[Frontispiece: 'WHAT A JOLLY LITTLE PLACE!' REMARKED MARGARET]
THE
SECRET OF OAKLANDS
By
M. HARDING KELLY
_Author of "Philip Campion's Will," "Roy"
"Tom Kenyan," etc._
LONDON
R.T.S.--LUTTERWORTH PRESS
4 BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS LTD.
LONDON AND TONBRIDGE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PARTING OF THE WAYS
II. OAKLANDS
III. TRIALS
IV. INFLUENCE
V. THE GREAT FIGHT
VI. OLD FRIENDS
VII. BOB IN TROUBLE
VIII. DISCOVERY
IX. A BOND OF UNION
X. FIRE
XI. AN OLD CRIME
XII. HAPPINESS
THE SECRET OF OAKLANDS
CHAPTER I
PARTING OF THE WAYS
"Father, what _is_ the matter?"
The question came in sharp tones of distress from a young girl who at
that moment entered the breakfast-room. Quickly she sprang to her
father's side and began chafing his cold hands, as she gazed with
fear-stricken eyes into the beloved face before her.
Cyril Woodford made no response, but sat as if stunned, staring with
apparently unseeing eyes at the newspaper before him, which his
nerveless fingers had just dropped. His face was ashen, and there
was a nervous twitching about his lips as he tried to moisten them
with his tongue.
"Father dear, speak--tell me why you look like this! Has something
terrible happened?"
No answer came in words, but with a shaking finger the man pointed to
the heading of a column in the newspaper in front of him.
GREAT FINANCIAL CRASH
FAILURE OF SAMPSON'S BANK, LTD.
For a few seconds Margaret Woodford looked at the words with a
puzzled expression wrinkling her brows, then something of the trouble
involved dawned upon her mind.
"Sampson's has failed, I see--does--does it mean you have lost some
money, dear?" she asked a little hesitatingly.
"All--_all_," he said huskily, while a shiver shook his frame as
though he were attacked with ague.
The girl's face paled.
There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then, rising
from her cramped position at his side, she said gently:
"I'm going to ring for some fresh coffee, father; yours is cold."
"I don't want anything; I couldn't eat," he answered.
But, ignoring this remark, she rang and gave her order, and in a few
minutes a fresh cup of the fragrant beverage was poured out and
brought to him.
"Drink it, just to please me," she said coaxingly, "you are so cold;
and presently you will explain it all to me, won't you?"
For a minute or two longer her father sat silent, then hastily
drained the cup before him, rose a little uncertainly, and went out
of the room, leaving his breakfast still untasted.
His daughter remained seated, mechanically eating a finger of toast,
and deep in painful thought.
She could not, of course, grasp the enormity of this thing, but that
it meant serious trouble was evident. She had never seen her father
disturbed like this before, and those last words of his, repeated so
despairingly, had been enough to fill her with vague alarm. It
surely _could_ not mean the giving up of their beautiful home? Why,
the Abbey House had been in their family for generations, and every
stone of it was precious to her. And she knew only too well how her
father loved it.
The Woodfords of the Abbey House were well known in the county, and
the thought that strangers might one day occupy it had never hitherto
suggested itself to anyone's mind.
Margaret started slightly as the idea for the first time presented
itself to her now.
She gazed with tear-dimmed eyes at the beautiful grassy terraces, and
the grand old cedar-tree rearing its head in front of the dining-room
windows and sweeping the lawn with its graceful branches. It all
looked so peaceful outside in the morning sunlight, as though nothing
could disturb the calm serenity of the place.
Alas! for appearances--how poor an index they often are to the stern
realities of life!
Mr. Woodford scarcely saw his daughter any more that day; he remained
in the library until quite late in the afternoon, refusing admittance
to everyone, spending his time in writing letters, and sorting papers
in his desk with nervous fingers.
At last Margaret could bear the suspense no longer, and persisted in
knocking at the door until he responded to her entreaties to come in.
"There is something very wrong with the master to-day," said old
John, the man-servant, as he addressed his fellow-servants.
"Something _very_ wrong," and he shook his head dolorously as he
spoke.
"Yes--that there is, and no mistake," answered cook, "and as for Miss
Margaret, she looks as white as a sheet; just because the master
wouldn't come in to lunch she must needs go without."
"I wonder what it means. It's something as come by post upset them,
because things seemed all right when the master came down this
morning; he looked as cheerful as could be, and when I set eyes on
him half an hour later, I never saw anyone look worse."
"Well--I'll tell you what _I_ think it is----"
But cook's explanations, or ideas, were cut short by the violent
ringing of the library bell, not once, but two or three times,
peremptorily.
"My! listen to that now, be quick, John! Good gracious, I never
heard a bell tugged in that way before!"
John forgot he was getting on in years as he hurried breathless up
the stairs; he felt already a presentiment of trouble, but he was not
prepared for what he found.
"Why--what--what's the matter, miss?" he exclaimed, as he opened the
library door and hurried to his master's side.
"I don't know!---oh, I don't know! but father is very ill--send for
the doctor, John, quick--let George take the grey mare!"
John was shocked by what he saw, but he was a sensible man who knew
how to keep his head in an emergency. Without further hesitation he
hurried back to the servants' hall even faster than he had left it,
and quietly issued his orders to the groom.
"Ride hard!--the master's very ill if I'm not much mistaken;" and not
waiting to answer any of the questions which were rained upon him, he
at once returned to his young mistress.
The time seemed interminable while the two watched by the master of
the house, longing and praying in the silence of their hearts for the
medical man's arrival.
At last the welcome approach of his gig sounded on the carriage
drive, and in a few moments more Dr. Crane was in the room--quiet,
calm, issuing his orders clearly and decidedly, and bringing with him
a sense of comfort to the frightened girl.
When the patient was at last in bed, and John installed to watch
beside him, the doctor called Margaret aside and placed an arm-chair
for her.
"Now tell me how this attack began, and what you think brought it on?"
In a few words Miss Woodford described the day's occurrences, and
explained that while her father was talking to her that evening in
the library, he suddenly cried out as though in great pain and put
his hand to the back of his neck, then he seemed to lose
consciousness.
"What _is_ it, doctor?" Her sweet grey eyes looked anxiously into
his, as she asked the question.
Dr. Crane paused a moment or two before he answered, then he said
slowly:
"He has had a stroke consequent upon some unusual excitement or
shock."
"A stroke?" repeated Margaret. "Does it mean then--that ... that he
is too ill to--to recover?" And her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Oh, I do not say that at all," answered Dr. Crane; "he may, of
course, get over this quite well, but in that case he will probably
not be quite the same man again that he was before it happened.
Perhaps," he continued, "you do not know that your father has
consulted me more than once during the last year with regard to his
health?"
"No, I did not know that," she replied.
"I am sorry to say so; but he has not been robust for some time; his
heart is not what I should like it to be--but there, I am frightening
you, and I hope unnecessarily; so far as I can see, there is no
reason for serious alarm to-night. Be brave, child; if there is to
be illness in the house, you will want all your strength; husband it
now by having a good meal and going to bed early, and try to sleep.
I shall send the district nurse in to sit up with Mr. Woodford, and
you can wire to town to-morrow for a permanent one--at least--you can
do that if--if it is necessary," he added hesitatingly, for as he was
speaking the remembrance of a hint of monetary difficulties in a
recent conversation with Mr. Woodford recurred unpleasantly to his
mind.
To think of his old friends, the inmates of the Abbey House, being
threatened with poverty seemed almost too extraordinary to be true.
Surely there must be a mistake somewhere!
The kind doctor shook off the unpleasant doubt, and, pressing the
girl's hand warmly, bade her farewell, with a last promise to call
later and not forget to send the nurse.
When he had gone, Margaret stole softly into her father's room, and
gazed silently at the still figure upon the bed.
The patient was breathing a little unevenly, but his eyes were
closed, and he seemed to be sleeping.
Old John sat by the bedside anxiously watching his master's face.
Reassured by her father's peaceful attitude, his daughter went
downstairs and did her best to do as Dr. Crane had told her. For she
was sensible enough to realise that if there was trouble to be faced
in the unknown future, giving way at the outset would be both foolish
and cowardly.
After all, she was a Woodford, and with the courage of her race she
knew she must meet difficulties with a stiff lip.
But it was a relief when Nurse Somers arrived, with her cheerful air
of confidence and reliability, and took charge of the sick-room.
The next few days were like a dream to Margaret; she seemed to live
in another world. Her father rallied from this first attack, and was
sufficiently recovered to spend some hours with his lawyer. Then his
mind seemed to grow dull, and he talked feebly and childishly of the
old happy days when his wife was alive and his daughter a little
child--the sunbeam and plaything of the house.
A few days of weakness followed, then came the night when the spirit
took its flight from earth's habitation, quietly and silently, in
answer to God's summons, and fled to that sorrowless land where all
is joy and peace, and rest. And in the dawn of the morning the
watchers saw only the hush of death's release for the master; "_God's
finger touched him, and he slept._"
Margaret did not break down; the sorrow seemed too much to bear, too
much to understand at first. She felt numb with grief; her cold
apathy disturbed the kind nurse, who stayed until the funeral should
be over.
"I wish she would cry," she remarked to the doctor; "this terrible
calm is unnatural, and a fearful strain."
"Yes--yes--poor child, the reaction will, I am afraid, be all the
greater," he answered sympathetically; "but youth is bound to
recover."
But it was not until the day of the funeral that Margaret fully
realised her loss, when she knelt by her window alone, the pale moon
looking down upon her from the clear cold sky. Then the greatness of
her bereavement came over her, and she felt, in all the sadness of
realisation, the desolation of her future.
Her dear, dear father was taken from her, the one being she loved in
all the world, the one who had been everything to her since she had
lost her mother, her darling companion as well as parent. And as
though to mock at her grief she had learned that day for the first
time from the lawyer's lips that she was penniless. Owing to the
great bank failure, her father's money had melted away into thin air;
and her home, the dear old Abbey House, must pass into other hands,
and be sold at once to meet the demands of her father's creditors.
To-night was hers--to-night she could wander through the rooms, and
take a last farewell walk round the gardens and park, and touch as
she had touched the friend of her childhood, the fine old cedar which
had silently watched many generations of Woodfords seated under its
sheltering boughs. With tender, lingering fingers she had pressed
the smooth trunk, and then broken a tiny piece of the beautiful
evergreen, and put it among her own personal treasures. It was that
which lay in her hand now, and upon which the fast-falling tears
dropped, as she said good-bye to the happiness of the old home, so
soon to pass into the possession of strangers. She covered her face,
while silent sobs shook her, in the sorrow of those moments.
Presently she grew calm again, and, gazing through the window of her
room at those bright worlds which canopy our earth above, her lips
moved, and her voice whispered to the One Who knew all her trouble
and understood: "Father in Heaven, help me, Thy child, to do Thy will
wherever Thou seest fit to send me."
There was no outward answer to that prayer, but the answer was
speeding to her then, and strength to prepare her for the difficult
days to come.