I was too frightened even to turn about, and stood petrified to the spot. I felt I must have been seen and followed, and something of the fear a trapped spy must experience laid hold of me. I was too terrified to think; my faculties were numb and useless.
The question was repeated:
"Who are you?"
The answer came from my mouth as though it was the only one possible.
"Tommy," I said simply; and slowly turned and looked upon the questioner.
"Ho, you're Tommy, are you?" he cried almost jovially. I saw a face of angry suspicion smooth itself out to one of merry kindness; and instinctively I smiled my broadest.
"So you're Tommy, eh?" repeated the man, whom somehow I immediately knew to be Abou's master; perhaps by his voice, but rather as I think because of a lurking shadow of uneasiness in his kindly grey eyes. I had seen just such a look on my father's face when danger was imminent. It was the look of the hunted which I knew so well. And I knew this man was in hiding from some inveterate foe; he too lived with an enemy ever on his trail.
For a moment we stood facing each other, for my part still smiling, and growing reassured as the merry lines about his eyes puckered and wrinkled with amusement. It seemed as though somehow I had found favour with him, for a child is quick to read the signs of affection in a stranger. And I know I felt a glow of heart as though I had stumbled on a friend; for his face was one of the kindest I had seen, and the lurking sadness, and something haunting and elusive in the whole expression, appealed to my sense of the romantic and mysterious. For already I knew there was a sorrow and a mystery in the life of this new friend of mine, and his face bore witness to the shadow amidst the sunshine. It was the kind of face I would have given to some favourite 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.
