Ellice Medhurst was full of mystery and excitement as she dragged Bob towards the staircase, anxious to escape observation, leading him to the seclusion of the schoolroom, where they could talk undisturbedly of the new inmate of Oaklands, who had arrived there since Bob's last week-end at home.
"Oh, I say, Idodetest her," said Ellice, as she sprang on to the table, placing her feet upon a chair and her face in her hands supported by her arms, her elbows resting upon her knees.
"Shelookspretty decent," remarked Bob; "she is a sight better than the one who has just gone. I say, what a shock I gaveher, didn't I? She howled like a hyena."
A shout of laughter rippled from his small sister as a memory, mutually considered humorous, roused this expression of mirth.
"I can see hernowdancing about, and shrieking, 'Help!—Help!—Burglars!' as if she was being killed," continued Bob, spluttering with amusement.
"And when—you—came—and offered to call father," put in Ellice—"saying, 'What's all this? Whatever is the matter?' I just rushed back into my room and buried my head in the pillows for fear she'd hear me laughing, and guess. Just fancy, Bob, if she had? Wouldn't daddy have been angry?" And as she finished, a more sober expression came upon her face as she pictured unpleasant possibilities.
"If you don't act the little idiot by laughing, no one will guess," answered the boy.
"I won't—I promise I won't," she answered.
"But I say, do youwantthis one to go?" continued Bob.
"Of course I do. I don't mean to have a governess at all; I said I wouldn't, and Iwon't."
"Well, you are a bit of a fool. Nice dunce you'll be when you grow up," came the brotherly response.
"I shan't," flashed Ellice. "I can read all right, and when I get older I'll just study, myself. What's the use of all the silly old arithmetic and stuff?"
"Very well, only don't blame me when youaregrown up," answered Bob loftily.
"As if I should. Come on; let's fix things," and, creeping softly out on to the landing, and reconnoitring on the staircase, the two stole up to Miss Woodford's room.
Ellice kept guard outside, while Bob evidently fixed matters to their mutual satisfaction. It only took a few moments, and the culprits were back again in their own quarters, their plans duly arranged.
Ellice was wild with delight at the prospect of anticipated fun, as she called it; but in the back of Bob's head there was a little sense of doubt and discomfort.
"She seemed so jolly decent," he muttered to himself; "I hope she won't be awfully frightened. I think you are a little beast to do it to her, Ellice."
"Oh, you don't know her like I do! She was horrid to me, and I'll just pay her out," replied the child.
"All right then. Now shut up about it till to-night."
With this the conspirators went down, ready to behave in an exemplary fashion at tea-time, to disarm suspicion.
Margaret was tired that night in spite of her rest in the afternoon; it was a heavy, slumbrous day, thunder still threatened, and the atmosphere seemed waiting for the refreshment of a cool breeze which might, it was hoped, spring up in the night. It seemed too hot to sleep, and it was quite a long time before Morpheus closed Margaret's lids, and led her into the land of dreams.
It was still dark when she was roused into semi-consciousness by something which at first her senses hardly grasped, then, as full wakefulness came to her, she became cognisant of a soft scraping noise in her room, as if someone might be in her vicinity. She was startled for a few moments, and her heart quickened its beating, as now, fully alert, she listened intently, anxious to discover the reason of the unusual sounds.
This house had held many surprises for her, and she was not quite satisfied in her own mind as to the kind of post she had accepted; but Margaret Woodford was no coward, and therefore she never dreamt of screaming, or getting into a panic, although the noise, which continued at intervals, seemed to come from the ground near her, and each moment to become more distinct.
Suddenly her tension ceased; she had caught the sound of muffled voices outside her room, and in an instant she realised the circumstances. Perhaps her face at that moment would have surprised the culprits outside if they could have seen the hot indignation which surged into it. She waited a little until it died down and she felt calmer, and then, as quietly and stealthily as the enemy, she crept out of bed, and, without lighting the gas, donned her dressing-gown, and, ignoring further preparation, flung the door wide open!
"What are you children doing here?" she asked quietly.
There was the instant flight of a small figure in white, and then Bob, who was stooping down to the floor jerking a string, the end of which issued from under the rug on the landing—Bob, with all the blood in his body seeming to be rushing to his head, rose to his feet.
"Oh, you've tied that to a can under my bed, I suppose?" said Miss Woodford witheringly—"hoping to frighten me? Andthisis the way you treat lady visitors to your home? And you call yourself agentleman, I presume?" The tones were scathing—how scathing Margaret scarcely realised herself. "And with childish tricks of this kind," she continued, "you encourage your silly little sister in insubordination."
The door of Ellice's room stood open, and she was listening to every word—"silly little sister." She writhed as she heard the epithet applied to herself; she had felt so clever and important just before, and now she dived under the clothes, cringing with mortification. The sarcastic contempt in Miss Woodford's voice was far worse than the severest punishment Bob had ever endured, and he felt covered with confusion and disgust at his invidious position.
"Go—go to your bedroom at once," finished Margaret, "and see that you don't cause any further trouble."
At this moment Mr. Medhurst opened his door, and inquired if anything was the matter. "Now I shall get it," thought Bob to himself; but he was mistaken. Margaret had spoken in low tones up to now, being most anxious the master of the house should not be disturbed. She was fighting her own battle in her own way, and did not need any court of appeal at present.
"Bob and I both heard a slight noise, Mr. Medhurst," she answered. "But it seems quiet enough now. I don't think there is anything the matter really."
"Cats, perhaps," he answered, smiling; "they do come up these stairs at night sometimes. You are not nervous, I hope, Miss Woodford?"
"Not in the least," she answered. "I think we can all go to bed again satisfied."
"Ah, that's sensible," he replied, adding, as he was in the act of closing his door, "I am glad you came down to reassure Miss Woodford, Bob. I expect you remembered Miss Warner was alarmed in the same way."
Margaret stole a glance at the boy, but he would not raise his eyes to hers, but instead he turned swiftly and fled up to his room. She smiled to herself as she closed her door, then with a little sigh of weariness returned to her slumbers.
Sunday dawned fair and sweet. A sharp shower during the night had freshened the garden and watered the parched ground, which had drunk the moisture up greedily, carrying it down to the roots of the grass and already bringing back the resurrection colour to the brown dried blades in the meadows.
Breakfast passed away without incident. Beyond the usual morning greeting, the young people remained very quiet, and gave only monosyllabic answers to Margaret's attempts at conversation.
Ellice was doubtful as to the consequences of last night's escapade; it was one sign of triumph for the new governess that the child was already growing uneasy, uncertain of herself. She had an affectionate nature really, and it cost her something to steel her heart so persistently against this certainly interesting looking girl who had come to teach her. If Ellice had spoken the truth, she could have owned what she would not admit to herself, that she was longing to make friends, and to get a chance of hearing more stories; but having vaunted the fact to James and Betsy that she never meant to have a governess, the cost to her pride prevented her from giving in.
Miss Woodford guessed her attitude of mind, and was determined to wait patiently, although she had been tempted more than once to resign the post; but—and there was always that but—if this was the chosen work to which she was called, there must be no truckling with a faint heart. No looking back after once having put her hand to the plough, however heavy the furrows might prove, or long and dreary the appointed task.
Bob ate his breakfast in the greatest discomfort; he was really burning with a sense of shame, and making up his mind to an unpleasant duty.
The meal over, Margaret left the house and wandered out into the garden. It was a dear old-fashioned place, with grassy paths bowered with pergolas of roses. Great hedges of tangerine and amethyst pea-blooms filled the air with sweetness. Hollyhocks leaned their tall stems against the ancient garden wall, the old brickwork—a dream of subdued colour—forming a rich background to the brilliant hues of the flowers.
Margaret drank it all in with a breath of delight. The place was rife with roses raising their heads in the sunshine, cooled by the dew-drops glistening on their petals. Zinneas in all shades, and geraniums in massed pinks and scarlet, lined the borders, with gleams of orange eschscholtzia and dainty violas all stretching upward to the golden glory of the sky, while around them fluttered the butterflies, and to Margaret's ears came the sweet hot sound of the song of the humming bees and the murmur of insects talking in the grass.
The girl herself gave just the needed touch of human life to intensify the charm of the scene as she stood looking down at the wealth of flowers. One thought filled her mind with a thrill of praise to the Giver of all good, "How can anyone see these wonders of creation, and catch the sweet fragrance of roses, and doubt God's love, I wonder? Every flower that blooms proves that."
Unconsciously the thought filling her heart had been spoken aloud, and Bob, coming softly down the grassy path, approaching her unheard, caught the words and paused a moment, his attention drawn for the first time in his life to the beauty of nature, and the love message it brings.
Margaret was aroused by a voice at her elbow saying a little nervously:
"Can I speak to you, Miss Woodford?"
"Oh, it's Bob! Certainly!" she answered, an inviting ring in her voice.
"I—I'm awfully sorry about last night—I want you—to—know," he said hesitatingly, his face crimson with shame. "Will you try to—to forget it?" he stammered.
"Why, of course!" answered Margaret. "I shall never think of it again."
"I feel such a beastly cad," he finished.
"Well, for the future remember you are a gentleman, Bob, and that 'manners makyth man,' and you will find it easier to behave as one. And shall we make up our minds to be friends?" she added, holding out her hand with a winning smile. "Come, what do you say?"
"Rather!" answered the boy, and then, breaking away, rushed with lightning speed to the house.
Later in the day Margaret came upon the young people uninterestedly turning over the leaves of story-books, weary of themselves and each other, and not on speaking terms. She had appeared upon the scene at the close of a heated argument, in which Ellice considered Bob had turned traitor by taking up the cudgels on Margaret's behalf.
When he left her so hurriedly in the morning, Margaret hoped she had gained ground with him; but she little knew that the interview meant a big victory, and that Bob Medhurst's allegiance was won for all time.
Now, as she looked at the two, she ventured:
"I have a proposal. What do you say to taking our tea to the woods, and then I'll tell you a story, if you like?"
"Oh, yes—yes," exclaimed Ellice, full of animation at once, and forgetful of all her former animosity.
"Come along then," said Margaret; "let's get a basket from Betsy."
In a few minutes everything was prepared, and the three set off for Wychfield Glade.
It was a perfect afternoon, and Margaret's heart felt lighter as they followed the mossy path which led through the forest to the avenue. Bob's manner showed a subtle change:
"Please let me carry that for you, Miss Woodford," he said shyly, holding out his hand for the tea-basket.
"It's awfully heavy," remarked his small sister, in a loud whisper.
He brushed the remark aside with a look which said plainly, "You shut up."
Margaret accepted the offer with a smile of thanks as she gave up the burden.
"It's very nice to have a gentleman to help one," she said quietly.
The boy coloured slightly. After all, he was his father's son, and knew the attitude of a young savage was unworthy of him, and the role not really satisfactory to himself, although he was not aware that one of the commands of God given in His Word is "Be courteous."
It was quite good fun hunting for wood and arranging a gipsy fire to boil the kettle.
Finding it was too early for tea, Ellice clamoured for the promised story.
"A fairy one," she demanded.
"Not to-day, dear," was the answer.
"Why?" asked the child vexedly.
"Because it's Sunday, and we might think of something more useful."
"Oh, bother! we don't want a Sunday one. Miss Warner tried to make us read a Bible chapter when she was here. We wouldn't, so she read one out loud, and then asked us questions. We didn't answer, did we, Bob?"
"No," replied Bob shortly, but he didn't look at Miss Woodford as he made the admission.
"Oh, itwasdry," continued Ellice, "and we didn't understand it. You are not going to do anything like that, are you?" and the child's voice sounded a little entreatingly as she put the question.
"No," Margaret answered, with a smile. "I want to tell you a little bit about the life of a boy whom we read of in the Bible; there is nothing dry in the whole of his history, at least I don't think so. You can tell me whatyouthink afterwards, if you like."
Ellice seemed satisfied with this, and with a good grace settled down to listen. Bob showed no sign either way as to whether he was interested or not.
The hush of the forest was all about them, the wind whispered in the branches of the trees, insects chirped gaily in the undergrowth, and birds and squirrels held busy conclave around their homesteads, but there was nothing to interrupt Margaret Woodford as she began her Sunday talk.
"At an old country house in Kent, when it was under repair, and the workmen were putting down a new floor, in one of the top rooms, underneath the worn-out boards, they found a letter dated 1600, one that had been written to those who lived there centuries before. The letter was so discoloured with age, that although the men who unearthed it stopped their work and stood looking at it for some time, they were disappointed to find they were unable to read any of its contents. But they could not help wondering who wrote it, and what it was all about.
"Now in your home you have got some much older letters than that one. They were written to a young man nearly 2,000 years ago, and you can decipher every word of them, and know where they were sent from, and to whom they were written, and a great deal in connection with the writer. They are such interesting letters that I want to tell you something about them, and then you can read them for yourselves.
"Nearly two thousand years ago there lived in a village in Asia Minor, called Lystra, an old Jewish woman named Lois, and living with her was her daughter Eunice, and her husband who was a Greek, and probably therefore a heathen; and also their little son, a boy named Timothy, and this boy was the one who had those wonderful old letters you have got at home, written to him, all those long, long years ago. You will find them in your Bible; they are called the First and Second Book of Timothy.
"Now, in God's Word we are told something of what kind of a boy Timothy was, and I think if you and I had known him then, we should have been able to say, 'He's not a bad sort,' because he grew up to be a very brave man, and a brave man generally means a plucky boy, doesn't it? We all of us despise cowards, don't we? And so I think we should have liked Timothy."
Bob nodded assent, and even Ellice was interested, although the story was a Sunday one!
"Timothy's home was in a town in the country of Lycaonia," continued Margaret. "The district round it is rather desolate and bare of trees, and as it was not a very big place, I expect it was fairly quiet.
"Timothy would be busy learning lessons in those days, and, among other things, he was taught by his grandmother and his mother the stories in the Old Testament, a great part of which Jewish boys had to learn by heart. One day a great excitement happened in the village, a missionary travelling through the country stopped at Lystra to preach the Gospel, which means good news, that Jesus Christ, the Son of God (Who had lately been put to death at Jerusalem), wastheirGod and Saviour, Who had died and risen from the dead, and gone back to Heaven, and would forgive all their sins, and help them to live for Him, and afterwards receive them into His glory.
"Thatwasgood news, and if Lois and Eunice went to hear that Gospel preaching, as I think they did, I know they must have enjoyed it, for we also know that later they both became Christians. The missionary, who came to preach at Lystra, was really the Great Apostle, St. Paul.
"We can picture the boy Timothy standing among the crowd, probably listening to this new teacher, when presently St. Paul caught the earnest eyes of a poor lame man gazing at him, with an expression which seemed to convey to him that he believed all he was saying, and could trust the power of this Great God Whom he preached—the Lord Jesus. And Paul, 'perceiving he had faith to be healed, said with a loud voice, "Stand upright on thy feet." And he leaped and walked.' (Acts. xiv. 9-10.)
"Then the poor, ignorant people, when they saw what was done, cried out, 'The gods are come down to us in the likeness of men.' And Barnabas, who was with St. Paul, and was the elder of the two men, they called Jupiter, and the Great Apostle by the name of Jupiter's son, Mercurius—you know, of course, there are no real gods of those names, only the One true God we worship.
"But these poor heathen did not know that, so their priest brought garlands to crown the Apostles, and oxen to sacrifice to them, and St. Paul and Barnabas were dreadfully distressed, and rent their clothes (a thing Eastern people used to do to show their distress), and ran among them, exclaiming, 'Sirs, why do ye these things? We also are men of like passions with you, and preach unto you that ye should turn from these vanities unto the living God, Which made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and all things that are therein: Who in times past suffered all nations to walk in their own ways. Nevertheless He left not Himself without witness, in that He did good, and gave us rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness.'
"'And with these sayings scarce restrained they the people, that they had not done sacrifice unto them.' (Acts xiv. 15-18.)
"What a commotion there must have been in the village, the people crying out that the gods had come down from the sky to speak to them, and rushing to help the priest to drive the animal to sacrifice, and bring the garlands to crown the missionaries. Perhaps the boy Timothy saw all this. I think he must have, as it happened near his home, and if so, how interested he would be when St. Paul explained to them about the One true God Timothy had read about in the old Jewish law books—the Old Testament, which had taught him, that 'God made the heaven and earth, the sea and all that therein is.' And if Timothy listened on those other days when St. Paul preached, he must have learned too that the Great God he knew, was Jesus Christ, Who had died on Calvary, and would save him from his sins and help him to lead a Christian life.
"There was something else which happened at Lystra a few days after the Gospel preaching: some men came to the village from Antioch and stirred up the people of Lystra against St. Paul, and persuaded them so strongly against him, that they took up stones and tried to stone him to death. When St. Paul was writing to the Corinthian people long after, and telling them about his life and its sorrows, he said, 'Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned.' (2 Cor. xi. 25.) And that was the time we have just been talking about.
"We can imagine Timothy rushing into the house and crying out, 'Oh, mother, mother, they are stoning the great preacher to death!' and possibly his grandmother and Eunice running back with him to learn all that was happening.
"We know that St. Paul became unconscious, and was dragged out of the city and left by his enemies for dead. But presently the disciples—the Christians who loved him—saw him recover consciousness, and he was able to stand up, and went into the city, and the next day left the town with Barnabas, and went to Derbe. But only for a little while, for he soon returned again to Lystra, and visited the Christians there, talking to them and persuading them to try and be very brave. I think it was no doubt that then Timothy gave up his heart to Jesus Christ, and decided to become his faithful soldier and servant to his life's end.
"Shall I go on?" said Margaret, appealing to Ellice directly.
"Yes, please—I think I like it," answered the little girl.
With a smile Margaret continued:
"I said just now that Timothy was a plucky boy; I'll tell you why I think so. It is not pleasant to be laughed at for our religion, is it? We need a little courage when that happens; but think what it meant to Timothy to be a Christian. He not only risked being made fun of by other Jewish boys in Lystra, but he stood a chance of being put to death by the heathen, the worshippers of Jupiter, who lived in the same town with himself.
"When he was a little older, he joined St. Paul, and went with him on some of his preaching-tours, and was ordained a minister of the Gospel, and was arrested in Rome and made a prisoner just because he was a believer in Jesus Christ. We read in the Bible about his release from prison.
"Later he came to Ephesus, and was made Bishop of that great city while he was still a young man, and in St. Paul's first letter to him he writes and tells him how to manage his congregation; and to tell all the children to be good to their fathers and mothers, and as they get older to try and return some of the care they have received from them, by helping them all they can. He says, 'Let the children show kindness at home, and requite their parents, for that is good and acceptable with God.'
"And then he tells Timothy what he is to be like himself: how he is to show the world—that is, all in his own home, all in his congregations, all in that great heathen city—that he is really and truly a follower of Jesus Christ. He says, 'Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, conversation, charity, spirit, faith, purity.' Six things, you see, in which Timothy couldprovehis Christianity; six things God wanted of him; six things God expects ofusif we are His soldiers and servants. It's no use our saying we love Him, unless we prove it to Him by our lives. I want you two, Bob and Ellice, to think about that for yourselves. Willyoulove the Lord Jesus Christ?—will you have Him for your King?"
The two appealed to so directly made no answer, but although there was silence, the question had gone home.
"If so," continued Margaret, "proveyou are in earnest, for God says, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments.'"
There was silence for a little. Ellice moved uneasily, but Bob sat gazing thoughtfully down the avenue, a new expression of seriousness on his merry face. He was a schoolboy, and not keen on pi talk, but this was different from anything he had heard before. Miss Woodford again took up the thread of the story.
"Now, how was Timothy to prove the reality of his religion inTruth? He was to speak the truth, be honest and honourable inallhe said; that was what it meant. Think of that next time you are tempted to tell a lie—will you? God despises lies, He hates them, He calls them an abomination—which is a big strong word, isn't it?
"I know a boy who knew he could not be found out if he told a lie as to the time he had spent preparing his lessons, saying he had given an hour's study to them, because his master would accept his word whatever he said; but if he admitted he had only given ten minutes to it, he would be punished. Yet that boy, when he was asked, 'Did you give half an hour to this lesson as I told you?' answered, 'No, sir.'
"'How long then?'
"'A few minutes, sir.'
"The punishment followed, but when it was over, the boy was happy with a clear conscience—far happier than if he had lied.
"That boy wasn't a prig—a namby-pamby sort; he was a thorough-going, sporting Christian, the same sort as Timothy must have been. The sort God wants.
"A Christian inword. In conversation.
"We are to be examples of Christians in all we say. Are we always? We fail by exaggerating things sometimes, don't we? Perhaps we declare we hate people when we only don't like them much."
Ellice coloured consciously.
"I know another boy," went on Margaret, "who, when his school-fellows were talking nasty talk, not only wouldn't join in, but said to the others, 'Shut up, we won't have anything of that sort here,' and by his influence stopped it. Even if he hadn't succeeded, in trying he was doing what God wanted, wasn't he?"
Bob nodded thoughtfully.
"We must also show we are Christians, in charity—that is, love.
"Isn't it a rule in all bands of the Boy Scouts, or at least in some, that everyone should do a kind action, at least once a day?"
"Yes, I've heard of that," said Bob.
"It's a good rule. Supposing we three begin to-day to try and follow it.
"In the paper some time ago, I read, a Boy Scout saw the wind blow over a whole bale of goods outside a draper's shop, and immediately, to fulfil his duty—not to get a tip—he crossed the road, set to work to pick everything up, put it straight, and then went happily on his way. That boy was obeying God's command of love.
"We are also to prove our Christianity byOur Faith. A little girl told her clergymansheknew she was a Christian, because she had asked the Lord Jesus to blot out all her sins, and to give her a new heart and save her. The minister asked her, 'How do you know Jesus heard you and saved you?' She answered, 'Because He has promised to do it in the Bible, and I am sureHe cannot break His promise.' In that answer she showed she had faith, she believed in God, and what He would do for her.
"There is one more thing mentioned in Timothy's letter which God wants of us. We are to be Christians, in purity.
"Not only are we not to say impure, or nasty words, but we are not to do nasty things. God is always watching, never forget it, and He says 'Be ye holy, even as I am holy.' And if we thinkhowpure God is, Who cannot sin, we shall see how pure He wants us to try to be, and He will certainly give us strength to resist all such temptations it we ask Him.
"I have read of a boy who was being tempted to sin. His persecutor said, 'I will beat you to death if you do not give up this religion which makes you refuse to do wrong.' The boy answered, 'I would rather be beaten to death than offend the Lord Jesus.'
"The brave answer made his persecutor release him, and not only that, but he began to think there must be some great strength about these Christians that they are able to resist evil. Get your Bibles out to-night, and read for yourselves 1 Timothy iv. 11, 12, a bit of Timothy's old letter, and remember God has sent it to you both, not only to tell you about him, but how to grow like him, and be a good follower of the King of kings."
"Did Timothy stick to it all, Miss Woodford?" asked Bob interestedly.
"History answers 'yes,' for years after, when he was at Ephesus, a very wicked city, where the inhabitants were given up to idolatry, superstition, and sin, one day when he was preaching to a great crowd, they set upon him in their heathen fury and killed him. So you see this brave man, who must always have lived in danger of losing his life, this plucky boy, died a martyr's death—and so gave up his life for the Saviour he had loved so long."
The story was finished, and no one spoke for a little while. Ellice moved away to gather wild flowers, and Bob busied himself throwing acorns at the birds. Presently he said quietly:
"I should have liked to have known that chap, Miss Woodford; seems a pity he's dead."
"And yet alive, Bob, for evermore. Perhaps you will know him in that other life—choose the same King?" she said softly. "Think what an interesting world the next life means, and the number of Old Testament people, as well as New Testament ones, we shall meet—and, above all, Bob, live in the company of the Lord Himself."
"Umph!—I can fancy them all marching singing up to the throne, but I don't think I—shall—ever get in; I shall never be fit."
The boy's voice was husky as he said these words, then he turned over and lay face downwards on the ground.
"If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness," said Margaret. "You see, He has promised, and He never fails us, though we often disappoint Him—ask Him for yourself"; and with this Margaret went to join Ellice, just pleading silently in her own heart that the Holy Spirit of God would plant and water the seed she had tried to sow, and cause it to spring up into everlasting life.
Half an hour later, when she and Ellice returned with a basket full of wild flowers and fern roots, there was no trace of seriousness about Bob; he just seemed overflowing with fun. Margaret wondered; but she knew how to leave all results with God.
The tea was a merry one—once only Ellice tried to be disobedient. To her utter surprise Bob said sharply: "Shut up, and do what you are told, and don't worry Miss Woodford."
Sheer astonishment held Ellice silent. It looked as if her best supporter was quite going over to the enemy!
From her bedroom window Mrs. Medhurst watched the trio, when they started out to the woods, with an air of surprise.
"Do look, Gordon!" she exclaimed; "Miss Woodford has gone down the drive with Ellice, and Bob has actually gone with them."
Mr. Medhurst rose from his seat and looked over his wife's shoulder.
"I think I can congratulate you on your choice of a governess this time, Lucille; it really looks as if she'll stay"—and he laughed as he spoke. "Perhaps our youngsters are not much worse than other people's after all," he continued. "You spoil Bob, and I suppose we both spoil Ellice; let's hope Miss Woodford will counteract the mischief."
"Oh, you are always hard on Bob, Gordon! I can't think why."
"Hard, am I? There seems a good deal of necessity, I think; but there, I confess I don't understand boys."
"I wish I was strong; I would love to have taken them out with me like that," said Mrs. Medhurst; she spoke wistfully, with a far-away look of unrest in her dark eyes.
"You might do a little more. You could if you tried, don't you think?"
"I can't—go—out," she said wearily, "but I like my flowers."
"The garden has done well, hasn't it?" he said. "I did just what you suggested, dear, simply massed all the brightest colours together, and, as you say, Nature seems to be her own best artist, and makes them blend perfectly. You must come with me this evening and see what the rain has done. Now have a rest until tea-time."
He arranged his wife's cushions with deft fingers as of a nurse, and Mrs. Medhurst lay down again upon her couch, while her husband resumed his reading.
Margaret was quite sorry when Bob departed on Monday morning to school, for although nothing further was said to assure her, his attitude towards her was evidently changed, and she believed she was now upon a friendly footing with the boy, and at least one of the difficulties of Oaklands was partially overcome.
The days that intervened before his return upon the following Saturday were not of the happiest. She determined to insist upon her charge having special hours for study, and for recreation, and this meant a struggle of wills. Ellice had hitherto had her own way entirely, and any curtailing of that met strenuous opposition.
Monday morning was a lesson in patience to Margaret. Ellice came willingly to the schoolroom, and condescended (for that was her attitude) to give her mind to lessons for about half an hour. For that length of time she seemed docility itself. Bob's words as to her ignorance had rankled in her mind; the child was full of pride, and the idea of possibly being looked down upon as an ignoramus later on was a detestable thought. But half an hour every morning, she had determined, would be sufficient for her concentration.
She worked busily and happily at first, and showed an intelligence which pleased her teacher; then she grew a little restless, and cast furtive glances at the clock. Margaret noticed the slackening of attention, but made no remark. An hour and a half she thought would be sufficient for the first week's morning's work: with such an undisciplined pupil it might be wise to go slowly.
Suddenly Ellice threw down her book.
"It's ten, Miss Woodford. I've done enough for this morning. I don't want to do any more."
"Oh, you've only just begun!" said Margaret quietly. "You started at half-past nine; at eleven we will put the lessons away, and go into the woods, or orchard, as you like."
"I know I'm not going to work until eleven," was the impertinent reply.
Jumping up from her seat, the child made for the door. But her governess was too quick for her. Margaret had been fully on the alert for a possible attempted escape, and in a moment she intercepted the flight.
"I am sorry, Ellice, but you cannot go yet," she said firmly. "Sit down, child, and make the best of it; only an hour more, and you will be free."
For the second time in her life astonishment bereft Ellice of speech for a few seconds, then her indignation vented itself in words as she stamped her feet in her rage.
"I hate you!—I hate you! I will go out when I want to!' she stormed, tears of passion shining in her eyes, and sobs half choking her.
"Stop that noise at once, Ellice," said Miss Woodford. "I am ashamed of you. Sit down, and understand you will remain here for one hour longer as I said; but unless you obey me now, it will be two."
With an abandonment of temper the little girl flung herself into a chair, throwing her arms across the table and hiding her tear-scorched face in her hands. There was still the sound of suppressed, gasping sobs, which gradually died down into silence. It almost appeared that, wearied out with her own temper, she had fallen asleep.
No sound now disturbed the quiet of the schoolroom, but the tick-tock of the clock on the mantelshelf. Margaret remained silent, apparently reading. Presently she glanced up at the time, laid her book down, and, rising quietly, went and stood by her pupil. Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes as she looked down upon the child whose uncontrolled temper meant such misery to herself.
"Girlie," she said softly, "it is almost eleven, but before you go, I want to ask you to forgive me for being, as you think, unkind and nasty. Listen, Ellice. When your mother engaged me to come here as your governess, she offered me a salary in exchange for giving so many hours a day to teaching you. I agreed to her wishes, and I should not be honourable if I took her money and did not fulfil my promise to do the very best I could for you—can you understand that?"
"But I don't want to be taught," muttered the child; "I can teach myself when I am older."
"If you were allowed to do as you wish, you would find presently, when you were growing up, you would be despised by all the other girls of education, because of your ignorance; you would be behind them probably in everything. I don't think you would like that. From what I have seen of you, I believe you would want to be first rather than last. Isn't that so?"
A half-murmured assent greeted this last.
"Can't you see, child, I want to help you? But you must be willing, and try too if we are to succeed. How proud your dear father will be if his daughter grows up bright and intelligent, and is able to be a companion to him some day! He cares ever so much about that; he has told me so."
A slight movement indicated Ellice was listening.
"There is something else he cares about; he wants you to grow up sweet and gentle, and to get over these selfish ways—do you know, trying to please and help others always makes people happier than trying to please themselves. You do it, and see. It just makes people love you. Then there is one other thing I want to say; you are very fond of flowers. I know you look at the garden when you go out, and bury your face in the sweetness of the lavender bed, and smell the fragrance of the roses. Just think how God loved you when He made the flowers so sweet to please you—and gave you your garden and the woods and everything nice you love best. You remember the hymn you sing sometimes:
"'All things bright and beautiful,The great God made them all.'
"Allthings—and for you—and in His word to us He sends you this message—this morning: 'Study to show yourself a workman approved of God.' He has done so much for us, dear—He has given us every good thing we possess. He came to this earth to die for us—to win our love and our allegiance, and He asks us to show our gratitude by making a life-study of how to prove our love to Him, as good workmen. He wants our best. Ellice, shall we both make up our minds to try to give Him that always, to fight against our tempers, our selfishness; to do even the dry lessons as well as we can, to please Him? I have to try too—all the grown-up people who love Him have to fight this battle with self. It is difficult sometimes, and we often fail, but God has promised to give us His Holy Spirit, to enable us to be brave and strong to do good, if we ask Him."
Margaret paused a moment as she gently stroked the child's bowed head with her hand. Then:
"Ask Him now, darling, to help you all your life to be a workman approved of God."
Again there was silence. The old clock ticked those precious moments away, but at the same time registered a child's desire for a nobler life.
The lesson-time was over as the hour struck. Lesson books had not, after all, played a great part in the morning's work; but was not something learned of greater worth?
"Off you go," said Margaret brightly, and, pressing a light kiss upon the tumbled curls, she turned and went out quietly, leaving her charge to her own devices.
When they afterwards met at luncheon, all traces of the storm were past, and Ellice chatted responsively to the governess she had intended earlier to hate for ever and ever.
Nothing was allowed to disturb Dr. Crane during his breakfast-time; his wife took her meal in silence, while he studied his letters and newspaper. This morning was no exception to the general rule, but suddenly he laid down his correspondence, and said abruptly:
"By the way, Mary, have you heard anything from Margaret Woodford lately?"
"A few days ago," she answered. "Why do you ask?"
"To tell you the truth, I've never felt quite satisfied about her going to that post she accepted. I really owed it to her father to find out what kind of people her employers were."
"Well, dear, she didn't give you much chance of doing that. You remember she answered the advertisement, and got the situation through an agency, and we knew nothing about it until everything was settled."
"Yes, but I still feel I ought to have made a point of inquiring personally. Does she seem happy?"
"I don't know about happy—I should imagine not very; one can hardly expect that, perhaps—but she mentions the people are kind, and the country lovely. It is evident she is leading a quiet life; her employers for some reason seem to wish to live in retirement."
"Now, I wonder why? I don't quite like that fact," said the Doctor, a little testily.
"Why, John, surely you are unreasonably suspicious; the child is evidently in a comfortable home, and I think must be interested in her work, or she would not have stayed so long. I made her promise to come away to us at once if she found anything wrong—in fact I asked her here for the holidays in August."
"Oh, I'm glad you did that!" he interposed in more satisfied tones. "And what does she say?"
"I think she fears it would be painful to see the old home again so soon; she says she has been asked to stay where she is, and she would rather remain, and in fact she does not need rest yet."
"I hope it is all right then," answered Dr. Crane. "Ask her in your next to tell you everything unreservedly about the people, and if she is quite content? Seems strange Woodford's daughter should be out in the world like this, doesn't it?" he finished musingly.
"Yes—and how different it might have been if Jack—had—lived," said Mrs. Crane sadly.
"Our hopes were certainly shattered in more ways than one," he assented, with a sigh; "but, old lady, we wouldn't have it otherwise, would we? God called him for the service of his country, and when a man answers that call in His Name, all must be well. You miss the boy, I know—and well—so do I, more than I can say; but we are getting on, and it will be a grand homecoming when he stands, as we know he will stand, with outstretched hands to welcome us on the other side. I expect we shall be glad then he went over there first; what do you say, old dear?" he finished gently, and coming round to where Mrs. Crane sat, the tears slowly coursing down her cheeks, he stooped and kissed her forehead.
"Thank you, John," she answered. "I forget sometimes the joy that is coming, the waiting seems so long, and yet it's a lovely thought, the King may come into the air any day bringing our darling with Him. There is nothing necessary to be fulfilled before that event, is there?"
"No, I think not; scripture gives us nothing, but we must wait patiently, and be content with God's time and choice."
"I love those lines, John:
"'At midnight, eve, or morning,We may hear the victory song.Filling the heavens above us,From Redemption's white-robed throng.'"
"I wish there were more stricken hearts comforted with the Thessalonian promises," he answered thoughtfully. "I am amazed at the numbers of people I come across in my profession who are apparently content to live their life as if it were the fulfilment of all hopes and ambitions, and not merely a pilgrimage here, an incident in eternity; but there, I must be off to the surgery," he concluded, suddenly changing the subject as the clock struck nine. As he was closing the door, he called out hurriedly:
"My old friend Hatherley is coming down here in August to spend his holiday with us."
"Oh, Iamglad!" murmured Mrs. Crane to herself; "John will enjoy that."
Then gathering up her correspondence, she went to interview cook. A thought was in her mind to write Margaret a long motherly letter of sympathy, giving her all the home news of interest she could think of, and especially the Doctor's message.
Weeks drifted into months, and Margaret, much to the satisfaction of the inmates of Oaklands, was still at her post. Mrs. Crane had written and invited her to spend the summer holiday with her in August, but the thought of seeing the Abbey House again seemed more than she could bear just then, and so her old friend's invitation had been refused, and Margaret stayed on in the new environment, each day becoming more necessary in the home of her employers. Another letter had arrived from Mrs. Crane this morning, which yet remained to be answered when she felt there was more news to write about.
The one big fight to gain ascendancy over her pupil had been worth while. It is true Ellice did not give up her opposition without some further struggle, but her wilfulness never again carried her so far. Lesson-time became more pleasant both to governess and pupil, and gradually all thought of direct disobedience passed, sulky silence presently giving way to an interested co-operation.
Mr. Medhurst was not unobservant as to the friendship springing up between Margaret and his small daughter, and was well pleased with the way things were going. His wife spent most of her time in her own room, although she was not a confirmed invalid. She did not give herself much chance of knowing or understanding her children's characters, but she could not help noticing a subtle change in Ellice.
Summer days were quickly passing away, the plentiful green brambles which grew so luxuriantly on the common had ripened into a rich berry harvest; the dainty gossamer houses of the spiders glistened on the hedgerows, the tiny ropes of which caught Margaret Woodford's face as she walked quickly across the spongy turf to the woods. She brushed the irritating threads aside, an anxious expression clouding the usual brightness of her countenance.
She had come away from the house this morning perturbed in spirit, and more worried than she liked to admit to herself. She had not waited to find her pupil, but was wanting to be alone and have time to think quietly. That something serious had happened was easy to see from the trouble discernible in her face. She had had a wakeful night, and a not too pleasant interview with Mrs. Medhurst this morning.
The evening before she had gone up to bed early and sat reading for some time in the quiet retreat of her room—Mr. Medhurst had not returned from town, Mrs. Medhurst had dinner upstairs, and Ellice was in bed. It was Wednesday, and Bob would not be home until the week-end, the September term having just begun.
Upon putting down her book, Margaret had gone to the dressing-table and opened her small jewel-box to put away the brooch she was wearing. For a few moments she had stood still, gazing helplessly at the case before her, astonishment depicted upon her countenance, her expression gradually changing to consternation, as she grasped the unpleasant fact that her beautiful ruby necklace—her mother's chain of rare jewels—the heirloom which had descended to her—was missing.
Then, with fingers that trembled a little, she had turned the box upside down and shaken out her other jewellery upon the table, although it was obvious the chain was not there. She remembered having taken it out the previous day, and carelessly left it lying on the dressing-table. Hastily she opened the chest of drawers and swept the contents aside, hoping to find it had been placed in safe custody by Betsy. Then she had stood up, looking down upon the disorder she had created among her possessions, her breath coming a little gaspingly as she murmured to herself:
"It is gone—stolen——" And a thought, so ugly, so disconcerting, had rushed unbidden to her mind, making her heart beat unpleasantly at the mere suggestion which came as a flash of illumination, to be followed by a cloud of doubt, which enveloped her mind and filled her with untold misery.
She had come to this house a stranger, she had been kindly treated, and had grown fond of the young people who had entered into her life. The household had appeared a strange one, and things had puzzled her. Now something of bitterness sounded in her voice as she spoke her thoughts aloud.
"I trusted them—I trusted themall," and now—the fact could not be doubted, it had to be faced, and faced bravely, she had been robbed, it seemed, by someone in this house who must be a thief. And yet—Could she think it of any of them? The very suspicion sent the hot blood surging to her face—she had felt shamed by the idea of doubting her friends—for they had now become that to her. Even Betsy, the old and valued servant, had lately been ready to do anything for her, and James, too, did many little things which added to her comfort.
She was miserable and upset when she lay down to rest; she did not suspect anyone particularly, and yet the horrid fact that the jewels were gone could not be got over.
Margaret awoke the following morning with a headache; much of the night had been spent in restless, wakeful tossing. Not until the sun was shedding its soft beams through her lattice window did she fall into a troubled sleep.
Immediately after breakfast she asked to see Mrs. Medhurst, and poured out the story of her loss into sympathetic ears.
"My dear Miss Woodford, no wonder you are upset," she said. "Your beautiful necklace you showed me one day—you remember—gone? I can scarcely believe it. I can assure you there are no thieves in this house—at least I have every reason to believe Betsy and James to be above suspicion, they have been so many years in our service, and we have so trusted them—but of course one can never say one isperfectlysure. I suppose you have searched everywhere? Could it have fallen behind the dressing-chest?"
"No, I have looked; I don't think I have left a corner unsearched," answered Margaret. "I have not mentioned the matter to Betsy; I thought it better to speak to you first; I should not like to offend or hurt her, or James, by letting them imagine for a moment I suspected them."
"Quite right, my dear; I think the bare questioning would upset them; and my husband will be deeply concerned; I almost think I would say nothing about it to him just at present, he is not very well, and I am certain it would worry him. I quite expect you will find it somewhere. The children would not steal. Ellice might have looked at it, but beyond that——" and Mrs. Medhurst shrugged her shoulders expressively, denoting the impossibility of her child being implicated in the loss. "My little girl is troublesome, Miss Woodford, I admit it, but—not a thief," she added coldly, with a quick glance at Margaret's face, and a note of almost challenge in her voice.
"Oh, no—no, Mrs. Medhurst, I do not think little Ellice has had anything to do with it," answered Margaret. "She has come into my room sometimes with me, and looked at my things, but I am quite sure she would not dream of taking anything—please do not suppose I imagine it for a moment?"
"Ah, well, let us leave the matter for a little, and both of us keep our eyes open; at present I can see no explanation, but I have no doubt youwillfind your necklace. I should not mention the matter to the child, but have another good search. Ellice can be very troublesome, and she may have hidden it; if so, she must be punished."
Margaret could get no further definite help or suggestion from Mrs. Medhurst—in fact the above conversation had given her an uneasy sense of discomfort; it seemed as if her hostess, although she had sympathised, almost doubted her loss, and considered her personal carelessness was alone responsible.
This morning, as she made her way across the fields, she felt homesick, and almost wished she had never accepted her present post. Mrs. Crane had written more than once to ask if she was happy, and if everything was satisfactory in connection with this household. In fact, now she thought things over, it appeared as if some possibility of her environment not being satisfactory lurked in the minds of her old friends. In her last letter Mrs. Crane had said, "Be sure, my dear child, to tell me exactly all your views, and just what this situation means? Are the Medhursts the right kind of people? Your previous communications are rather vague; give us your full confidence—you know how dear you are to us. The Doctor wants especially to hear if you are quite content in every way with your surroundings; if not, be sure and come away to us at once."
Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above. Mrs. Crane's evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment; but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands.
"I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself. "Whatwouldthey think if they knew? But oh, how I wish I could ask their advice!" She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh, hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods. She presently sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine ofStepping Heavenwards, where the daily round and common task is so naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home.
A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention, and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open and flung himself at Margaret's feet.
"You, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Why—where do you come from? This is only Friday—you are not due until to-morrow."
There was no answer. The boy had thrown himself face downward upon the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands.
Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of moment to the boy, said gently:
"Bob, whatisit? What has happened? Won't you tell me?"
A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then, bending her head, she caught the words:
"Miss Woodford—I'm—I'm in trouble."
"Yes, I guessed so. Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy of her voice reaching his ear.
The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face filled her with a nameless anxiety.
"Tell me all about it. I—-I shall understand," she said kindly. "However bad it is, don't be afraid."
Her tones and manner seemed to give the boy confidence.
"Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little bitterly. "I can stand a licking all right, but—but my father never seems to think—to think I try. He never believes in me; he's told me I'm a rotter so—often. He's fond of Ellice—but sometimes I think hehatesme——"
"Oh, no—no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart. "He doesn't quite understand, that is all. You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it is. You will win his regard yet—I am sure—sure."
There was a pause, and then the boy continued, almost as if she had not spoken:
"He will never forgive me for this. He won't listen to explanations. I got in a rage about something this morning—I can't tell you what for—a boy said something, and I knocked him down. I had a cricket stump in my hand—and—I hurled it at him. I think for the moment I was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a minute. I think I wasblindwith rage. I just rushed away afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone. Later a prefect came and told me the Headmaster wanted me. He gave me this note to deliver to my father, and sent me home with it. He said—I'd hurt—the boy—he'd been unconscious. He asked me to explain what I did it for—but—I couldn't."
"What a pity," said Margaret; "it might have made a difference."
"Yes—I think he would have understood; he's just—but I felt I couldn't. I would not repeat the boy's words—I should have got mad again."
"Poor Bob, I am sorry, dear! Now what can you do? You have a note there, you say. Your father comes home early to-day; let's go at once and tell him—tell him everything and get it over; perhaps he will understand."
"No—he won't, because I can't tell him; if I could, he would, because my father is a gentleman."
Something that sounded like pride echoed in the boy's voice—pride of the right sort—pride that spoke of a secret admiration for the man who yet had never troubled to fathom the depths of his boy's heart.
Margaret felt a hope for better things spring up within her as she noted it. Oh, if only she could bring these two together in a great bond of friendship! The wife and mother seemed a little more aloof, her half Spanish nationality a little bridge always to be crossed, where national character and custom might be at variance. But the boy and the man were essentially English; the strong control evident in both, with a reserve which hid, as she felt sure, hearts of gold.
"Come, Bob dear, let's go—it is nearly lunch-time."
"Miss Woodford, I would rather—rather run away than face my father with this." The boy spoke a little desperately, and the fingers which held the Headmaster's note trembled as he thrust it back into his pocket.
"Bob, I know you are no coward," said Margaret gently; "to run from a difficult post is coward's work. You won't do it, I know. You are trying to be a servant of Christ; isn't that so?"
"I was," he muttered, "but it seems no use."
"Think a moment of what the Captain of your salvation did for you—when the suffering of Calvary had to be endured, and the agony of the cross lay before Him. It says, speaking of Him, He set His face like a flint. He could have escaped that last journey to Jerusalem, have gone back to the glory of His Heavenly Father's home, but for your sake He chose to suffer and to die. Bob, His message to you at this moment seems to me to be some words I read in His Book this morning: 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.' The Holy Spirit, Who filled the heart and life of the Saviour, can come upon you, and make you brave and strong. Ask Him now."
Pressing the boy's hand, Margaret moved a little away, and as she gazed upwards to the blue sky gleaming through the branches overhead, she lifted up a silent petition to the great Friend of all mankind. Her own burden lightened as she laid that of another pilgrim at the feet of Christ.
Her thoughts were disturbed by Bob's voice in her ears:
"Let's go now, Miss Woodford, and get it over."
"Yes, it's late," she answered, neither looking at the boy's face, nor appearing conscious of an apparent change of atmosphere from the excitement of distress to normality. But the quiet, even tones of the boy's voice gave her confidence.
It did not take long to reach home; lunch was just being laid. James paused in astonishment as he saw the two enter the hall, but a look from Margaret silenced the words on his lips.
"Where is Mr. Medhurst?" she asked, in a brisk voice.
"In the library, miss," answered James, and moved on to his duties in the dining-room.
"Come, let's find him," she said, turning to Bob.
"You need not come," he muttered.
"I would like to, if I may?" she asked.
No more was said, and the two entered the room together.
"Bob wants to speak to you, Mr. Medhurst," she said, by way of explanation, and then moved to the window, leaving the boy facing his father. She caught the quick look of surprise deepening into a swift survey of the boy's form as if to ascertain if there had been an accident and he was unhurt. Margaret realised the unspoken anxiety, although it was but momentary. The man was evidently not indifferent to his son's welfare. That cursory glance gave her hope, but even she was scarcely prepared for the sudden change of aspect which now swept over him, his countenance visibly darkening as he said:
"What do you want?" and the icy coldness was enough to estrange any young heart anxious to unburden itself.
A shiver ran down the boy's back as he heard it, for a moment his courage failed, and he stood staring at the stern face in front of him, his own white with the tensity of the moment. Then he pulled himself together, "Endure hardness as a good soldier"—the words rushed to his brain. He raised his head a little more as if to cast away fear with disdain, then, taking out of his pocket the Headmaster's note, he handed it to his father.
"Dr. Armstrong sent me home—and told me to give you that," he said, in a low but clear voice.
Something of a sneer lurked on his father's lips as he took it, then, as he read the contents, his brow contracted with a heavy frown. Fear, deadly fear, came to Margaret as she heard his voice, of, it seemed, concentrated wrath as, with a wave of his hand, he said:
"Get out of the room—go upstairs! I'll come to you."
The boy turned white and hopeless, but Margaret, with real terror in her heart, sprang forward:
"Mr. Medhurst, please—pleaseexcuse me speaking in Bob's behalf, but I am sure, if you knew all the circumstances in this trouble, you would find it in your heart to forgive him," she pleaded.
Mr. Medhurst was too much of a gentleman not to be courteous to a woman, though he could scarcely brook interference.
"You are the counsel for the defence, I perceive, Miss Woodford, but I'm afraid you have no case; perhaps you don't understand my son—myson in blind passion has struck a schoolfellow with a cricket stump and injured him, apparently without provocation, as far as the Headmaster has been able to ascertain."
"And do you believe that, Mr. Medhurst—believe it ofyourson? You don't know Bob fully yet. Your son could never behave like that; to him, a schoolboy, it would not be cricket, would it?"
"That's the gist of the matter, perhaps," he answered; "he is my son, and I expect a decent spirit from him."
"Then let him explain the circumstances, Mr. Medhurst; don't punish him until you have heardeverything—it is only justice."
"Quite true. Can you deny these facts?" asked Mr. Medhurst, tapping the Headmaster's statement, and now addressing Bob, who, at Margaret's intervention, had paused near the door.
"It's true—but—but I was provoked, sir."
"So I suppose; but to what extent?"
"I would rather not say," answered the boy.
"There you are, Miss Woodford, I have followed your advice," said Mr. Medhurst, with a short sarcastic laugh. "You see, the boy has no excuse worthy of consideration; he's ashamed to bring it forward."
"Yes—I am—that's true," broke in Bob. "Don't bother, Miss Woodford; I know I can't escape."
"Bob, you can—you must," Margaret insisted. "Whatever it is, tell your father; trust him, trust him with the full story, and he will understand—I know he will," she said eagerly.
Even Gordon Medhurst was moved by the girl's confidence. Was it possible she was right, and this son of his was not the wastrel he feared and believed?
There was tense silence for a moment, then the boy spoke again:
"I struck the boy Johnson in a passion because—because he said, I ought to be turned out of the eleven because—because——
"Yes—because?" encouraged Margaret.
"Because my father was a—agaol bird; then—I hit him—I hit him hard—and I didn't care how hard."
There was a breathless pause which could almost be felt. Margaret was afraid the others would hear the loud thumping of her heart as the long moments passed. Then in a voice from which it sounded as if all feeling had passed, Mr. Medhurst said quietly:
"What put such an idea in the boy's head, I wonder?"
"He said he heard his father tell a chum," answered Bob.
"What is the boy's name, by the way?"
"Johnson—his father is a barrister."
Did Margaret hear a catch in his breath as Mr. Medhurst said: "Ah, Johnson."
Again there was silence, and then:
"Did you believe the boy's statement?" asked Mr. Medhurst, still in that dull, toneless voice of indifference.
"Believe him, father!" The light of indignant scorn flamed into the boy's eyes and rang in his voice: "Believe him, believe that ofmyfather!"
Mr. Medhurst suddenly leaned forward, a new expression in his face, an interested alertness in his voice.
"I see—you trust me—eh? Then why such excitement over the boy's remark?"
"I punished his insolence, sir. How dared he say such a thing!"
"You knocked him out, evidently. I don't suppose he'll offend again, though I fancy his father may object. This may mean a doctor's bill, but never mind that, I expect there is no serious damage. You had better stay at home until Monday, and meanwhile I will write to Dr. Armstrong. And another time, keep your temper, my son, and treat such remarks with the cold contempt they deserve. I think we must be better friends in the future, eh?" he added. The kindly smile which lit his face as he spoke these last words transfigured it; tears glistened in the boy's eyes.
Margaret left the room hurriedly, a great hope and joy tugging at her heart; for the first time since she came to Oaklands she had seen an expression of affection pass between father and son.