Chapter XVII: The “little House”

Stella, once settled comfortably in the motor by Mrs. Fleming’s side, became so exceedingly talkative that Margot’s mother, who was feeling very anxious about the two children, would have much welcomed a little respite from the streams of conversation that poured unceasingly from the lips of her small companion.

“I don’t envy Margot if she’s got there!” announced the damsel--who was plainly qualifying for a post as Job’s comforter--while she tossed back her pigtail. “Nothing would make _me_ go near that house, _I_ know!”

“But there’s Sybil to think of, too,” said Mrs. Fleming. “Perhaps it was on account of _her_ that Margot was so anxious to go.”

“Well, perhaps so,” replied Stella sagely. “But nothing on earth would have sent me there, and I don’t think Margot would have wanted to go so much if she’d stopped to think for a minute.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Margot’s mother quietly; “though I certainly think that she should have tried to speak to one of the mistresses first. But that would have brought Sybil into trouble, I expect she thought--so it was rather a difficult position.”

“Well, if she thinks she’s going to win the Hope-Scott prize for going, I guess she’s mistaken. I just got a _scolding_ from dad for going into the gipsy’s tent for the baby,” declared Stella, “and I don’t believe Miss Slater would let the prize go to a person who’s broken rules like this, however brave they were!”

Mrs. Fleming smiled, beginning to see some reason for Stella’s rather resentful speeches. “I’m quite sure she did not start off for that reason,” she remarked. “Also, I believe, as you do, that the prize is not at all likely to be gained for this particular piece of daring. Margot would be the first to agree with me, I think; don’t you?”

“Well, perhaps so,” admitted Stella, a little grudgingly. “You see, we all want to win it, and as we never seem to have any chances to be brave unless we break the rules, _I_ don’t know what we can do. We talk about it in the dormitory for hours, but no one yet has thought of anything--except the gipsy baby; and _that_ only ended in quarantine for me. I suppose Margot’s told you about _that_? _I_ have less chance than the others to do anything, because I go home for the week-ends!”

“But mightn’t there be an opportunity at home, perhaps?” suggested Mrs. Fleming.

“Ah!” and Stella shook her flaxen head in a superior way. “But then who’d know about it at school, you see? Unless I told, of course, and that would be rather sneakish, and so it wouldn’t count.”

Mrs. Fleming’s breath was quite taken away by this peculiar view, and she deemed it wise to change the subject. “Tell me about this ‘Little House,’” she said. “The children have mentioned it in their letters, but I expect you know more about it than they do, as you live nearby.”

“Well, it’s like this,” began Stella, delighted to have an audience. “That house was empty till five years ago; it was a biggish kind of cottage, and had been built on the cliff ages ago by an artist, father says. And then suddenly this old man came--I don’t remember it, but mother does. He boarded up all the windows that look this way, though I believe he has one or two left that look over the sea; and he shut himself in!”

“Well, you’d think anyone might do that,” said Mrs. Fleming, “if they wanted to be alone.”

“Yes; but he’s quite different; he’s very old, and he wears a coat like a manservant--with tails, you know; and he only comes out at night, and he never opens his door to anyone; he writes down on a scrap of paper just how much bread and milk and things he wants, and he hardly eats anything; and _once_----”

“Well?” inquired Mrs. Fleming.

“Well, once he wrote down his orders, they say, on a piece of paper that had a ‘coronet’ on it; did you ever hear of such a thing? And the boy that brought his milk showed it to someone and asked what it meant; and then after that--I don’t know when it was--all the village children used to stand and shout outside his house, and call him ‘My Lord!’ And one day he came out with a stick and chased them away, and called out that he would throw them over the cliff.”

“Serve them right, rude little things!” said Mrs. Fleming decidedly.

“Yes. Father stopped them when he heard of it; but the boys still will call after him, and he turns and waves his stick at them, and they do it all the more. Father says he thinks he’s queer in the head, and, of course, all the villagers say that he’s mad; but _I_ think he’s a miser!”

“Why?” asked her companion with some amazement.

“Oh, because he keeps himself shut up like that; he must have something hidden, I’m sure. Why, he doesn’t answer _father_ when he knocks! But, of course, after that time I met him last week, perhaps he will _now_.”

“What was that?” inquired her listener.

“Oh, didn’t Margot tell you? She was quite upset about it. Almost as bad as she was over the gipsy baby--she wanted to go and do something for him!” And Stella poured forth her tale of the encounter with the old man, ending with the remark, “and he said something about a ‘confession’ that he had to make!”

“Margot is very tender-hearted,” said Mrs. Fleming, “and has never been able to stand seeing anyone suffer. But yours is a very strange story, Stella.” She sat back, plainly interested, till her meditations were broken in upon once more by her companion.

“Oh, how quickly we’ve come! The rectory’s only round the next corner, and here’s Jim with his bicycle.”

The car drew up to enable Stella to alight, and that Mrs. Fleming might receive a note which the rector’s boy was waiting to deliver. It proved to be from Stella’s mother, who had read Miss Slater’s communication, and who wrote to say that the rector was out in the parish, _where_, she did not know, and that under the circumstances she had thought it the speediest plan to write to Mrs. Fleming to this effect. “If he comes in shortly I will dispatch him after you with all haste,” she wrote; “and I much hope that your anxieties will soon be set at rest.”

There was nothing to do, therefore, but to turn the car in the direction of the “Little House,” following the parting advice of Stella as to its whereabouts.

“Only about half a mile; straight along the road; and then you’ll see it quite plainly. It’s quite easy to find, even in the dusk, and thank you awfully for driving me down!” Stella waved her hand, and disappeared through the rectory gate as the motor took to the road again. Mrs. Fleming could hardly restrain her anxious feelings, and was really thankful when the car drew up and the chauffeur pointed out the outline of a small house standing on the moor by the cliff, and not far away.

“That will be the little place, ma’am; shall I be needed to come with you?”

“No, thank you, Pratt; stay with the car. If I want you I will use this whistle of mine,” and Mrs. Fleming touched a small silver dog-whistle that she wore. “Don’t move from here, and if the rector should come this way tell him I have gone in. I can’t say how long I may be.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Pratt, who knew enough of the affair to realize that there was a possibility of excitement ahead, watched his mistress eagerly as through the dusky twilight she made her way to the little house. He could discern her figure still as she stood outside and knocked; then he saw the door burst suddenly open; there were exclamations, and she disappeared within!

It was Margot herself who had responded to her mother’s knock; Margot, with a face of frightened excitement, who burst out crying as she flung herself into Mrs. Fleming’s arms.

“Oh, mother! I did so hope you’d come!”

This from the self-reliant Margot! Mrs. Fleming could hardly believe her ears. “My darling,” she exclaimed; “there’s nothing to be afraid of now. Where’s Sybil? I’ve come to take you home.”

For answer, Margot, her eyes still full of tears, turned half indignantly to her mother. “I’m _not_ frightened,” she said; “and Sybil’s not here; I expect she’s all right. Only, mother--that _poor_ old man!”

“Well?” asked her mother, much more concerned for the moment, it must be admitted, at the excited state in which she had found the usually self-contained little daughter than at the possibility of some disaster to Stella’s “miser”; “where is he, Margot?”

“He’s in there,” Margot managed to ejaculate, as she pointed to a door leading towards what was evidently an adjoining room. “And they’ve sent me out because he’s so ill; and I can’t do anything, they say; but I _know_ I could!”

“But who’s ‘they’?” asked her bewildered parent.

“Long Jake’s there!--oh, mother, did you know he was coming?--and the rector’s there, too; he was here when we came; and I believe the old man’s going to die!”

Here was a very different kettle of fish from that which Mrs. Fleming had expected to find! Meanwhile, also, she thought, where was Sybil? But she decided that the first thing to do under the circumstances was to help to restore Margot’s self-control.

“Well, Long Jake has turned up in the nick of time, has he?” she said. “I knew he wanted to surprise you by coming down for your match this afternoon; but I thought his business had prevented. He’s been in London a week, you know. Now, Margot, this isn’t like you. Be sensible; you and I both know that we can leave Long Jake to do the very best thing in any kind of difficulty. Is there a chair where I can sit down? This place is so dark. Now tell me all about it, from the beginning, and presently I’ll go in.”