OAKLANDS
"Oh, I wish the train would be quick," said a small child, addressing
an old man-servant who stood rather anxiously guarding her, as she
stamped impatiently up and down upon the platform. "What makes it so
long, James? I want to see her--because I shall know directly if
she's nice; if she isn't, I'll be naughty every day, and make her
just as unhappy as ever I can, and then she'll go away like all the
others have. I told daddy so this morning."
"I expect you'll like her, miss," answered the man, with a grim
smile, as he gazed with affectionate amusement at the spoilt child in
front of him.
"If she's nasty, I'll hate her--so there."
"Come, come, missy, don't talk like that," he interposed.
"Yes, I shall--look! there's the train coming, the signal has gone
down, now let's see, James, who can find her first; I feel sure
she'll be horrid, and have an ugly old bonnet on."
The train steamed into the station, puffing and snorting vehemently
as it came to a standstill, and in a few minutes the carriages had
emptied themselves of their passengers.
The old man-servant and little Ellice Medhurst scanned carefully each
possible looking person who alighted, to see if they answered to
their ideas of the expected governess they had come to meet.
She had sent no description of herself, she had not thought of it,
and in fact her employer had forgotten her intention to send to the
station, until that afternoon Miss Woodford's future pupil, with a
wilfulness which characterised her, had insisted upon going herself
to meet her, not from politeness, but curiosity. What sort of person
she was likely to expect she had not waited to inquire, but telling
James he was to come with her--"Mamma said so"--she set off with him
in the little pony-carriage to fetch the new governess to Oaklands.
* * * * *
The journey had seemed long to Margaret Woodford, as, occupied with
her sad thoughts, she gazed out of the carriage windows, taking only
a languid interest in the stations she passed.
She was still feeling the terrible shock of her father's death and
failure, and the loss of the dear old home.
This venture into the great unknown world was a great trial, and it
required all her courage to face it as bravely as she was doing.
Her heart glowed with gratitude towards Mrs. Crane, as she thought of
her parting words: "Remember, you are not to stay if you are not
happy, but to come back to us, and we will look for something else
for you."
Happy! She didn't expect to be that, but she would try to be content
and to do her duty; she was sure the promise was hers, "I will be
with thee in all places whithersoever thou goest." God knew the way
that she took, and He would direct her path. That was the one great
fact which sustained Margaret Woodford's courage as she faced the
world alone for the first time in her life.
She had started for London that morning from her old home in the
North, and travelled by the 4.15 from town, and now in the fading
afternoon light she caught her first glimpse of the garden of
England, as the train steamed past country lanes, cherry orchards,
and hop grounds rising into renewed life as the season advanced.
The only other occupants of her carriage appeared to be two
farmers--at least she judged they were of that persuasion, by the
agricultural topics of conversation which seemed to engross them.
Her interest was aroused by their eagerness and enthusiasm; one of
them, drawing out of his pocket a little square parcel, hastily
untied the string, and, handing it to his companion, said:
"'Taste that, and tell me what you think of it. I can assure you I
never grew a finer sample."
Margaret expected to see something eatable, and was more than
surprised to witness the man bury his nose in the parcel and, after
drawing a deep breath, gasp.
"Beautiful--beautiful, and if it wasn't for this foreign competition
eating our very pockets, you'd be making a fine price now on these
last years. I think you did right to hold them up. What we are
coming to, I don't know; trade is being driven out of the country,
and there's nothing but ruin staring most of us in the face.
Fortunately, I was in the swim when one got £20 per pocket; but
_now_, well--they are not worth growing; I've grubbed up several
acres this season."
There the conversation got quite beyond Margaret's comprehension, as
further technicalities in connection with the hop trade were
discussed, with summer fruit prices.
Already she felt in a new world, and a sense of loneliness oppressed
her. Her thoughts passed from the subjects of her companions'
discussion to her own troubles, and a nervous unrest as to whether
she was getting near her destination.
The stoppings at small stations seemed frequent, and at each one she
gazed anxiously at the names written on the boards and seats upon the
platforms.
Her obvious nervousness presently attracted the attention of one of
her travelling companions.
"Can I assist you?" he asked her politely, as he saw her struggling
to get some of her property down from the rack. "I suppose you are
getting out here?" The train was slowing up as he spoke.
"Thank you very much," she answered, as the bundle of wraps was
deposited on the seat opposite, then continued anxiously, "I don't
know if this is my destination."
"What station do you want?" he asked.
"Steynham. I don't know it at all."
"Oh, that is a little farther on; four more stations, and then
yours," he answered.
"Do I have to change at all?" she asked.
"No, this is slow from our last stopping-place."
"I am so much obliged," she answered, in a tone of relief.
After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very
well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you
further?"
"Thank you, I'm afraid not. I get out at that station, but I shall
be met there, I expect. I am going on higher up the country beyond
Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands--a Mr. Medhurst's."
"_Oaklands--Medhurst,_" repeated her interlocutor with a slight
start, which she did not fail to catch.
"Do you know anything about it--about them?" she asked somewhat
timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words
had filled her with a vague disquiet.
"No--oh--no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he
answered, somewhat hesitatingly.
He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his
newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared
to get out. As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford.
"The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the
platform out of her sight.
"Do you know anything of the place she's going to?" asked his friend,
as they descended the steps.
"Not exactly, but I'm sure I've heard no good of it; there's some
sort of mystery, or scandal attached to it, I believe, and folks say
the youngsters are terrors. I am sorry that is the girl's
destination; she's young and pretty--evidently a lady, I should say,
and looks as if she's had trouble. But there, one can't pick up
strangers' burdens, we've plenty of anxieties of our own just now."
And the subject of Margaret Woodford and her possible sorrows and
difficulties passed from their minds as they emerged through the
station door, jumped into the gigs awaiting them, and drove away to
their homes.
In a few minutes more the train reached Steynham. The girl gazed up
and down the platform, feeling more friendless than ever now she no
longer heard the kindly voice of her fellow-traveller. She felt she
would have been glad if she could have had his companionship until
she was safely under the care of her employers.
This tall, elegant-looking girl getting out at Steynham did not pass
unnoticed; her high-bred air and softly modulated voice quickly
attracted the attention of the railway officials, who gathered round
her as she stood, the one solitary passenger, beside her box.
"Is there a carriage to meet me?" she asked.
"I don't think so, miss," replied a porter, running to take a look up
the road.
"No, there is no vehicle here, and none in sight, miss. Who were you
expecting?"
The question was put with a desire to render assistance, for the
Steynham porters knew all the surrounding gentry, and a good deal
about them too, if village gossip was to be relied upon.
"I am expecting someone to meet me from Mr. Medhurst's--Oaklands is
the address, near Wychcliff."
"Near Wychcliff--Oaklands!" repeated one or two of the officials.
"Don't know it, miss--don't know the name."
"Then--what can I do?" said Margaret, a slight quiver in her voice.
"I'll ask the station-master," said the first speaker, and, hurrying
to the ticket-office, he soon returned with a fresh authority.
"_What_ place was it you wanted?" he asked politely.
"Oaklands," repeated Margaret for the third time--"Mr. Medhurst's."
A shade of surprise crept over the station-master's face.
"Did you say _Oaklands_?" he repeated.
"Yes--yes, that is the name. Oh, you do know it?"
"Certainly," he replied, "and I fancy a pony-trap from there met the
earlier down-train; a man-servant and a little girl came and watched
the passengers alight, and then drove off again."
"Oh, that is it then! They must have made some mistake in the time
of the train. Now, what can I do? Is this place far away?" asked
Margaret, somewhat anxiously.
"Several miles, miss. It's right up on the hills."
For a few moments nervous fear assailed her, and then she said
bravely, "Can you get me a cab?"
"I'll see, miss," one of the porters answered civilly. "You come
into the waiting-room, and I'll go and fetch Mr. Cramp."
"Who is he?" she inquired.
"Oh, he's the man that has the fly. If it isn't out, it'll be here
in half an hour."
Half an hour! Her heart died at the prospect, as she followed her
luggage down the platform into the stuffy little waiting-room. The
window was closed, and it looked as if it ought to have a poster up
with "TO LET" on the door.
"The station is more comfortable, I think," said the porter, taking a
considering look at the elegant figure in front of him, as, setting
down her bags a moment, he turned to her and motioned to the bench by
the entrance door.
"Thank you, I will wait here."
"I won't be long, miss," he continued encouragingly. "I'll just give
these to the booking-clerk to look after, and I'll be back in no
time."
In a few moments more she had the satisfaction of seeing him start
out briskly, and pass through the white station gates.
Wearily she gazed out of the window. It was a warm day, in early
summer, and the scene before her was not wholly dispiriting. A
straight road from the station led up to the village; on the left was
a squarely built house with the words "Coffee Tavern" written upon it
in large letters; then came a few cottages. The road was sheltered
at places by some fine old elms, and on the right hand she saw
something that made almost a thrill of hope pass through her, as she
drank in the sight and breath of its beauty.
Spring had long since awakened the sleeping trees, rich life-giving
sap had risen, and the sun coaxed them into opening their eyes to the
new season. The orchard upon which Margaret was now gazing showed
her a wealth of promise, as the gleam of fruit clusters shining
through the green foliage caught her eye.
The outlook on the opposite side of the station, which she could just
see through another window, was the exact counterpart of that near to
where she was sitting, and presented a view prosaic enough, which
needed some conjuring of the mind to suggest any ideas of romance.
Margaret tried to be interested, but her thoughts were trailing back
to the dear old home surroundings when she heard the rumble of a cab.
A few minutes later a one-horse vehicle drew up at the door, and her
friend the porter jumped down, as she rose with alacrity and went to
meet him.
"It's all right, miss, he knows Wychcliff, and says he can find
'Oaklands' when he gets there--it's an old farm that has stood empty
for some time."
In a few minutes more Margaret had started upon her quest.
Steynham, quiet enough in the spring-time, but showing much more life
as the fruit and hop seasons come round, was soon left behind, and
the gradual ascent to Wychcliff was begun--a long drive through two
or three villages, and then a steep climb up a narrow, grass-grown
road, to the hills beyond. There was only room for one vehicle at a
time, and Margaret was startled by suddenly hearing the driver
calling at the top of his voice, "Hie--back--there!--back!" and the
old cab came to a sudden standstill with a violent jerk. A sharp
altercation ensued between the two Jehus, which sounded decidedly
uncomplimentary; then her vehicle was jerked backwards down the hill,
nearly overturning as it ran up on to the bank.
Miss Woodford was used to horses, and not easily frightened, so she
sat tight, preferring the chance of an upset to getting out on to
this unknown, narrow road, and in the darkness trying to find
standing-room in the hedge. It was not a pleasant experience, as
those who have driven up, or down Wychcliff hill in the evening can
testify. Here and there at long intervals there are wider spaces cut
back into the adjacent fields to allow vehicles to pass.
Fortunately, one was near, and after much jolting and noise, with a
good deal of argument on the part of the drivers, and a last shout
from Cramp, whose temper was now up, of "'Nother time I'll see you
back yer old caërt before I stop my currage for such as _yew_!"--and
the cab crawled on again.
Would it ever end? she wondered, and the remembrance of that dark,
lonely drive, with night settling down around her, never quite faded
from her mind, although she little knew then the fears and doubts
that were to await her later.
By dint of inquiry at a solitary cottage, which was passed at the top
of the hill, they discovered the whereabouts of Oaklands Farm.
In the gloom Margaret could not see what her future home was like,
the darkness being increased by the thick trees which surrounded it,
only leaving just room for the cab to draw up before the front door.
She got out and paid her fare, as the man set down her box on the
step, and then, after violently ringing the bell, climbed back to his
seat.
"Seems pretty lonely," he remarked, as he gathered up the reins; "not
much of a place for a young lady like you."
The girl shivered at his words.
"Look here," he continued, "if you want to get away whoam any time,
yew jest write to Mr. Cramp, Cab Driver, Steynham, and I'll come for
yer, miss--see?"
Tears rose in the back of Margaret's eyes at the mention of the word
home. She thanked the kindly old man, who was always liked by his
"fares," but she did not explain her destitute condition to him.
He waited, after setting her box on the step, until the door opened,
and looked backward as he drove away to see she had entered. Then he
vanished into the darkness.
As the door opened, Margaret was agreeably impressed by the bright
glow of the hall into which she entered. The man-servant who
appeared was civilly polite; the dark oak furniture and rich red
carpet and walls, artistically decorated, gave a sense of warmth and
comfort to the tired girl. Then she was startled by hearing a shrill
voice screaming over the banisters:
"So you are here at last, and I can't even come and look at you,
because I'm supposed to be in bed. It is a shame! I want----"
"Go back, Miss Ellice, now," said James reprovingly; "the master will
hear you."
"Who cares!" said the elf, leaning still further over the balustrade
until she was in danger of falling.
At that moment the dining-room door opened, and the child, in spite
of her boasting, disappeared, as a tall, dark, well-set-up man
appeared.
"Is it really Miss Woodford?" he inquired, holding out his hand.
"Yes. I'm afraid I'm very late, but I had a difficulty in finding a
conveyance at the station. I hope I've not caused any inconvenience."
"Indeed no; the fault is ours. I must apologise. We sent a trap to
meet you, but unfortunately Mrs. Medhurst made a mistake about the
train--we have only just found it out. I'm sorry you've had the
trouble of finding your way here alone."
"Ah, here's Betsy," he added, addressing an elderly woman who at that
moment made her appearance in the hall. "Will you take Miss Woodford
upstairs at once," he said, "and then," turning to Margaret, "we
shall be ready for dinner, when I can introduce you to my wife; your
little charge is in bed, and asleep by this time, I expect."
This last was received with a grim smile by old James, as the young
governess followed the woman to her bedroom.
A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, which was pleasant, for the
early summer nights were still cold. Margaret glanced around her
room with pleasure. The subdued green carpet, cream-tinted walls,
and shelf of goblin blue china all expressed a thoughtful kindness
and artistic taste.
As she laid her toilet requisites on the old Chippendale table,
Margaret's heart gave a throb of thankfulness that her environment
was so tasteful and pleasant. There surely could be nothing to fear
here? Mr. Medhurst was evidently a gentleman, while the servants she
had seen were of the good class so often regretted in this century.
Her future pupil might prove a handful, but that part of her life had
to be tested.
She felt she was travel-stained, but she did not wish to keep dinner
waiting, so, refreshed with a wash, and smoothing her hair which, in
spite of much brushing, would ripple in natural, careless waves over
her forehead, she prepared to descend.
Betsy was outside waiting, and in another moment threw open the
dining-room door, and announced "Miss Woodford."
There was a rustle of silk, a subtle scent of violet perfume, and a
tall, graceful woman rose from the table to receive her.
Mrs. Medhurst spoke a little languidly as she welcomed the governess,
giving her hand a slight pressure as she said kindly, "I am so glad
you have come! You will excuse our beginning; we had almost given up
expecting you, but my husband has told me of my stupid mistake."
Margaret was a little disconcerted, as she took the seat offered to
her, to find her hostess in full evening-dress, the rich yellow
velvet throwing up the beauty of her dark eyes and olive-tinted skin.
A collar of diamonds flashed rainbow hues upon her white neck.
The conversation flagged, but from time to time Mrs. Medhurst
appealed to Margaret in her soft modulated voice.
She was a beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed, as though she might
be going to a dinner-party; the servants and appointments of the
house, so far as Margaret could judge, seemed all perfect in their
way.
Miss Woodford of Woodford Abbey knew how things ought to be done, and
she was pleasantly surprised at her surroundings. But the thought
would present itself, why were these people living in this lonely
out-of-the-way place? It seemed so utterly incongruous, considering
their style. The girl tried to smother the thought, and, being
young, and withal hungry, was able to enjoy the meal in spite of the
sense of strangeness which pervaded the place.
"Will you come into the drawing-room with me?" said the hostess, as
she gave the signal to rise from the table.
Miss Woodford was glad the invitation had been given, as she was not
quite sure how much she was to be received into the family, or
exactly what her position was to be.
The drawing-room was a dream of cosiness, comfort, and taste. The
chairs and couch were of the easiest, the dove-coloured walls,
against which stood some handsome cabinets of old china, the rich
pile carpet where one's feet sank softly, gave a feeling of rest and
luxury which reminded Margaret of her boudoir at Woodford Abbey.
Mrs. Medhurst sat sipping her coffee and lazily fanning herself at
intervals, until, presently, Margaret inquired if she might ask her a
few questions as to her future duties.
"Yes, certainly. I don't think I have much to tell you," she
answered, "except I should like you to have breakfast in the
dining-room, and lunch with Ellice in the school-room, and dine with
us in the evening. We are so quiet here, we shall be glad of your
society then. I am having the rest cure," she said, with a strange
little laugh, "and although I am much better than I was, it really is
almost too quiet at times."
"I am so sorry you have been ill," said Margaret sympathetically.
"I have been dreadfully weak. I'm gradually gaining strength now,
but I can't stand Ellice's high spirits, and so I pass her on to you.
Manage her as you like."
"I will do my best," said Margaret. "You know I have had no
experience, but I love children, and always have got on with them."
"Oh, yes. I expect she'll be good with you; you are young, and will
be able to enter into her pleasures better than I can--my poor head
is unable to bear much."
"And about the lessons?" asked the new governess.
"Teach her just as you like. She's a fearful little ignoramus, I'm
afraid; she's made up of oddments. Anything she can pick up from the
cottagers, or from her father, she retains with ease, but knowledge
she ought to have acquired she is quite deficient in, I imagine. I'm
afraid you'll be horrified at her ignorance."
Margaret rose and placed a cushion at Mrs. Medhurst's back, as she
noticed she fidgeted restlessly in her chair.
"Thank you--thank you; that's heaps nicer. How kind of you to
notice!" and the sweet smile that accompanied the words transfigured
the otherwise cold look of the speaker's beautiful face.
Mr. Medhurst came into the room soon after, and the conversation
became more general. Several times he glanced anxiously at his wife,
and then he crossed to Miss Woodford:
"Mrs. Medhurst has not been very well to-day, and one thing she
enjoys more than anything else is music; we are so shut off from it
here. Would it tire you too much to sing, or play?"
"I haven't unpacked my box, but I can remember some of Mendelssohn's
short things, if that will do?" answered Margaret readily.
"Yes, indeed, she likes them so much."
The piano was one of Brinsmead's best, and the musician soon lost
herself in the joy of her themes. Her touch was exquisite, and she
seemed to pour her whole soul into the expression she produced from
her fingers. She went from "The Bees' Wedding," thrilling with its
busy revellings, into quieter grooves, until gently there stole
through the room the subtle exquisiteness of No. 1 of "Songs Without
Words."
There was a hush over the room as she rose from the piano, and for a
moment she feared she had not given pleasure. Then she caught the
grave glance of appreciation of her host as, offering her a seat, he
said quietly, "Thank you."
Mrs. Medhurst did not speak, but as she rose to say good night,
Margaret noticed something like the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
The girl was very tired when she went to bed, and the sun was
streaming in at her window before she awoke the following morning.
She sat up and looked round her room with a puzzled air, wondering
vaguely for a few moments where she was. Then the remembrance of all
that had happened returned, and, looking at her watch, she discovered
with dismay it was nine o'clock. She dressed hurriedly, and came
downstairs, feeling anxious as to what would be thought of her
unpunctuality if breakfast should be over. No one last night had
remembered to tell her what hour it would be, and she had forgotten
to ask.
She encountered James in the hall with a tray in his hand.
"I am afraid I am late," she ventured.
"Oh no, miss; Miss Ellice is in the garden, and has not breakfasted
yet. You're all right," he answered, a little patronisingly.
Margaret heard the words with a great sense of relief.
The dining-room looked delightful in the morning light; the casement
windows were thrown wide open, and roses peeped a welcome into the
room.
Miss Woodford noticed the table was laid for two only, and wondered.
Presently the door opened, and James appeared.
"Will you like breakfast now, miss?" he inquired.
"Oh--yes--but what about Mrs. Medhurst?" she inquired.
"She always takes hers upstairs, and the master has it with her when
she's had a bad night," he answered.
"I am sorry she is not so well?" she replied.
The interrogative tone of her voice brought no response from the
man-servant who waited.
"What about my pupil, won't she breakfast with me?" inquired Miss
Woodford.
"I can't say, miss. I wouldn't advise you to wait for her; she's off
in the woods somewhere, and there's no knowing when she'll come back.
Betsy will keep something hot for her."
"Oh. I see"--and the new governess realised something of the
difficulty of her position as she sat down--"I won't delay any longer
then."
She had not quite finished when she heard a child's laugh, and the
door was flung open,-and a sharp little voice exclaimed:
"There you are; I thought I'd find you here. Good morning, Miss--oh,
what's your name?"
"Good morning. I'm Miss Woodford, and you--you are my pupil Ellice,
aren't you?" said the new governess, with a smile.
"Yes. I wonder what your other name is?"
"It's Margaret."
"Oh, that's rather nice; it's nothing like mine. Isn't it stupid I
can't call you by it? Mamma said I was to say _Miss_ Woodford when I
spoke to you."
"Yes, of course, because you are a lady, you see, and _ladies_ always
behave politely--they can't help it."
"Oh--yes--I--see," answered the child, drawling the words out in
surprised tones.
Here was a puzzle. This new governess seemed to think she _couldn't_
behave rudely--because--because she was a lady! It was awkward; she
hadn't thought of it like that before. It looked as if the fun was
going to be spoilt. A puzzled expression of disappointment clouded
her face for a moment, but in an instant it lighted with an
illuminating flash, as a thought rushed to her mind. "I wonder what
she'll think on Saturday?"
She was an interesting looking child, but she had none of her
mother's beauty, the brilliant brunette which had so struck Miss
Woodford. Ellice was a fairy-looking little creature, with dancing
blue eyes, tiny features, and tumbled ringlets. She certainly looked
like an elf from the woods as she stood with the front of her dress
caught up in one hand, and filled with wild roses, tufts of yellow
vetch, scabious, bundles of dainty milkmaids which she had dragged
from the nettle-beds, regardless of their stings, and sweet clumps of
wild parsley--all in mingled profusion, while she carelessly swung a
straw hat by a broken elastic, the blue ribbon of which was stained
with cherry juice that matched the dye on her fingers.
"You have spoilt your hat trimming," said Miss Woodford, taking the
article (which evidently received little respect) from the small
owner.
"I did that jumping under the trees to get at the waterloos. I _had_
a feast, but ever so many tumbled on to me."
"Well, now are you ready for breakfast?"
"I'm not very hungry. James--James," shrilled the child, "bring me
some cake and milk--and be quick!"
"Better have your egg, missy," answered the man.
"No, I won't! Cake--cake--_cake_----"
"But the master said you must have your proper meal, Miss Ellice."
"Then, I won't! Get that cake--swish!" and she swung her skirts
round, scattering her flowers in all directions.
"Very well," answered the man hopelessly, turning to retire.
"Stay," said Miss Woodford firmly, "did I understand Mr. Medhurst
said Miss Ellice was to have an egg for breakfast?"
"Yes, miss, but she won't eat it when she wants cake."
"Then she isn't hungry, and had better wait until lunch," answered
the new governess.
James's eyes grew round with astonishment. Two governesses had been
tried before, but they had both departed in a week, utterly defeated
by the small person who now stood between them, her eyes blazing
defiance.
"I don't care what you say, I _will_ have cake; I'll go and ask
Betsy." With this the small figure flew to the kitchen, demanding
attention to her wants in a storm of passionate cries.
"Yes, yes, missy, I'll get the tin down. Don't make such a fuss,
dearie, you'll disturb your poor mamma," entreated cook persuasively.
"Miss Ellice is not to have any cake, Betsy," said Miss Woodford's
voice decidedly.
The woman turned round to find the new governess standing by her
side. She looked her amazement, and then dropped her hands from the
cupboard:
"Very well, miss."
The colour rushed to Ellice's face, words seemed to fail her for a
moment, then, with a stamp of her foot, the child turned and fled out
of the kitchen and disappeared down the drive, and was lost in the
adjacent woods.
A sigh broke from the cook.
"There you have it, miss. You'll never be able to manage her, I'm
afraid; she's just too much for all the governesses what comes."
"Anyway I must try, mustn't I, Betsy?" answered Margaret, adding,
"It's my duty. Poor little thing, she does need someone to help
her," finished Margaret, as she turned back into the hall.
"Someone to help her!--umph. She's a bit different from the others.
James, think she'll do?" asked his wife, amazement in her voice.
"I--don't--know--I give it a week," answered the man grimly.
"Saturday is the test."
Miss Woodford went up to her room, and sat down by the open window
with, it must be admitted, a little feeling of despair in her heart.
She could see rocks ahead, and she had had no experience, and surely
the task here was going to be a big one. A great homesickness came
over her; she felt the lump rising in her throat and almost choking
her. This was to be her home now, and already the one being in whom
she had felt an interest, and from whom she had hoped to win
affection, had rushed from her with hatred in her heart and a
malignant expression of passionate dislike disfiguring her face.
Presently Margaret roused herself and commenced unpacking her box.
Beyond her clothes she had brought one or two personal treasures: the
bit of the old cedar-tree; a water-colour drawing of the Abbey House,
which she promptly hung up upon the wall, where an unused nail
remained driven in. Her ivory toilet ware, with her name "Margaret"
traced in gold across the backs of the brushes and mirror, and a
beautiful dressing-case of the same lovely ware, which contained a
family heirloom in the shape of a ruby necklace, the stones of which
flashed their fire in the sun's rays, as now she lifted the lid. She
took it out for a moment; the gems streamed from her fingers, held
together by tiny links of gold.
She had a memory of her mother with that very chain about her neck,
and she, a child, begging for it, and the laughing voice saying, "Not
now, darling, but it will be yours when I am gone." How lightly the
words had been spoken, and how soon had the separation come! Much as
she treasured the jewels, the stones felt cold in her hand to-day as
she gathered them up and replaced them in the case.
Her things disposed of, she drew a chair to the open window and sat
down. The lilt of the birds' songs fell sweetly upon her ears; her
thoughts became a reverie over the past, an expression of pain lurked
in the depths of her eyes--and they were eyes full of womanly
tenderness, and yet capable of expressing undeveloped strength.
Presently her fingers touched the book which lay upon the table near
her. With quick impulse she drew it towards her, an unspoken
petition rising in her heart: "Lord, give me a message from Thee."
She opened the book at random, and her glance fell upon these words:
"_I rose and did the king's business._" She glanced back and read,
as she had often read before, of the solemn vision granted to the
prophet when he was shown something of the trouble to come in the
latter days, the distress of nations before the Kingdom of the Lord
should be established upon the earth. In his grief he fainted, the
burden of the vision causing sickness to come upon him; then he
braced himself, and she read: "I, Daniel, rose, and _did the king's
business_." The duty just there--the work to be carried on.
The words acted like a tonic. A vision of the coming years of
loneliness and difficulty had dismayed her, and yet here--surely work
for the King of kings lay all around; the greater the difficulty, the
more insistent the call. For a moment her head sank upon her hands,
and her heart was lifted up to Him Who ever waits to pour out a
sufficient supply of strength to His people, to meet every need.
Margaret Woodford believed this, and for that day at least she laid
her burden straight at her Saviour's feet, and rose calm and
determined to face the future bravely, and do the work nearest, to
which she had been called.
Meanwhile Ellice, a storm of passion raging in her heart, rushed into
the woods, pushing the tangled branches fiercely apart until she came
to the fairy glade, a moss-grown path where the trees parted in a
glorious avenue and the sunlight stole through in shafts of golden
light, and fell tenderly upon the child. She flung herself down
under a venerable oak, the trunk of which, cleft by some old-world
storm, formed a hiding-place where she had often before sheltered on
rainy mornings, and whispered her secrets to the woods.
Short, gasping sobs almost choked her as she lay upon the ground.
The squirrels scampered in the branches overhead and, clinging to the
rugged trunk of the great Forest King, crept down to the foot and
peeped shyly at her, waiting wonderingly for her call, and the food
she so often temptingly offered them. Her sobbing breaths of
distress presently ceased, she raised a tear-stained face, and
brushed away the tell-tale signs of distress. A hard, sullen
expression swept all the beauty from her countenance; she looked what
her brother would have said, "real ugly," as she pursed up her lips
and stared aimlessly at the beauty around her.
The horrid pangs of hunger would make themselves felt, and she wished
now she had not come away in such a hurry; even an egg would have
been preferable to this hunger. If she could be certain of not
meeting that hateful governess, she would steal back to the house.
She had almost made up her mind to make the attempt, when she was
startled by a footstep in the glade, and a voice calling her by name.
She set her teeth hard, and drew back further into the shelter of the
oak.
Miss Woodford, who was evidently bent on searching for her charge,
receiving no answer to her calls, presently sat down upon the mossy
ground at the foot of the very tree where Ellice was hidden. Opening
a basket of sandwiches and jam-puffs, she commenced her lunch, while
the child, all unknown to her, kept watch, struggling with her pride
as she saw the tempting viands gradually disappearing before her eyes.
The trees tossed their branches in a light breeze which whispered
among the leaves; the day grew hotter. Margaret felt tired as she
rested her head against the oak bark where she leaned. This picnic
with her young charge had been arranged in her own mind, with a hope
of friendship and understanding, as a happy result. As presently she
rose to shake the crumbs from her lap, a voice from somewhere
muttered, "She is a pig to eat it all up."
Margaret Woodford paused, in a thoughtful, listening attitude; then
she turned, and her eyes roved about the tree where she stood. She
took a few steps round the trunk till she espied the cavity and the
gleam of muslin embroidery from the child's dress which escaped at
the opening, as she pressed her back against the inside of her castle
to avoid being seen.
"What a jolly little place!" remarked Margaret, as she caught sight
of the child. "I wish I'd found this before, we might have had lunch
on the doorstep of your domain. I've just finished mine. Where will
you have yours?"
"You've eaten it all," muttered the child sulkily.
"No--look, I've kept some. You surely didn't think I'd been greedy
enough to finish the lot," and, raising a serviette which lay at the
top of the basket, Ellice's eyes saw a vision of food which made her
mouth water. She capitulated at once, slid down to the ground in a
hurry, and attacked the contents with avidity. In a very few minutes
nothing but crumbs remained, and an empty lemonade bottle.
"Now, shall we have a rest while I tell you a story?" suggested
Margaret.
There was a moment's hesitation, for of all things Ellice loved
better than another, it was to listen to story-telling. An eager
expression spread over her face for a moment, then it darkened again.
"I'm going home," she muttered, and, jumping up, she ran lightly down
the avenue a little way, then, turning into a denser side-path,
vanished.
"Defeated," said Margaret Woodford to herself, with rather a sad
little laugh. "Ah, well, I must try again. I'm on the King's
service, I must never forget that, and victory is of the Lord--of
course, that applies in every case."
It was not a very cheerful outlook for the young governess, but she
was determined to win through if possible.
She did not see her charge again that day. Upon inquiring for her
after her return from the woods, she was informed she was taking tea
with her mother, and would not be down again that evening.
Mr. Medhurst returned later, and she managed to get a short interview
with him, and to obtain a more definite knowledge as to what her
supervision and powers with regard to her pupil might mean. She
noticed a worried expression come into his eyes as she broached the
subject.
"Miss Woodford, I am afraid I must admit my little girl has been
spoilt," he answered. "You understand my wife is not
strong--and--well, there it is----" and he spread his hands
deprecatingly as he spoke.
"Does it mean I am to have full control?" asked Margaret--"I mean in
this way," she added. "My pupil had no lessons to-day; she ran away
to the woods this morning because I could not allow her to eat cake
instead of her breakfast, and----"
"Oh, I'm glad if you intervened in _that_ matter! I have forbidden
that," he answered quickly.
"So I understood."
"And you supported the order?"
"Yes, and offended Ellice very deeply, I'm afraid," laughed Margaret.
"Never mind, you succeed if you get your way. Go on as you have
begun, Miss Woodford; I cannot suggest anything to you,
but"--lowering his voice---"if you can win my child and gain control
over her, I shall be more than grateful."
His manner was earnest, but Margaret felt there was reservation when
he paused and suddenly changed the conversation. The little she had
gathered strengthened her in her purpose. There was evidently
trouble in this house which could not be fully explained.
She went to bed that night puzzled, but determined to try and do her
duty whatever the future might mean to her.
Ellice was like a different child at breakfast the following morning.
She appeared bubbling over with amiability and good spirits, and even
the presence of her governess at the breakfast-table brought no
frowns or sulky looks. Margaret's proposal to take some lesson-books
to the woods was acceded to with apparent delight.
"Oh, do let's, Miss Woodford!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with
joy; in fact, the suggestion was so novel, she forgot for a little
she was at enmity with her governess. The call of the woods was so
strong within her.
With a luncheon-basket and armed with paper and pencils, governess
and pupil set out with enthusiasm for a beginning in the path of
knowledge. They found the old haunt in the oak, and sat down to work.
After a grind at reading and arithmetic, Miss Woodford electrified
her pupil by the remark, "Now, shall we talk about the trees?"
"About the trees?" repeated the child in amazement.
"Yes, let me think what this old oak has to say to us about himself;
shut your eyes and listen, and I will tell you something of his
story."
"I've lived such a long, long life," whispered the oak, "but although
I'm getting very old, I can remember the days when I was young--more
than two thousand years ago"--(Ellice stirred as if to interrupt, but
the slight pressure of Margaret's fingers on her arm made her
relapse, and she breathlessly listened to this wonderful
statement)--"yes, more than two thousand years ago," insisted the
oak, "I was planted just here--a young sapling I was, strong and
sturdy, but small and tender, and had not much knowledge of the world
then. But that has all opened up in the centuries I've lived, and
I've seen wonderful changes, I can tell you.
"There are not many of us left now, but it's been handed down to me
from my forefathers that, right back to the times of the ancient
Britons, there was a grove of us oaks in this very spot. Those were
the times when we were thought a mighty lot of by the poor heathen
who dwelt in this country then; they didn't know anything about the
true God, and so they worshipped in their blindness the sun and the
moon and the stars and gods of their own creation. Beside that, they
counted all of us oak trees sacred. I don't know why that was, but
of course they couldn't help seeing we were the finest-looking trees
in all the forest, so they took care of us and blessed us, and even
the mistletoe (the seed of which sometimes drops upon us from a
bird's mouth and takes root and makes its home on our boughs), even
that the Druid priests used to revere, and only allow it to be cut
with a golden knife at their sacrificial feasts.
"But though they were considerate for us, they were very cruel to
their enemies, and often poor captives were brought out and judged in
the open courts in the woods, and offered as sacrifices in our
beautiful shady oak groves. Stories have been handed down through
past generations of those poor people who suffered; but happier times
have come since. Folks here don't worship their cruel gods Woden and
Thor now, though they seem to keep them in remembrance by still using
Thursday and Wednesday in their week's list of days, which names
mean, as I understand it, Thor's day and Woden's day.
"I'm very glad those heathen times are over here, and that the people
who come and rest in my trunk, or sit at my feet, know about the
wonderful true God Who created everything for His glory; not only the
boys and girls, but in His Book it says, 'The trees _of the Lord_ are
full of sap,' and I like that--trees of the Lord; it shows we belong
to Him. He doesn't forget us, either, for He waters us with the rain
which we suck up into our roots, and drink into our leaves, through
the tiny mouths with which we breathe the beautiful forest breezes,
and by the warm yellow sun the great God sends the colour flushing
into all our veins, and into all the outer skin of the bark that
covers us. Through our pores, which widen in the hot weather, the
sweet air rushes, and gives us fresh life and growth, and under the
tiny air-bags are the canals where the sap runs and rises in the
spring, right from the very roots, travelling over our branches until
it fills even our leaves, and makes us able to put forth new growth
and life.
"Yes, God is the gardener of the forest, summer and winter, year in
and year out. He gives us all the power we need. When the time of
singing birds comes, then a whisper and hum runs through the whole of
the forest, and all the big tree world wakes from sleep. Everyone is
drowsy at first--some seem almost dead--but gradually we open our
eyes and cover our naked limbs, and get out our summer dress, and
shake our leafy garments in the sunshine, while the forest folk build
new homes in our branches and utter their thoughts of praise." The
oak paused.
"We must stop story-telling now," said Margaret; "it is lunch-time."
"No, no--go on--oh, do, please go on, Miss Woodford!"
"Not now, dear; it's later than I thought," glancing at her
wrist-watch--"and besides, it seems to be getting dark; I think a
storm is coming. We must hurry home."
"Not yet. It doesn't matter if it rains."
"I think it does; anyway, we must go. Come along quickly."
"Oh, you _are_ nasty!" muttered the child, her bright face clouding
over, and the former spirit of antagonism returning.
However, she said no more, perhaps because she saw it was useless.
She had at last come upon someone whose will was as strong, or
stronger than her own. Well, she could afford to wait until the
afternoon, when she would be reinforced. An unpleasant smile curled
her lips as she remembered again with glee that to-day was Saturday:
the absorption of the story-telling had meant a short obliteration of
that fact, but it suddenly returned with added force.
The two had a smart run at the finish of their walk, for the storm
burst above them suddenly. There was a vivid flash of lightning,
followed instantly by a crash that rolled and echoed through the
forest, waking a hundred voices in its depths; then down came the
rain, in a perfect deluge.
As they entered the front door later, wet through, they encountered
Mr. Medhurst just discarding his mackintosh.
"Oh, you've been caught, I see! Pretty big storm," he remarked to
Margaret.
"Yes, we are soaked," answered Miss Woodford. "Come, Ellice, hurry
and get changed."
"I shan't bother," was the sharp answer; "things will soon dry."
"Go at once, child! Don't stand and talk about it; do as you are
told, girlie"--and Margaret gently took the little girl's arm, and
led her towards the stairs.
Her father was about to hang up his mackintosh; he paused; then as
governess and pupil went to their rooms, a smile of quiet
satisfaction touched his lips, as he hung the garment upon the peg,
and turned and entered the dining-room.
A quarter of an hour later there was a violent ring at the front-door
bell, then a noisy stampede as someone entered with a good deal of
clatter, and some eager questioning of James, as the man shut out the
swish of rain and wind which with the newcomer rushed into the hall.
"I say, got another?" asked a boy's voice. "Tall and scraggy and
glasses, eh?"
"I suppose you are referring to the governess, Master Bob?" said
James gravely, but with a slightly suppressed smile flickering in his
eyes.
"Of course I am! --I say, what is she like, though?"
"You'd better wait till you see her for yourself."
"Anyway, it means a little fun," continued the boy. "She won't be
here long, that's pretty certain," and he commenced to whistle an
airy tune as he made to enter the dining-room.
"Stop that noise, and sit down quietly," said his father irritably.
"You are late as usual, I see." Further remark was cut short by
Ellice rushing into the room and boisterously greeting her brother,
followed more gently by Margaret, who paused in astonishment at the
sight of the boy of whose existence she had not even heard.
"We've brought our luncheon home to-day, we didn't stay to eat it in
the woods, and the tarts are all sloppy," exclaimed Ellice, lying
glibly. "You can have them. Bob," anxious to shock Margaret, her
voice shrill with excitement.
"Thank you for nothing," answered her brother.
"This is my son, Miss Woodford. You see the specimen he is," said
Mr. Medhurst, by way of introduction. "I wonder if you remember the
advice of an old sage, 'When you see a boy, beat him, because he has
either just done something wrong, is doing it, or just going to do
it.' Now I've told you this young man's character in one sentence."
The words were said smilingly, but the smile was ironical.
The boy's bright face clouded, and Margaret felt what a tactless
mistake the introduction had been, and wondered at the denseness and
unkindness of the remarks.
She turned to Bob pleasantly as she held out her hand.
"I don't believe in very bad boys--I never came across any, and if I
did, I shouldn't ask others for their character, Mr. Medhurst," she
replied; "I should judge them for myself."
"Wait till you know this one better, Miss Woodford," he answered; and
then, turning to Bob: "How about your report," he continued; "did you
bring it home?"
"No, sir," answered the boy sullenly.
"Tore it up, I suppose, on purpose?"
"Y-e-s," came the reply, slowly.
"Very well, you know the consequences."
"No, no, daddy; wait till he's done something _more_," interposed
Ellice, dancing round her father, and grasping his arm persuasively.
His face at once softened.
"You think it won't be long before the trouble comes, eh?" he asked,
pinching her cheek gently. His small daughter always seemed able to
disarm his wrath.
"No--at least--I--mean----" she stammered.
"All right, old lady, I understand," he answered, smiling; then,
turning to Margaret, "Women's wiles, Miss Woodford. Well, you are
let off this time, young man," turning to his son; "you can thank
your sister for it," and with this he left them.
For a few moments silence prevailed, and then Ellice, catching hold
of her brother's arm, whispered:
"Come on up to the schoolroom; I've heaps to tell you."
Margaret refrained from following them, to avoid hearing their
confidences, and still bewildered by the discovery of this new
addition to the family, which might mean further problems for
herself, with a little sigh of relief picked up a book and made her
way to a quiet cosy seat in the drawing-room.