precise notice of
the little figure before me. The round dark eyes, the disordered locks,
the curving lips, full and red, the slightly tilted nose, the freckles
about the brow, all spoke of qualities I could well appreciate. Here
was a spirit to match my own, if the signs weren't false. Here was
a courage, a wildness, a passion. And that ringing cry of "Daddy,
daddy!" awoke echoes in my own heart. I knew at once that I had found a
companion; nor did I share that contempt for girls which I have since
found is so usual with boys, perhaps because I was ignorant of the
tactics of sisters so well calculated to move brothers to disgust and
misappreciation of the whole sex. Indeed I hardly said to myself: This
is a girl. All I thought was: Here is a companion; we shall be able
to play together. And her name was Jenny. I moved my lips as though
to speak it. I thought I liked it. It was a name one could shout or
whisper. It had a familiar, everyday sound; yet wasn't weak or faded or
colourless.
She turned suddenly away from me, and I found myself wiping my hand
across my lips. She looked up at her father and said, "You've brought
him, daddy? He's for me?"
At that I opened my eyes, and her father laughed.
Jenny turned to me and said, "Daddy told me you would come soon. You're
to play with me." Then she added, "I like you."
All this was a puzzle to me, and I looked to her father for some
explanation; but he was still chuckling with amusement. It was Jenny
who gave me a clue to the mystery.
"I haven't got a brother," she said. "I want you to play with me. Daddy
promised."
"We'll play hide-and-seek," I answered.
"I'll go and hide," she cried, darting away. But she came racing back
to ask my name.
"Tommy," I said.
"Tommy," she repeated, as though asking herself whether it would do.
"Yes," she nodded, as it might be in approval, and was off again.
I turned my face to the wall and began to count. I heard Jenny's father
move away.
"Sir," I cried, "how many?"
"How many?" he repeated.
"How many must I count," I explained.
"Never mind how many," he answered with a little laugh, "but mind you
catch her."
"Oh, I'll catch her," I asserted confidently.
"Don't you be too sure," he said, still amused at some jest which
escaped me. "She's slippery."
"I'll hold her tight," I declared.
At that he went, still chuckling a little to himself; and I started on
my quest, little realizing the significance of that first step in the
pursuit of Jenny.
I can't tell you all the turns of the game, but I found Jenny worthy
of my mettle. She was a wild little thing, and rather than be caught
would race away like a whisk of wind, and I would see her perched on
some dizzy edge of ruin where my weight wouldn't allow me to follow.
Then she would laugh in shrill delight, and seeing me baffled would
come lightly slipping down to me and say, "You were beaten? Say yes."
But I would say no, not considering her manœuvre strictly fair.
Then she would stamp her foot and cry, "But you _were_ beaten. You
_must_ say yes."
"Yes, then," I would mumble.
But this wouldn't satisfy her. My submission must be whole-hearted.
And when at length she had wrung a full surrender from me she would
throw her arms round my neck and eagerly kiss me. And looking back now
I can't understand my reluctance to own defeat knowing the reward that
awaited my acknowledgment.
Still the sweetness of the kiss didn't efface the bitterness of being
beaten at my own game. So once when I saw her daintily stealing out
along a narrow and crumbling wall I decided I wouldn't yield so easily.
I climbed along after her, and although I felt the whole thing sway
beneath me, and here and there a loosened stone slipped from under my
knees and rattled to the ground, I persisted; till even Jenny began to
grow alarmed, and cried to me not to come any farther.
I stopped and delivered my ultimatum: "Then own you're beaten."
"No, no, _no_," she cried, almost in anger. So I advanced.