MISS LAKE COMES--AND GOES
The conversation took place suddenly one afternoon, and no one knew
anything about it except the two who took part in it: the Colonel asked
the governess to try and knock the nonsense out of Jimbo's head, and the
governess promised eagerly to do her very best. It was her first
"place"; and by "nonsense" they both understood imagination. True
enough, Jimbo's mother had given her rather different instructions as to
the treatment of the boy, but she mistook the soldier's bluster for
authority, and deemed it best to obey him. This was her first mistake.
In reality she was not devoid of imaginative insight; it was simply that
her anxiety to prove a success permitted her better judgment to be
overborne by the Colonel's boisterous manner.
The wisdom of the mother was greater than that of her husband. For the
safe development of that tender and imaginative little boy of hers, she
had been at great pains to engage a girl--a clergyman's daughter--who
possessed sufficient sympathy with the poetic and dreamy nature to be of
real help to him; for true help, she knew, can only come from true
understanding. And Miss Lake was a good girl. She was entirely
well-meaning--which is the beginning of well-doing, and her principal
weakness lay in her judgment, which led her to obey the Colonel too
literally.
"She seems most sensible," he declared to his wife.
"Yes, dear."
"And practical."
"I think so."
"And firm and--er--wise with children."
"I hope so."
"Just the sort for young Jimbo," added the Colonel with decision.
"I trust so; she's a little young, perhaps."
"Possibly, but one can't get everything," said her husband, in his
horse-and-dog voice. "A year with her should clean out that fanciful
brain of his, and prepare him for school with other boys. He'll be all
right once he gets to school. My dear," he added, spreading out his
right hand, fingers extended, "you've made a most wise selection. I
congratulate you. I'm delighted."
"I'm so glad."
"Capital, I repeat, capital. You're a clever little woman. I knew you'd
find the right party, once I showed you how the land lay."
* * * * *
The Empty House, that stood in its neglected garden not far from the
Park gates, was built on a point of land that entered wedgewise into the
Colonel's estate. Though something of an eyesore, therefore, he could do
nothing with it.
To the children it had always been an object of peculiar, though not
unwholesome, mystery. None of them cared to pass it on a stormy day--the
wind made such odd noises in its empty corridors and rooms--and they
refused point-blank to go within hailing distance of it after dark. But
in Jimbo's imagination it was especially haunted, and if he had ceased
to reveal to the others what he _knew_ went on under its roof, it was
only because they were unable to follow him, and were inclined to greet
his extravagant recitals with "Now, Jimbo, you know _perfectly_ well
you're only making up."
The House had been empty for many years; but, to the children, it had
been empty since the beginning of the world, since what they called the
"_very_ beginning." They believed--well, each child believed according
to his own mind and powers, but there was at least one belief they all
held in common: for it was generally accepted as an article of faith
that the Indians, encamped among the shrubberies on the back lawn,
secretly buried their dead behind the crumbling walls of its weedy
garden--the "dead" provided by the children's battles, be it understood.
Wakeful ears in the night-nursery had heard strange sounds coming from
that direction when the windows were open on hot summer nights; and the
gardener, supreme authority on all that happened in the night (since
they believed that he sat up to watch the vegetables and fruit-trees
ripen, and never went to bed at all), was evidently of the same
persuasion.
When appealed to for an explanation of the mournful wind-voices, he knew
what was expected of him, and rose manfully to the occasion.
"It's either them Redskins aburyin' wot you killed of 'em yesterday,"
he declared, pointing towards the Empty House with a bit of broken
flower-pot, "or else it's the ones you killed last week, and who was
always astealin' of my strorbriz." He looked very wise as he said this,
and his wand of office--a dirty trowel--which he held in his hand, gave
him tremendous dignity.
"That's just what _we_ thought, and of course if you say so too, that
settles it," said Nixie.
"It's more'n likely, missie, leastways from wot you describes, which it
is a hempty house all the same, though I can't say as I've heard no
sounds, not very distinct that is, myself."
The gardener may have been anxious to hedge a bit, for fear of a
scolding from headquarters, but his cryptic remarks pleased the children
greatly, because it showed, they thought, that they knew more than the
gardener did.
Thus the Empty House remained an object of somewhat dreadful delight,
lending a touch of wonderland to that part of the lane where it stood,
and forming the background for many an enchanting story over the nursery
fire in winter-time. It appealed vividly to their imaginations,
especially to Jimbo's. Its dark windows, without blinds, were sometimes
full of faces that retreated the moment they were looked at. That
tangled ivy did not grow over the roof so thickly for nothing; and those
high elms on the western side had not been planted years ago in a
semicircle without a reason. Thus, at least, the children argued, not
knowing exactly what they meant, nor caring much, so long as they proved
to their own satisfaction that the place was properly haunted, and
therefore worthy of their attention.
It was natural they should lead Miss Lake in that direction on one of
their first walks together, and it was natural, too, that she should at
once discover from their manner that the place was of some importance to
them.
"What a queer-looking old house," she remarked, when they turned the
corner of the lane and it came into view. "Almost a ruin, isn't it?"
The children exchanged glances. A "ruin" did not seem the right sort of
word at all; and, besides, was a little disrespectful. Also, they were
not sure whether the new governess ought to be told everything so soon.
She had not really won their confidence yet. After a slight pause--and
a children's pause is the most eloquent imaginable--Nixie, being the
eldest, said in a stiff little voice: "It's the Empty House, Miss Lake.
_We_ know it very well indeed."
"It looks empty," observed Miss Lake briskly.
"But it's not a ruin, of course," added the child, with the cold dignity
of chosen spokesman.
"Oh!" said the governess, quite missing the point. She was talking
lightly on the surface of things, wholly ignorant of the depths beneath
her feet, intuition with her having always been sternly repressed.
"It's a gamekeeper's cottage, or something like that, I suppose," she
said.
"Oh, no; it isn't a bit."
"Doesn't it belong to your father, then?"
"No. It's somebody else's, you see."
"Then you can't have it pulled down?"
"Rather not! Of course not!" exclaimed several indignant voices at once.
Miss Lake perceived for the first time that it held more than ordinary
importance in their mind.
"Tell me about it," she said. "What is its history, and who used to live
in it?"
There came another pause. The children looked into each others' faces.
They gazed at the blue sky overhead; then they stared at the dusty road
at their feet. But no one volunteered an answer. Miss Lake, they felt,
was approaching the subject in an offensive manner.
"Why are you all so mysterious about it?" she went on. "It's only a
tumble-down old place, and must be very draughty to live in, even for a
gamekeeper."
Silence.
"Come, children, don't you hear me? I'm asking you a question."
A couple of startled birds flew out of the ivy with a great whirring of
wings. This was followed by a faint sound of rumbling, that seemed to
come from the interior of the house. Outside all was still, and the hot
sunshine lay over everything. The sound was repeated. The children
looked at each other with large, expectant eyes. Something in the house
was moving--was coming nearer.
"Have you _all_ lost your tongues?" asked the governess impatiently.
"But you see," Nixie said at length, "somebody _does_ live in it now."
"And who is he?"
"I didn't say it was a _man_."
"Whoever it is--tell me about the person," persisted Miss Lake.
"There's really nothing to tell," replied the child, without looking up.
"Oh, but there must be something," declared the logical young governess,
"or you wouldn't object so much to its being pulled down."
Nixie looked puzzled, but Jimbo came to the rescue at once.
"But _you_ wouldn't understand if we did tell you," he said, in a slow,
respectful voice. His tone held a touch of that indescribable scorn
heard sometimes in a child's tone--the utter contempt for the stupid
grown-up creature. Miss Lake noticed, and felt annoyed. She recognised
that she was not getting on well with the children, and it piqued her.
She remembered the Colonel's words about "knocking the nonsense out" of
James' head, and she saw that her first opportunity, in fact her first
real test, was at hand.
"And why, pray, should I not understand?" she asked, with some
sharpness. "Is the mystery so _very_ great?"
For some reason the duty of spokesman now devolved unmistakably upon
Jimbo; and very seriously too, he accepted the task, standing with his
feet firmly planted in the road and his hands in his trousers' pockets.
"You see, Miss Lake," he began gravely, "we know such a lot of Things in
there, that they might not like us to tell you about them. They don't
know you yet. If they did it might be different. But--but--you see, it
isn't."
This was rather crushing to the aspiring educator, and the Colonel's
instructions gained additional point in the light of the boy's
explanation.
"Fiddlesticks!" she laughed, "there's probably nothing at all in there,
except rats and cobwebs. 'Things,' indeed!"
"I knew you wouldn't understand," said Jimbo coolly, with no sign of
being offended. "How could you?" He glanced at his sisters, gaining so
much support from their enigmatical faces that he added, for their
especial benefit, "How could she?"
"The gard'ner said so too," chimed in a younger sister, with a vague
notion that their precious Empty House was being robbed of its glory.
"Yes; but, James, dear, I do understand perfectly," continued Miss Lake
more gently, and wisely ignoring the reference to the authority of the
kitchen-garden. "Only, you see, I cannot really encourage you in such
nonsense----"
"It isn't nonsense," interrupted Jimbo, with heat.
"But, believe me, children, it _is_ nonsense. How do you know that
there's anything inside? You've never been there!"
"You can know perfectly well what's inside a thing without having gone
there," replied Jimbo with scorn. "At least, _we_ can."
Miss Lake changed her tack a little--fatally, as it appeared afterwards.
"I know at any rate," she said with decision, "that there's nothing good
in there. Whatever there may be is bad, thoroughly bad, and not fit for
you to play with."
The other children moved away, but Jimbo stood his ground. They were all
angry, disappointed, sore hurt and offended. But Jimbo suddenly began to
feel something else besides anger and vexation. It was a new point of
view to him that the Empty House might contain bad things as well as
good, or perhaps, only bad things. His imagination seized upon the point
at once and set to work vigorously to develop it. This was his way with
all such things, and he could not prevent it.
"Bad Things?" he repeated, looking up at the governess. "You mean Things
that could hurt?"
"Yes, of course," she said, noting the effect of her words and thinking
how pleased the Colonel would be later, when he heard it. "Things that
might run out and catch you some day when you're passing here alone, and
take you back a prisoner. Then you'd be a prisoner in the Empty House
all your life. Think of that!"
Miss Lake mistook the boy's silence as proof that she was taking the
right line. She enlarged upon this view of the matter, now she was so
successfully launched, and described the _Inmate of the House_ with such
wealth of detail that she felt sure her listener would never have
anything to do with the place again, and that she had "knocked out" this
particular bit of "nonsense" for ever and a day.
But to Jimbo it was a new and horrible idea that the Empty House,
haunted hitherto only by rather jolly and wonderful Red Indians,
contained a Monster who might take him prisoner, and the thought made
him feel afraid. The mischief had, of course, been done, and the terror
in his eyes was unmistakable, when the foolish governess saw her
mistake. Retreat was impossible: the boy was shaking with fear; and not
all Miss Lake's genuine sympathy, or Nixie's explanations and soothings,
were able to relieve his mind of its new burden.
Hitherto Jimbo's imagination had loved to dwell upon the pleasant side
of things invisible; but now he had been severely frightened, and his
imagination took a new turn. Not only the Empty House, but all his inner
world, to which it was in some sense the key, underwent a distressing
change. His sense of horror had been vividly aroused.
The governess would willingly have corrected her mistake, but was, of
course, powerless to do so. Bitterly she regretted her tactlessness and
folly. But she could do nothing, and to add to her distress, she saw
that Jimbo shrank from her in a way that could not long escape the
watchful eye of the mother. But, if the boy shed tears of fear that
night in his bed, it must in justice be told that she, for her part,
cried bitterly in her own room, not that she had endangered her "place,"
but that she had done a cruel injury to a child, and that she was
helpless to undo it. For she loved children, though she was quite
unsuited to take care of them. Her just reward, however, came swiftly
upon her.
A few nights later, when Jimbo and Nixie were allowed to come down to
dessert, the wind was heard to make a queer moaning sound in the ivy
branches that hung over the dining-room windows. Jimbo heard it too. He
held his breath for a minute; then he looked round the table in a
frightened way, and the next minute gave a scream and burst into tears.
He ran round and buried his face in his father's arms.
After the tears came the truth. It was a bad thing for Miss Ethel Lake,
this little sighing of the wind and the ivy leaves, for the Djin of
terror she had thoughtlessly evoked swept into the room and introduced
himself to the parents without her leave.
"What new nonsense is this now?" growled the soldier, leaving his
walnuts and lifting the boy on to his knee. "He shouldn't come down till
he's a little older, and knows how to behave."
"What's the matter, darling child?" asked the mother, drying his eyes
tenderly.
"I heard the bad Things crying in the Empty House."
"The Empty House is a mile away from here!" snorted the Colonel.
"Then it's come nearer," declared the frightened boy.
"Who told you there were bad things in the Empty House?" asked the
mother.
"Yes, who told you, indeed, I should like to know!" demanded the
Colonel.
And then it all came out. The Colonel's wife was very quiet, but very
determined. Miss Lake went back to the clerical family whence she had
come, and the children knew her no more.
"I'm glad," said Nixie, expressing the verdict of the nursery. "I
thought she was awfully stupid."
"She wasn't a real lake at all," declared another, "she was only a sort
of puddle."
Jimbo, however, said little, and the Colonel likewise held his peace.
But the governess, whether she was a lake or only a puddle, left her
mark behind her. The Empty House was no longer harmless. It had a new
lease of life. It was tenanted by some one who could never have friendly
relations with children. The weeds in the old garden took on fantastic
shapes; figures hid behind the doors and crept about the passages; the
rooks in the high elms became birds of ill-omen; the ivy bristled upon
the walls, and the trivial explanations of the gardener were no longer
satisfactory.
Even in bright sunshine a Shadow lay crouching upon the broken roof. At
any moment it might leap into life, and with immense striding legs chase
the children down to the very Park gates.
There was no need to enforce the decree that the Empty House was a
forbidden land. The children of their own accord declared it out of
bounds, and avoided it as carefully as if all the wild animals from the
Zoo were roaming its gardens, hungry and unchained.