BOB IN TROUBLE
Weeks drifted into months, and Margaret, much to the satisfaction of
the inmates of Oaklands, was still at her post. Mrs. Crane had
written and invited her to spend the summer holiday with her in
August, but the thought of seeing the Abbey House again seemed more
than she could bear just then, and so her old friend's invitation had
been refused, and Margaret stayed on in the new environment, each day
becoming more necessary in the home of her employers. Another letter
had arrived from Mrs. Crane this morning, which yet remained to be
answered when she felt there was more news to write about.
The one big fight to gain ascendancy over her pupil had been worth
while. It is true Ellice did not give up her opposition without some
further struggle, but her wilfulness never again carried her so far.
Lesson-time became more pleasant both to governess and pupil, and
gradually all thought of direct disobedience passed, sulky silence
presently giving way to an interested co-operation.
Mr. Medhurst was not unobservant as to the friendship springing up
between Margaret and his small daughter, and was well pleased with
the way things were going. His wife spent most of her time in her
own room, although she was not a confirmed invalid. She did not give
herself much chance of knowing or understanding her children's
characters, but she could not help noticing a subtle change in Ellice.
Summer days were quickly passing away, the plentiful green brambles
which grew so luxuriantly on the common had ripened into a rich berry
harvest; the dainty gossamer houses of the spiders glistened on the
hedgerows, the tiny ropes of which caught Margaret Woodford's face as
she walked quickly across the spongy turf to the woods. She brushed
the irritating threads aside, an anxious expression clouding the
usual brightness of her countenance.
She had come away from the house this morning perturbed in spirit,
and more worried than she liked to admit to herself. She had not
waited to find her pupil, but was wanting to be alone and have time
to think quietly. That something serious had happened was easy to
see from the trouble discernible in her face. She had had a wakeful
night, and a not too pleasant interview with Mrs. Medhurst this
morning.
The evening before she had gone up to bed early and sat reading for
some time in the quiet retreat of her room--Mr. Medhurst had not
returned from town, Mrs. Medhurst had dinner upstairs, and Ellice was
in bed. It was Wednesday, and Bob would not be home until the
week-end, the September term having just begun.
Upon putting down her book, Margaret had gone to the dressing-table
and opened her small jewel-box to put away the brooch she was
wearing. For a few moments she had stood still, gazing helplessly at
the case before her, astonishment depicted upon her countenance, her
expression gradually changing to consternation, as she grasped the
unpleasant fact that her beautiful ruby necklace--her mother's chain
of rare jewels--the heirloom which had descended to her--was missing.
Then, with fingers that trembled a little, she had turned the box
upside down and shaken out her other jewellery upon the table,
although it was obvious the chain was not there. She remembered
having taken it out the previous day, and carelessly left it lying on
the dressing-table. Hastily she opened the chest of drawers and
swept the contents aside, hoping to find it had been placed in safe
custody by Betsy. Then she had stood up, looking down upon the
disorder she had created among her possessions, her breath coming a
little gaspingly as she murmured to herself:
"It is gone--_stolen_----" And a thought, so ugly, so disconcerting,
had rushed unbidden to her mind, making her heart beat unpleasantly
at the mere suggestion which came as a flash of illumination, to be
followed by a cloud of doubt, which enveloped her mind and filled her
with untold misery.
She had come to this house a stranger, she had been kindly treated,
and had grown fond of the young people who had entered into her life.
The household had appeared a strange one, and things had puzzled her.
Now something of bitterness sounded in her voice as she spoke her
thoughts aloud.
"I trusted them--I trusted them _all_," and now--the fact could not
be doubted, it had to be faced, and faced bravely, she had been
robbed, it seemed, by someone in this house who must be a thief. And
yet--Could she think it of any of them? The very suspicion sent the
hot blood surging to her face--she had felt shamed by the idea of
doubting her friends--for they had now become that to her. Even
Betsy, the old and valued servant, had lately been ready to do
anything for her, and James, too, did many little things which added
to her comfort.
She was miserable and upset when she lay down to rest; she did not
suspect anyone particularly, and yet the horrid fact that the jewels
were gone could not be got over.
Margaret awoke the following morning with a headache; much of the
night had been spent in restless, wakeful tossing. Not until the sun
was shedding its soft beams through her lattice window did she fall
into a troubled sleep.
Immediately after breakfast she asked to see Mrs. Medhurst, and
poured out the story of her loss into sympathetic ears.
"My dear Miss Woodford, no wonder you are upset," she said. "Your
beautiful necklace you showed me one day--you remember--gone? I can
scarcely believe it. I can assure you there are no thieves in this
house--at least I have every reason to believe Betsy and James to be
above suspicion, they have been so many years in our service, and we
have so trusted them--but of course one can never say one is
_perfectly_ sure. I suppose you have searched everywhere? Could it
have fallen behind the dressing-chest?"
"No, I have looked; I don't think I have left a corner unsearched,"
answered Margaret. "I have not mentioned the matter to Betsy; I
thought it better to speak to you first; I should not like to offend
or hurt her, or James, by letting them imagine for a moment I
suspected them."
"Quite right, my dear; I think the bare questioning would upset them;
and my husband will be deeply concerned; I almost think I would say
nothing about it to him just at present, he is not very well, and I
am certain it would worry him. I quite expect you will find it
somewhere. The children would not steal. Ellice might have looked
at it, but beyond that----" and Mrs. Medhurst shrugged her shoulders
expressively, denoting the impossibility of her child being
implicated in the loss. "My little girl is troublesome, Miss
Woodford, I admit it, but--not a thief," she added coldly, with a
quick glance at Margaret's face, and a note of almost challenge in
her voice.
"Oh, no--no, Mrs. Medhurst, I do not think little Ellice has had
anything to do with it," answered Margaret. "She has come into my
room sometimes with me, and looked at my things, but I am quite sure
she would not dream of taking anything--please do not suppose I
imagine it for a moment?"
"Ah, well, let us leave the matter for a little, and both of us keep
our eyes open; at present I can see no explanation, but I have no
doubt you _will_ find your necklace. I should not mention the matter
to the child, but have another good search. Ellice can be very
troublesome, and she may have hidden it; if so, she must be punished."
Margaret could get no further definite help or suggestion from Mrs.
Medhurst--in fact the above conversation had given her an uneasy
sense of discomfort; it seemed as if her hostess, although she had
sympathised, almost doubted her loss, and considered her personal
carelessness was alone responsible.
This morning, as she made her way across the fields, she felt
homesick, and almost wished she had never accepted her present post.
Mrs. Crane had written more than once to ask if she was happy, and if
everything was satisfactory in connection with this household. In
fact, now she thought things over, it appeared as if some possibility
of her environment not being satisfactory lurked in the minds of her
old friends. In her last letter Mrs. Crane had said, "_Be sure, my
dear child, to tell me exactly all your views, and just what this
situation means? Are the Medhursts the right kind of people? Your
previous communications are rather vague; give us your full
confidence--you know how dear you are to us. The Doctor wants
especially to hear if you are quite content in every way with your
surroundings; if not, be sure and come away to us at once._"
Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above. Mrs. Crane's
evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment;
but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends
could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands.
"I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself.
"What _would_ they think if they knew? But oh, how I wish I could
ask their advice!" She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees
flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh,
hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness
and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods. She presently
sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with
her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine of
_Stepping Heavenwards_, where the daily round and common task is so
naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things
furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us
fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home.
A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention,
and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded
density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open
and flung himself at Margaret's feet.
"_You_, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Why--where do you come
from? This is only Friday--you are not due until to-morrow."
There was no answer. The boy had thrown himself face downward upon
the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands.
Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of
moment to the boy, said gently:
"Bob, what _is_ it? What has happened? Won't you tell me?"
A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then,
bending her head, she caught the words:
"Miss Woodford--I'm--I'm in trouble."
"Yes, I guessed so. Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy
of her voice reaching his ear.
The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face
filled her with a nameless anxiety.
"Tell me all about it. I---I shall understand," she said kindly.
"However bad it is, don't be afraid."
Her tones and manner seemed to give the boy confidence.
"Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little
bitterly. "I can stand a licking all right, but--but my father never
seems to think--to think I try. He never believes in me; he's told
me I'm a rotter so--often. He's fond of Ellice--but sometimes I
think he _hates_ me----"
"Oh, no--no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in
Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart. "He doesn't quite
understand, that is all. You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it
is. You will win his regard yet--I am sure--sure."
There was a pause, and then the boy continued, almost as if she had
not spoken:
"He will never forgive me for this. He won't listen to explanations.
I got in a rage about something this morning--I can't tell you what
for--a boy said something, and I knocked him down. I had a cricket
stump in my hand--and--I hurled it at him. I think for the moment I
was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a
minute. I think I was _blind_ with rage. I just rushed away
afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone. Later a prefect
came and told me the Headmaster wanted me. He gave me this note to
deliver to my father, and sent me home with it. He said--I'd
hurt--the boy--he'd been unconscious. He asked me to explain what I
did it for--but--I couldn't."
"What a pity," said Margaret; "it might have made a difference."
"Yes--I think he would have understood; he's just--but I felt I
couldn't. I would not repeat the boy's words--I should have got mad
again."
"Poor Bob, I am sorry, dear! Now what can you do? You have a note
there, you say. Your father comes home early to-day; let's go at
once and tell him--tell him everything and get it over; perhaps he
will understand."
"No--he won't, because I can't tell him; if I could, he would,
because my father is a gentleman."
Something that sounded like pride echoed in the boy's voice--pride of
the right sort--pride that spoke of a secret admiration for the man
who yet had never troubled to fathom the depths of his boy's heart.
Margaret felt a hope for better things spring up within her as she
noted it. Oh, if only she could bring these two together in a great
bond of friendship! The wife and mother seemed a little more aloof,
her half Spanish nationality a little bridge always to be crossed,
where national character and custom might be at variance. But the
boy and the man were essentially English; the strong control evident
in both, with a reserve which hid, as she felt sure, hearts of gold.
"Come, Bob dear, let's go--it is nearly lunch-time."
"Miss Woodford, I would rather--rather run away than face my father
with this." The boy spoke a little desperately, and the fingers
which held the Headmaster's note trembled as he thrust it back into
his pocket.
"Bob, I know you are no coward," said Margaret gently; "to run from a
difficult post is coward's work. You won't do it, I know. You are
trying to be a servant of Christ; isn't that so?"
"I was," he muttered, "but it seems no use."
"Think a moment of what the Captain of your salvation did for
you--when the suffering of Calvary had to be endured, and the agony
of the cross lay before Him. It says, speaking of Him, He set His
face like a flint. He could have escaped that last journey to
Jerusalem, have gone back to the glory of His Heavenly Father's home,
but for your sake He chose to suffer and to die. Bob, His message to
you at this moment seems to me to be some words I read in His Book
this morning: 'Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.'
The Holy Spirit, Who filled the heart and life of the Saviour, can
come upon you, and make you brave and strong. Ask Him now."
Pressing the boy's hand, Margaret moved a little away, and as she
gazed upwards to the blue sky gleaming through the branches overhead,
she lifted up a silent petition to the great Friend of all mankind.
Her own burden lightened as she laid that of another pilgrim at the
feet of Christ.
Her thoughts were disturbed by Bob's voice in her ears:
"Let's go now, Miss Woodford, and get it over."
"Yes, it's late," she answered, neither looking at the boy's face,
nor appearing conscious of an apparent change of atmosphere from the
excitement of distress to normality. But the quiet, even tones of
the boy's voice gave her confidence.
It did not take long to reach home; lunch was just being laid. James
paused in astonishment as he saw the two enter the hall, but a look
from Margaret silenced the words on his lips.
"Where is Mr. Medhurst?" she asked, in a brisk voice.
"In the library, miss," answered James, and moved on to his duties in
the dining-room.
"Come, let's find him," she said, turning to Bob.
"You need not come," he muttered.
"I would like to, if I may?" she asked.
No more was said, and the two entered the room together.
"Bob wants to speak to you, Mr. Medhurst," she said, by way of
explanation, and then moved to the window, leaving the boy facing his
father. She caught the quick look of surprise deepening into a swift
survey of the boy's form as if to ascertain if there had been an
accident and he was unhurt. Margaret realised the unspoken anxiety,
although it was but momentary. The man was evidently not indifferent
to his son's welfare. That cursory glance gave her hope, but even
she was scarcely prepared for the sudden change of aspect which now
swept over him, his countenance visibly darkening as he said:
"What do you want?" and the icy coldness was enough to estrange any
young heart anxious to unburden itself.
A shiver ran down the boy's back as he heard it, for a moment his
courage failed, and he stood staring at the stern face in front of
him, his own white with the tensity of the moment. Then he pulled
himself together, "Endure hardness as a good soldier"--the words
rushed to his brain. He raised his head a little more as if to cast
away fear with disdain, then, taking out of his pocket the
Headmaster's note, he handed it to his father.
"Dr. Armstrong sent me home--and told me to give you that," he said,
in a low but clear voice.
Something of a sneer lurked on his father's lips as he took it, then,
as he read the contents, his brow contracted with a heavy frown.
Fear, deadly fear, came to Margaret as she heard his voice, of, it
seemed, concentrated wrath as, with a wave of his hand, he said:
"Get out of the room--go upstairs! I'll come to you."
The boy turned white and hopeless, but Margaret, with real terror in
her heart, sprang forward:
"Mr. Medhurst, please--_please_ excuse me speaking in Bob's behalf,
but I am sure, if you knew all the circumstances in this trouble, you
would find it in your heart to forgive him," she pleaded.
Mr. Medhurst was too much of a gentleman not to be courteous to a
woman, though he could scarcely brook interference.
"You are the counsel for the defence, I perceive, Miss Woodford, but
I'm afraid you have no case; perhaps you don't understand my
son--_my_ son in blind passion has struck a schoolfellow with a
cricket stump and injured him, apparently without provocation, as far
as the Headmaster has been able to ascertain."
"And do you believe that, Mr. Medhurst--believe it of _your_ son?
You don't know Bob fully yet. Your son could never behave like that;
to him, a schoolboy, it would not be cricket, would it?"
"That's the gist of the matter, perhaps," he answered; "he is my son,
and I expect a decent spirit from him."
"Then let him explain the circumstances, Mr. Medhurst; don't punish
him until you have heard _everything_--it is only justice."
"Quite true. Can you deny these facts?" asked Mr. Medhurst, tapping
the Headmaster's statement, and now addressing Bob, who, at
Margaret's intervention, had paused near the door.
"It's true--but--but I was provoked, sir."
"So I suppose; but to what extent?"
"I would rather not say," answered the boy.
"There you are, Miss Woodford, I have followed your advice," said Mr.
Medhurst, with a short sarcastic laugh. "You see, the boy has no
excuse worthy of consideration; he's ashamed to bring it forward."
"Yes--I am--that's true," broke in Bob. "Don't bother, Miss
Woodford; I know I can't escape."
"Bob, you can--you must," Margaret insisted. "Whatever it is, tell
your father; trust him, trust him with the full story, and he will
understand--I know he will," she said eagerly.
Even Gordon Medhurst was moved by the girl's confidence. Was it
possible she was right, and this son of his was not the wastrel he
feared and believed?
There was tense silence for a moment, then the boy spoke again:
"I struck the boy Johnson in a passion because--because he said, I
ought to be turned out of the eleven because--because----
"Yes--because?" encouraged Margaret.
"Because my father was a--a _gaol bird_; then--I hit him--I hit him
hard--and I didn't care how hard."
There was a breathless pause which could almost be felt. Margaret
was afraid the others would hear the loud thumping of her heart as
the long moments passed. Then in a voice from which it sounded as if
all feeling had passed, Mr. Medhurst said quietly:
"What put such an idea in the boy's head, I wonder?"
"He said he heard his father tell a chum," answered Bob.
"What is the boy's name, by the way?"
"Johnson--his father is a barrister."
Did Margaret hear a catch in his breath as Mr. Medhurst said: "Ah,
Johnson."
Again there was silence, and then:
"Did you believe the boy's statement?" asked Mr. Medhurst, still in
that dull, toneless voice of indifference.
"_Believe him_, father!" The light of indignant scorn flamed into
the boy's eyes and rang in his voice: "Believe him, believe that of
_my_ father!"
Mr. Medhurst suddenly leaned forward, a new expression in his face,
an interested alertness in his voice.
"I see--you trust me--eh? Then why such excitement over the boy's
remark?"
"I punished his insolence, sir. How dared he say such a thing!"
"You knocked him out, evidently. I don't suppose he'll offend again,
though I fancy his father may object. This may mean a doctor's bill,
but never mind that, I expect there is no serious damage. You had
better stay at home until Monday, and meanwhile I will write to Dr.
Armstrong. And another time, keep your temper, my son, and treat
such remarks with the cold contempt they deserve. I think we must be
better friends in the future, eh?" he added. The kindly smile which
lit his face as he spoke these last words transfigured it; tears
glistened in the boy's eyes.
Margaret left the room hurriedly, a great hope and joy tugging at her
heart; for the first time since she came to Oaklands she had seen an
expression of affection pass between father and son.