FIRE
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.