It was a month now since Margaret's necklace had disappeared, and she had almost given up hope of its recovery. Mrs. Medhurst still advised her to continue the search, but to refrain from troubling Mr. Medhurst, as he had so many business worries, and would, she felt sure, be upset by the loss.
"Of course, it is wiser to keep the matter from the children; they can know nothing about it. I have always trusted Betsy and James, they are such old servants, and nothing of the kind has ever happened before. I have questioned them, dear Miss Woodford. We must both watch and wait; still, somehow I feel sure you will recover the jewels. I still think you must have mislaid them. I feel so worried about your loss, I believe I could find it." So she had argued.
Margaret smiled at the suggestion of her having put the necklace away and overlooked it. She had searched her boxes more than once, and turned out all her drawers, and now, anxious to soothe Mrs. Medhurst's anxiety, she promised to go over them all again.
It was Monday evening, Ellice was in bed, and Mr. Medhurst had not yet returned from a day in town, and Margaret (deciding it would be very comfortable to take a book and read in her own domain) went upstairs determined to have an extra rest. She passed Mrs. Medhurst's room on her way, and as she did so a slight sound attracted her attention.
To her amazement she saw the flash of an electric light, and then caught sight of a figure bending over the dressing-table and evidently gazing intently at something she held in her left hand, while with the right she concentrated the beam from her torch upon the object of interest.
Margaret stood silently watching for a few moments, petrified with astonishment as she perceived what it was the light was concentrated upon.
There was no mistaking her employer's beautiful figure. The door was wide open, and the girl was unnoticed by the occupant of the room, who was apparently so absorbed she did not notice the light tread as Margaret suddenly advanced to her side. The room was partly drowned in shadow, but a bright beam of moonlight lit up the two, the one so unconscious of the other's presence. Then a sharp cry burst involuntarily from Margaret's lips as she darted forward and caught Mrs. Medhurst's wrist in a firm grasp.
"You—you!" she exclaimed, almost a ring of anguish in the indignant tones of her voice.
A startled exclamation broke from her employer, as the lost necklace fell from her nerveless fingers.
"You—you thethief, Mrs. Medhurst? Oh, I could never have dreamed it possible!" said Margaret agitatedly. "You—who pretended such sympathy, and help! No wonder you said you believed you could find it." The last words were bitter in their reproach.
Mrs. Medhurst had somewhat recovered herself, although she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. Then she stepped back a pace and drew herself up to her full height, and, forcing indignation into her voice, answered haughtily:
"I think you must be mad! How dare you accuse me of such things! I will send you out of my house at a moment's notice if you repeat here, or to anyone else, your absurd accusations."
Margaret was almost stunned by the answer; she felt herself falling into an awkward position, although the certainty still dwelt in her mind that in this superbly elegant woman before her she had discovered the thief she had been looking for.
"If you did not take the necklace, Mrs. Medhurst, can you tell me how it comes to be in your possession?" she asked quietly.
Meanwhile another figure had come softly up the stairs, and now stood in the doorway, a silent listener to the conversation.
"I can easily answer that question," answered Mrs. Medhurst, with a short, contemptuous laugh. "I went out into the garden a few moments ago to get a little cool air, it has been so stifling to-day, and as I walked down the drive I saw something which looked bright in the moonlight. I picked it up, and discovered it was your lost property. I meant to give it you in the morning; you had better take it now." With this she stooped and gathered the gemmed chain into her hands, and held it out to Margaret with a little cold smile.
Margaret took it with shaking fingers, the ready words of gratitude which would ordinarily have sprung from her heart at its restoration seemed frozen upon her lips. There was a moment's tense silence when each looked into the eyes of the other, and then, almost unconsciously, the glances of both, as if by intuition, turned towards the door.
There stood the master of the house, his face drawn and white, an expression of silent misery on his countenance, as he looked steadily at his wife. A start—and a smothered groan escaped her.
"Gordon—you—you—have—heard?" she whispered, in low, broken tones.
"Yes—I have heard, and understood, Lucille," he answered slowly.
In a flash the woman's whole demeanour changed; with a cry almost like that of a tortured animal, she sank down at Margaret's feet.
"Oh—I've broken—my promise. I couldn't help it—— I—I—-was so tempted," she moaned. "It was—so—lovely—I just wanted to have it—to look at sometimes—— Gordon—Gordon, forgive me!—it shall—be the last time—I promise——"
"Get up," he answered sternly, giving her his hand—and, helping her to rise, he led her to a couch, where she buried her head in the cushions, smothering the sobs which shook her frame.
"Miss Woodford, you now know the tragedy of our lives," he said bitterly. "We place ourselves in your hands; we have no right to ask your mercy. Perhaps you would—like—to—send for the police," he added slowly.
"Send for—the police? What for?" gasped Margaret.
"To arrest me," he answered.
"But—why—you? It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Medhurst!" she replied, in amazement.
"I shall give myself up, and admit the theft to whoever may offer an arrest," he answered.
"Mr. Medhurst—I cannot understand," answered Margaret.
"No, Miss Woodford—of course you cannot. I will explain: My wife has made a similarmistakebefore, and I have served some months in a world behind the scenes. You must understand," he continued, almost fiercely, "I am ready to serve again." Then, turning towards Mrs. Medhurst, he said, "Hush—hush, Lucille; you will be ill if you excite yourself so."
All his sternness had vanished, lost in an infinite pity as he bent over his wife's couch.
She clutched his hand hysterically.
"Gordon—you shan't suffer again. Tell her to go and give information—I will be here, and I will admit I took it. Tell her to go—go quickly——"
And again the woman's head sank into the downy hiding-place.
Slowly great tears welled up into Margaret Woodford's eyes, as she saw and heard the true nature of the secret of Oaklands, and understood.
The quiet man stood out in heroic light, and yet to him how small a matter the punishment inflicted by the law to the daily dread—the covering of the old fault—and the daily, hourly strain to prevent a further fall. Yet here it was in all its hideousness, displayed to Margaret Woodford—the one outside element who had been received into a stricken house.
For a moment emotion held her silent, and then, with quick steps, she moved across the room, and sank down by Mrs. Medhurst's couch.
"Don't—don't cry—you poor—poor woman! You have restored my property," she said gently—the tears rolling unbidden down her sweet face. "Dear Mrs. Medhurst,howyou must have suffered—and to think you thought I would ever say anything. Oh, I can't bear to dwell upon it! You must let me help you in your trouble—and the necklace? Of course you liked to look at it—everyone does—and you may take it whenever you like, and keep it all your life, if you wish—I shall never ask for it——"
"You would do that forme—a thief?" gasped Mrs. Medhurst, starting up from her pillows, and gazing with amazement at the girl before her.
"Yes, yes—indeed I would—I offer it freely: don't doubt me. You have all been sweet and good to me—do you think I forget? If there is a secret to be kept at Oaklands, remember I am a member of this household now—you welcomed me into your home—and the mystery can remain always unsolved by the outside world, so far as I am concerned."
There was silence in the room for a few minutes; Margaret still knelt by Mrs. Medhurst's couch, gently chafing her hands, while the other cried quietly with an abandonment of grief difficult to overcome.
Presently Margaret rose and gently released the cold hands she held, and turned to leave the room.
Mr. Medhurst's voice arrested her footsteps. As she reached the door, he took one stride towards her, and held out his hand: "We can never, never thank you sufficiently for your generous attitude of mind, Miss Woodford. I don't understand why you spare us?"
"Mr. Medhurst, the reason is, we are all answerable to the same Master," she answered gently, as she accepted his hand.
"What master?" he answered, looking puzzled.
"One Who gave us this command for all time and all ages, 'Bear ye one another's burdens and so fulfil the law of Christ,'" she replied.
"And that is your religion?" he interrogated.
"It is an order of the King of kings sent to me by His servant, and I love to try and obey it—because——"
"Yes—because——?"
"I love Him, Christ, my Lord and my God," she answered softly.
Mrs. Medhurst's sobs had ceased now, and except for the ticking of the clock, there was silence in the room. Then:
"I wish I could say those words; a practical faith such as yours must mean the peace of God which passeth understanding, of which I have heard, but never experienced," Mr. Medhurst said sadly.
"Those who seek always find, if they seek with all their hearts—and oh, Mr. Medhurst, in all the big troubles of life, as well as the small ones, that peace is always a reality to us when we trust; we only get faithless when we look down at the difficulties, instead of up to Him Who never fails. Good night," she finished—a little hurriedly, almost afraid she had said too much. Turning swiftly, she vanished into the darkened passage, and went to her room. She was a good deal shaken by all she had just been through, and a feeling of exhaustion followed the excitement. She understood now the nature of Mrs. Medhurst's failing, and the loyalty of her husband who had borne the burden of his wife's disgrace. The reason for their life's seclusion in this quiet little place was fully explained. Society, and his old friends, had broken with the man who had endured imprisonment, and the wretched woman who had been pitied, and yet shunned by the set who once were proud to associate with her, had willingly left them to drift into obscurity.
Fortunately the children were young in those first days of trouble, and their father was most anxious the shadow should not fall upon them if it could be prevented. His son he intended sending abroad when he was older, and his little daughter might be guarded for many years in her own home. Her education had always been a difficulty, for her mother's lassitude and spoiling had nearly wrecked the charm of a naturally generous and affectionate disposition. Father and son had always been antagonistic. The strain and sorrow of Mr. Medhurst's life had caused an irritability at times which had dulled any sympathy and understanding he might have felt for Robert.
To this strange household Margaret Woodford believed she had been sent upon a work of ministry for the King Whom she acknowledged as the Overlord of her life.
As she sat now in her room, thinking of all the difficulties of her present situation, an intense longing to be faithful arose in her heart. It was a wonderful thought, that for service she had been selected to serve just here—chosen—and called—it was almost as if the King had said, speaking of this particular post: "Who will go for us?" and she had answered, "Here am I, send me."
For a moment she sank upon her knees, and an unspoken prayer arose to the Throne of God: "Give me wisdom and strength by the power of Thy Holy Spirit to befaithful." She knew the way might yet be difficult, and there would no doubt be many future trials to bear, but with a quick transition of thought the hymn lines, so simple in their direction to God's people, flashed into her mind:
"Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed?To do the will of Jesus, this is rest."
and in the calmness engendered by that thought, she lay down to sleep that night, content to leave all to the guidance of Him Who is not only the Everlasting Father—and Prince of Peace; but the Mighty God—and Counsellor.
In spite of weariness, human frailty, and, sometimes, lack of faith, Margaret's ministry for the King Whom she loved was a real one. She was conscious of unworthiness, and had a sensitive dread of being considered one who talked religion, and posed as a religious person. She knew only too well that she herself was among the sinners who have all fallen short of the glory of God; but she believed in the greatness of the Saviour's redeeming power, and His willingness to accept as His servants all who turn in repentance to Him. Frances Ridley Havergal's lines just expressed her need, and the faith He asks of all of us:
"Jesus, I will trust Thee,Trust without a doubt,Whosoever comethThou wilt not cast out."
She could never have quite said when she first believed that. Gradually the knowledge of God's love had come to her; from His own Word rather than from any other source she had found the truth as it is in Jesus. He Who had stood before the great Galilean crowds of men, boys, women, and young girls, and cried, "Come unto Me all ye that are weary and are heavy laden," so calling all the world to find their happiness in Him—had calledher—and as a young schoolgirl she had responded to that call, giving Him back the answer He asked: "Jesus, I will trust Thee, help me by Thy Holy Spirit to be Thy faithful servant."
She needed no priest to intervene, but, like the woman who met the Lord by the well of Samaria, she found her Saviour alone, and He spoke through His Word to her heart. The natural and only outcome of that meeting of sinner and Saviour was a desire to henceforth live to His honour, and again, like the Samaritan, she felt the desire to tell others of the God Who had won her love by His own.
Someone had asked her once to explain what was the difference between the professing Christian and the kind, good-living man or woman who did not profess faith in Christ.
"To me it is like this," she had answered. "Before I became His servant, when I did wrong I did not particularly care unless it brought trouble to me personally, but after, when I consciously sinned, I was miserable, because I felt and knew I had dishonoured Christ. As we read of Peter, after his denial of his Master, he went out and wept bitterly—that last word 'bitterly' shows the meaning, I think; his tears were not for his own trouble, but they were tears—bitter tears of shame and regret that he had failed towards the One Who had loved and trusted him."
Margaret's explanation had silenced the critic. The true followers of Christ repent their failures, while their grief is often hidden from the eyes of man. But the Lord lifts up the fallen and gives strength for the needs of the battle, not only for to-day, but until the warfare is over, and then the servant of God enters into the presence of his King, and inHis righteousnessis presentedfaultlessbefore His Father's Throne.
It is just a wonderful religion—glorious, all-satisfying to the inner cravings of every restless heart—so Margaret Woodford had found it, and her little work of gratitude and returned love just went on day by day, like the stone which is cast into still waters, and causes the ripples to extend and overlap until they come to the edge of the surface, and touch the land. Thus the little words, little actions, done for Christ's sake will pass on and on until they find their consummation in eternity, in that country from which comes the promise, "I will not forget your work and labour of love which ye have showed for My Name's sake."
And this message of love and mercy Margaret carried in different ways to all the inmates of Oaklands, even into the seclusion of Mrs. Medhurst's life.
It was not an easy matter to approach the latter, but, finding her one day in an abandonment of grief, Margaret knelt down by her side, and with real sympathy just drew her towards the secret of eternal rest.
Mrs. Medhurst had listened to all she said and had not been offended, and from that day onwards it became a little added work to spend half an hour, or sometimes an hour, in reading and talking to her employer of the things she loved.
"And you can forgive me? Forgive what I did, and come to me like this!" had been Lucille Medhurst's astonished cry. "Miss Woodford, if ever I can believe as you do, it will be because I see your religion is areality," she had said.
"It will be by the power of the Holy Spirit, Mrs. Medhurst," was Margaret's answer, "for we cannot come unto God except by Him, and He draws all who are willing."
So the little work of a daily ministry went on at Oaklands.
* * * * *
"Miss Woodford, may I show you something?" said Bob, as he entered the schoolroom one day at the close of a cold winter's afternoon and found Margaret and Ellice busy working, sitting by a lovely log fire which spluttered and sent out lively sparks as the flame travelled up the chimney.
"Oh, I say, it is jolly warm here!" exclaimed the boy, as he flung himself down by the hearth. "I am tired, I can tell you. It's a big trudge up the hill after the train gets in."
"Oh, yes—don't I know? I remember my first drive here. Shall I ever forget it?" laughed Margaret. "I wondered whenever I was coming to the end; it seemed a tremendous distance in the dark. But never mind that, you said you had something to show us——"
"Yes, what is it?" broke in Ellice eagerly.
"This," answered Bob, drawing from his pocket a triangle design worked in silks within which a unicorn ramped, a Latin motto pressing its feet.
"Oh, Bob, your colours! How splendid! I am glad—and First Eleven too! Won't your father be proud of you?"
"Don't mention it to him, please," said the boy, colouring. "He thinks me such a rotter at work, and he may be vexed—and think I waste my time at games——"
A bright smile lit Margaret's face as she replied.
"You have no eyes, old boy, or you wouldn't say that. Didn't you ever notice your father reading the cricket news in the summer? Don't make any mistake, I'm nearly sure he's a sportsman, and don't you doubt for a moment but he'll appreciate your success. A boy doesn't get his first 'eleven' colours without some trouble, perseverance, and grit. Just show this to Mr. Medhurst, and see if I am not right?"
"Shall I go and tell him about it?" said Ellice, springing to her feet.
"No—no, child, it's your brother's news; let him have that pleasure."
At that moment there was a tread of footsteps outside the room, and then a knock, followed by the opening of the door.
"May I come in, Miss Woodford?" said Mr. Medhurst, as he entered. "You sound lively in here."
"Oh, yes—daddy, come—Bob's got——"
"Hush!" interposed Margaret, shaking her head at the eager child, who immediately stopped short in her sentence with, "Oh, I am not to tell."
"Bob's got, what?" asked Mr. Medhurst, turning to his son, with interested face, from which the thunder-clouds of old days were absent.
Bob coloured furiously, then rather shyly drew out his trophy.
"Only this, father," he said awkwardly, placing it in Mr. Medhurst's outstretched hand.
"What—colours! Yours? First Eleven? Well done, Bob! Iampleased! I congratulate you; it's something worth having—reminds me, too, of old days," he finished, with a laugh.
"Why, did you play cricket, daddy?" asked Ellice.
"Well, little lady, I suppose I did; was School Captain one season; if I remember rightly, just missed my blue at the 'Varsity by a bit of bad luck."
"Father!" exclaimed Bob, his eyes shining, "do tell us about it?"
The two, father and son, in many ways so much alike, forgot all their old reticence towards each other, and were soon deep in the stories of old triumphs of the field, henceforth bound together by a great sympathetic bond never to be broken.
Margaret sat and listened with a double interest, watching life-barriers broken down, barriers which had so nearly wrecked the happiness of a home.
Margaret seemed to have found her niche in the little parish of Wychcliff, where she had come as a stranger in the first days of her great sorrow. Oaklands had now gradually become a second home. The dread secret she shared with her employers was jealously guarded, but often in the solitude of her room it would stare her in the face, and bring a cloud of depression over an otherwise happy day.
The better understanding between Bob and his father, which had begun with the school trouble, had been a great relief to her mind: the domestic atmosphere of the whole house had been brighter and more congenial since that day. But words spoken then, and not much heeded at the time, had often recurred to her mind afterwards, at first with a sense of shock.
Bob's schoolfellow had said he was the son of a gaol-bird. This announcement, coming so quickly after the loss of her necklace, had presented an ugly possibility, and at first she had not been able to shake off the misery of doubt concerning her host, and yet when she had looked at his face, and studied his personality, she had been ashamed of the wretched suspicion which had dared to lift its ugly head. In her heart of hearts she had not really doubted him—there was something indefinite in this man which breathed a hidden nobility of character. Margaret had felt she could only hope, and pray that the mystery might some day be fully explained to the world. Mrs. Medhurst had not again alluded to their confidences in regard to the loss, and Margaret felt she did not like to bring the subject up again, for fear of causing sadness. Then the unpleasant incident in connection with Bob, in spite of all her efforts to forget it, worried her more than she cared to admit to herself, for although she understood in a measure the truth concerning her employer, she felt all was not quite clear.
Ellice's moods were still variable, and at times the patience of her governess was sorely tried. A ramble in the woods and "tree-stories," as she called them, often drove the stormy clouds away, and gradually a real affection sprang up in the child's heart for the teacher who could be firm and, in spite of provocation, could keep her temper.
It was a great asset—that keeping calm. There was never a scene of violence, for Margaret did not need the use of hot, angry words to stem the torrent of passionate outbursts which even now sometimes fell from the child's lips. At such times Ellice was transformed from a charming, affectionate little person into a spoilt, unpleasant, and objectionable child.
But if her temper was bad, her repentance was real; she would just fling herself into Margaret's arms after a storm, and exclaim, "Oh, Miss Woodford, I was nasty!—I hate myself! I don't know what makes me so horrid—I seem as if I can't be good." And just because the battle was great, Margaret's sympathy went out to her charge, and gently, gradually she led her to fight daily against the second self which troubled her, and also to pray for strength in the battle.
Ellice would sometimes begin her tantrums (they could be called nothing else), and suddenly remember—yes, remember—with a pang of remorse for her defection, God's own word, "Better is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city." In an instant she would rush away to the window, and, clenching her hands tight, and fixing her eyes upon the sky, she would send a cry from her heart to the Throne for victory. It was a silent cry.
Margaret guessed the greatness of the fight as she watched the little girl's battling for control, her figure tense with emotion. But God, Who reads the secrets of every heart, heard the unbreathed words, "You—you Who love me, now while I am bad, help me not to say the nasty words, and to conquer"; a child's prayer, but how precious! Slowly but surely her character was strengthened, and the sweetness of disposition predominated over the wilful selfishness which had formerly held full sway.
It was at this period of her life that something occurred to break up the quiet serenity of Oaklands. The place was very isolated. The parish boasted a tiny church, one of the very smallest in England, standing on the edge of the woods, and encircled by about a dozen cottages, the older inhabitants of which had never left their native hills or seen the railway. A state of things marvellous indeed in this century of movement, but none the less true. Oaklands was the only house of any standing in the neighbourhood.
The vicar of Steynham came once on Sunday and held a service in the church; beyond that, visitors rarely found their way to this little old-world hamlet, where Time had swept away most of the traces of a former civilisation which in past days had dwelt in the vicinity of the great forest. Nothing but a waterless moat and a ruined wall remained to mark the spot where a bishop's palace had once been. The Elizabethan residence bearing its name Oaklands, redolent of the forest district in which it stood, was quaint and picturesque. Its leaded windows, gables, and oak-panelled frontage, with massive beams running across the ceilings of the rooms, and handsome wainscotings to the walls, gave it a quaint, old-world air.
The farm was such a poor one, that when the last tenant had died, the place had remained empty and out of repair for a long time, and it was through an advertisement that the Medhursts had first heard of it and had decided, in their search for a home far from the madding crowd, to do it up and live there in strict retirement.
* * * * *
Margaret awoke one morning to a sense of oppression which at first seemed to cloud all her faculties. A great lethargy pervaded her whole being; then an unpleasant difficulty in breathing caused her to struggle, and she awoke. Panting with the effort, she became conscious of a suffocating sense of smoke choking her mouth and nostrils. Margaret Woodford was always resourceful, and as the fact impressed itself upon her mind that there was danger and difficulty, with an almost superhuman effort she roused herself sufficiently to slide out of bed and stagger to the door. As she opened it, she was met by an increased density of smoke which, with the draught from the staircase window, poured into her apartment. But a rush of sweet fresh air from a landing window revived her, and, crossing to Mr. Medhurst's room, she rapped at the door, saying in a low voice, "Can I speak to you, please?" Quietly he responded, but as he opened the door her news was understood instantly.
"I will fetch Ellice, and call Betsy," Margaret said, and, without waiting for any answer, she entered Ellice's room and, speaking reassuringly to her, picked her up in her strong young arms and carried her out on to the landing and down the stairs to the drawing-room, which seemed free from all taint of fire.
"Stay there; don't move, child—I shall be back in a moment." With this she ran again up the smoke-laden staircase to the second landing and Betsy's apartment.
Mr. Medhurst meanwhile was experiencing difficulty in arousing his wife; he knew her heart was not strong, and was anxious not to alarm her more than was necessary.
Unfortunately Betsy had been awakened by hearing the unusual sounds of movement in the house, and as Margaret came up the staircase to her room, she opened her door, to be met by the increasing volume of smoke.
With senseless panic she threw up her arms and shrieked wildly, "Fire!—Fire!" The wild cry rang through the house, and in a moment Mrs. Medhurst was all too effectively aroused:
"My child!—my child! Save her!—save her!" she cried, as, clutching her husband's arm, she emerged on to the landing.
"She is safe, Mrs. Medhurst—downstairs; let me help you," said Margaret gently, going to her further support; but in a moment Mrs. Medhurst staggered back against her husband in a fainting condition. A moment more, and James came to his master's aid, and between them they carried her downstairs.
"It is all right, child, your mother feels faint; now be useful—put a cushion nicely for her," said Margaret's quiet voice, as the terrified child met them at the entrance.
Margaret and Betsy set about restoring Mrs. Medhurst while the master ran to the cottages nearest for assistance. More quickly than in ordinary times it would have seemed possible, the men arrived with pails of water brought from the horse-pond. No fire-engine was available nearer than six miles, and a grave danger which has come to many an isolated farmhouse now threatened Oaklands.
The smoke was issuing in volumes from a cupboard in the pantry, but no sign of flame came from there. Quickly Mr. Medhurst ran his hands over the surrounding walls, only to find they were unaffected.
"Try the kitchen, sir—maybe the old beam's caught," said James.
And James was right. The picturesque oak beam which crossed the kitchen chimney was, in the structure of the house carried down at the back of the old range, and this had evidently become ignited. Why it had endured its torturing position so long without kindling, no one can say. Now, as Mr. Medhurst ran his hand over the walls circling the mantelshelf, he came upon a spot which was red hot.
"There it is!" he exclaimed, and with a few blows of a pickaxe a man tore an opening in the brickwork, quickly to discover fire raging fiercely where the old beam was fully alight. Pails of water, and an old garden syringe (which was the only thing in the nature of a hose to be found) soon did their extinguishing work, and presently the scent of charred wood and a broken wall were the only signs of the grave danger which had threatened Oaklands.
"God's mercy it didn't brak out airly in the neight," muttered a thoughtful helper; "the ould place would a ben burnt to a cinder."
The results of the fire were not so happily over as the inmates thought. From that day Mrs. Medhurst's strength seemed to fail her, and Mr. Medhurst and Margaret both saw the coming change which was to completely alter the life of everyone of the household.
It was in the glory of August days of sunshine that Mrs. Medhurst grew daily weaker. Although sickness had taken away her almost royal beauty, and left her outwardly little resemblance to the handsome woman who had first welcomed Margaret into her home, there was now a sweet expression upon the patient face of the invalid. Sorrow had touched her deeply, but in the trouble she had turned to One of Whom it is said, "He knows what lies in the darkness." And into the darkness of a thraldom, the chains which she of herself could not break, He Who alone can set the devil's captives free, had broken the fetters which had bound her.
"God knows what a temptation I have had at times, Miss Woodford," she had whispered, finding relief at last in pouring her story into sympathetic ears. "Jewels attracted me so by their luxurious beauty. I stole some beads when I was a little child, and later a watch with pearl initials, and later still other small things I hid, and was afraid to wear—and for years I deceived my friends. Then my father found out I had something which a friend staying at my home accused me of taking—and—and—he turned me out—and it was when I was trying to earn my living I met my husband first. I never told him my weakness for fear he would turn from me, and I had no strength from Him you tell me of—He Who is mighty to save——"
"And forgive," whispered Margaret gently. The tears came into Lucille Medhurst's eyes.
"Yes, I know now. You have shown me His love, and I can go to Him without fear."
Margaret's heart thrilled as she heard these words.
"It is not all my story—but—I have told Him—my Saviour—and the burden is gone."
Then she roused for a little.
"And—my children—Miss Woodford?" The glance was interrogatory and pleading.
"I will do anything I can," said Margaret, with tears of pity, as she lightly pressed the patient's hands.
Mrs. Medhurst closed her eyes, and an expression of relief fell upon her face. Gently and peacefully she passed into the new land of God's Love, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.
With a thoughtful air Horace Hatherley put down the newspaper, where he had been studying the column of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and with an expression of abstraction gazed out into the garden in front of him, deep in retrospect.
His friend Dr. Crane's voice broke the spell.
"What's the problem, Hatherley?" asked the newcomer, pausing by his chair as he spoke.
"A name here" (indicating the newspaper upon his knee) "has brought back old days, and a dramatic episode to my mind."
"What is it?—let's have the tale if it's worth the telling."
Dr. Hatherley did not answer at once—but after a slight pause:
"This is in confidence," he said seriously—"there is something I should like to share with you; as I said, a name long unheard, as far as I am concerned, has caught my eye, and brought back an old doubt to my mind."
"You may trust me," said Dr. Crane, sitting down, and pulling his pipe out of his pocket, which he lighted with a taper ignited at the glowing fire in front of him.
"I see here," began Horace Hatherley, "the death of Lucille Medhurst"—picking up the paper again and pointing to the announcement as he spoke.
A flash of interest kindled in his friend's eyes.
"Yes—what of it? Did you know her?"
"Slightly—I met her first upon her wedding day. He—her husband—was—my—friend."
These last words were said slowly, and sadly.
"What—Medhurst of that address—Oaklands, Wychcliff?"
"Yes—that one."
"Then you know something of him now? Excuse me asking, but Margaret Woodford from the Abbey House here, went to that man's home as governess when her father died—he failed, you may remember?"
Dr. Hatherley nodded.
"What do you know of them? As a matter of fact, I've been a little worried," continued Dr. Crane, "that my old friend Woodford's daughter went to their house: whispers have reached me of some mystery attaching to the place. It certainly seems an out-of-the-way spot for a man, whom I believe is a gentleman of means, to live in."
"Yes—he's wealthy, but there is a reason—but remember, Crane—I repeat it, if I divulge to you Medhurst's story, I do it in confidence. He was my friend—and I am his friend while I have breath."
"I quite understand, and will fully respect the confidence whatever it is," answered Dr. Crane. The last words—"I am his friend"—and the warm tone of the speaker's voice, had done a good deal to reassure the listener.
"Medhurst was at school and college with me, one of the best and straightest chaps one could ever meet, and we were closely in touch with one another after our 'Varsity days. Then he went abroad for a few years, travelling for the sole purpose of seeing the world—money, of course, being no object. We corresponded at first, and then it dropped, and I lost sight of him, until he surprised me one day by writing to announce his approaching marriage with a girl, half Spanish by birth, whom he had met abroad, and who was staying with friends in town at that moment.
"Well, to make a long story short, I was invited to the wedding, which shortly after took place, and in fact to be Gordon's best man. It was then I saw Lucille Don Rosa for the first time, and I was not surprised at my friend's infatuation, for she was a very beautiful girl, but with a proud cold beauty and a detached air which made me wonder even then if my friend had made a mistake in his choice.
"However, time passed, and I saw little of them; they lived in a society whirl, and I was, as you know, a hardworking student scarcely in their swim. Then quite suddenly tragedy closed their door of happiness. Lady Crosby held a big reception, they were among the guests, and I, probably through their influence, received an invitation.
"The thing wasn't in my line, but I decided to accept. There was a big crowd, and a Miss Vandevor, an American heiress, was present, wearing a very famous ruby necklace. Of course detectives mingled with the crowd. Before the evening was half over all exits were closed, and it was announced that Miss Vandevor's necklace had been stolen—unclasped from her throat in the crush.
"The suggestion was then made that we men should turn out our pockets—and, Crane, I can tell you this, during those moments I received the biggest shock of my life, for Medhurst, before any detective approached him, took the gems from his pocket, and in a dead kind of voice said, 'I see it's hopeless to escape, so I admit I was tempted.' He laid the necklace in the owner's lap, and then stood motionless, facing the crowd almost with a defiant expression it seemed to be, although he was white to his lips.
"His wife fainted dead away, and was carried from the room. I was stunned for the moment, then I moved to his side, and expostulated.
"'My dear old chap,' I said, 'you don't know what you are saying; there's a mistake somewhere—some thief present has evidently dropped the thing into your pocket.' It was an illuminating thought, and I turned to the public and made the suggestion loudly. 'Surely someone has seen this done,' I added, with great assurance. 'No, I took it—I coveted its possession, and I am ready to bear the consequences,' was his answer."
Dr. Hatherley paused, then continued: "Well, the whole horrible story was repeated at the trial, although I urged a plea should be put forward for sudden aberration of the brain, in my confidence as to my friend's innocence; of course no one heeded me, and he was convicted and—and—suffered—a—nine months'—sentence."
Horace Hatherley's voice shook as he finished, and for a little neither of the men spoke, then he resumed: "Mrs. Medhurst was practically ignored by her so-called friends, and vanished, I know not where—probably to this out-of-the-way place you mention. No one seemed to remember her after the first whirl of excitement was over, and as to the husband, his memory seemed to be blotted out by most of those who had known him.
"But I say this, Crane, I am as confident to-day, as I was at his trial, that in some way there was a miscarriage of justice, and somewhere in the world may live the man or woman he was screening. It seems hardly just to suggest it, but the thought will come sometimes—could it have been his wife? And yet, poor lady, I have no reason for doubting her. Seeing her death announced made the whole thing come back to my mind with revivified force."
Dr. Crane's pipe had long since gone out for lack of attention.
"It's a wonderfully sad and yet interesting story," he remarked; "I will of course keep it to myself, but had I known this earlier, I should certainly have tried to save Margaret Woodford from going to employers with this shadow over them."
"Oh, you needn't worry," said his friend, a little testily, "or I shall be sorry I told you; you may take it from me, any woman would be safe under the care of such a chivalrous gentleman as Gordon Medhurst. There is a mistake somewhere; I hope in some way—God's way, perhaps—his name will be cleared."
* * * * *
It was some weeks later that Dr. Hatherley noticed another announcement in his morning paper which brought a fervent "Thank God!" to his lips as he read it. It was headed:
"AN OLD SOCIETY CRIME RECALLED
"Through her lawyers the late Lucille Medhurst wishes it to be known that she alone was responsible for the loss of Miss Vandevor's necklace ten years ago; her husband, who suffered the full penalty of the law, was wholly innocent. Her full confession is in our hands."
"I always knew he was innocent," said his friend, laying the paper down with a sigh of relief.
The tragedy of Mrs. Medhurst's death had wrought many changes. Ellice had been sent away to a boarding-school at Margaret's suggestion, and she herself had gone to live with Mrs. Crane as companion—but, as that lady put it in her letter, "more as a daughter of the house than a dependent, dear—the daughter I have always wanted to take care of us in our old age."
Mr. Medhurst went abroad for a few years, and then something new and unexpected happened which changed the lives of all the inmates of Oaklands.
Under the old oak tree a girl sat, her head buried in her hands in an abandonment of grief: it was Ellice Medhurst, no longer the little child who had in earlier years fled to the woods to soothe her childish griefs, but a tall girl of fifteen, merging into womanhood. Near her stood a young man looking down upon her with rather a puzzled countenance, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.
"I don't see what's the use of making a fuss, Ellice," he remarked.
"Because it won't be anything to you—you will be off to college directly," she answered, "and I shall be left with her. I won't bear it, Bob—I can't. I know I shall hate her—and father will—will never think of me—now," she ended with a sob.
"Look here, Sis," said her brother, after a slight pause, "I think it's mean of you to take up this attitude. Here's father coming home to-day, and because he's chosen to marry again, you are putting yourself out, and making up your mind to be as beastly as you can to her—his wife, I mean. I know you—you can be nasty when you like—at least you used to be," he corrected. "You've been jolly decent lately; now you are going to spoil it all by being mean."
"Mean? I don't understand. In what way am I mean—and to whom?"
"To father, of course," was the emphatic answer—at Ellice's amazed repetition of the words. "You are going to spoil all his happiness by taking up this role of being injured. Dad will, of course, want you to like her—the message in his letter is plain enough, 'I hope you will do your best to give us both a welcome'—and all I can say is, whateveryoudo, I mean to go home and receive them. Come on, Sis, pull yourself together! It doesn't say much for your love for dad, if you set out to cause him trouble like this, and spoil his happiness. Be nice; very likely she won't be half bad. I expect she dreads seeing us quite as much as we dread seeing her. What's the honour of keeping smiling only when things are pleasant? Come on—get over it. I'm off; it's nearly time they arrived."
There was silence for a moment, and Bob stood fidgeting by his sister, then in half-disgusted tones he said:
"I can't wait any longer for you; if you won't come—youwon't." And with a quick stride he turned and made his way down the avenue towards home.
For a few minutes longer the struggle for victory went on in Ellice Medhurst's heart, then suddenly she jumped up with the muttered words, "I'll try; Bob must be right." She ran lightly down the path after him, and caught him up at the edge of the wood.
"I'm coming with you," she whispered breathlessly, as she grasped his arm.
"Well done, young 'un!" he answered. "Come on, we must run, or we shall be late."
* * * * *
"Here they come!" shouted Bob, as two figures turned into the drive—a smothered exclamation escaped him as he rushed to the front door.
Ellice did not follow immediately, her knees were shaking, and she felt strung up to such a pitch of mental excitement she hardly felt capable of following Bob at first. Then suddenly she heard her father's voice saying, "Where's Ellice?" The reaction came immediately; she flew to the door, and threw herself blindly into her father's arms with a smothered sob.
"Why, ladybird, what is it?" he said, stroking her hair gently. "Look—have you no word of welcome for my wife?"
"Ellice, dear child," said Margaret's voice gently.
The girl started, raising her head, and looked wonderingly into the sweet face of her old governess. Then the great fact dawned upon her mind—Margaret Woodford, whom she loved, was the new stepmother she had dreaded.
"You?—You?" she exclaimed, clasping the hands extended towards her. "Oh, how lovely!"
Tears of joy glistened in Margaret's eyes.
"I think you can see the reward of other years now, can't you?" whispered her husband, and Margaret did see, and was wondrously content.
* * * * *
Two months passed quickly away—two months of unalloyed happiness to Margaret in her new life.
It was her birthday, and she stood looking out upon the frost-clothed lawn glistening in a bath of winter sunshine, waiting for the others to come down to breakfast. It was November—cold, still, and bright.
Presently she felt her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and heard his voice saying:
"Many happy returns! Here is my double present for your wedding and your birthday," and he placed an important looking envelope in her hands.
At first Margaret gazed at the packet uncomprehendingly, then the nature of the gift became clear.
"The Abbey House!" she exclaimed. "You have bought the Abbey—House—Gordon?"
"Yes, and I now present it to my wife," he said gaily. "I hope she is pleased?"
"Pleased? I can scarcely believe it—the dear old home—ours?"
"Yes, the late owners are going abroad and wanted to sell, and at last I have got what I have been hoping to have the opportunity of purchasing for some time. We will go there to live, dear, as soon as you like."
"Oh, I don't know how to thank you!—it is beyond my wildest dreams," answered Margaret. "I so loved the place. But, Gordon (the brightness fading a little from her face), how will Ellice like leaving Oaklands? She is just as attached to it as I was to the old home."
"I know," answered Mr. Medhurst; "we will keep it, dear, and come out here in the summer months. Betsy and James can remain in charge."
"That will be splendid, and please us all," she answered quietly, adding, as if to herself, "I sometimes wonder why God has been so bountiful to me."
We leave Margaret Woodford, while yet the ministry of life is unfinished, and her future and that of her loved ones an unwritten page, knowing that for her and all God's servants, the promise remains unshakable—"I will be with thee all the days. When thou passest through the waters, they shall not overflow thee."