HAPPINESS
The tragedy of Mrs. Medhurst's death had wrought many changes.
Ellice had been sent away to a boarding-school at Margaret's
suggestion, and she herself had gone to live with Mrs. Crane as
companion--but, as that lady put it in her letter, "more as a
daughter of the house than a dependent, dear--the daughter I have
always wanted to take care of us in our old age."
Mr. Medhurst went abroad for a few years, and then something new and
unexpected happened which changed the lives of all the inmates of
Oaklands.
Under the old oak tree a girl sat, her head buried in her hands in an
abandonment of grief: it was Ellice Medhurst, no longer the little
child who had in earlier years fled to the woods to soothe her
childish griefs, but a tall girl of fifteen, merging into womanhood.
Near her stood a young man looking down upon her with rather a
puzzled countenance, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.
"I don't see what's the use of making a fuss, Ellice," he remarked.
"Because it won't be anything to you--you will be off to college
directly," she answered, "and I shall be left with her. I won't bear
it, Bob--I can't. I know I shall hate her--and father will--will
never think of me--now," she ended with a sob.
"Look here, Sis," said her brother, after a slight pause, "I think
it's mean of you to take up this attitude. Here's father coming home
to-day, and because he's chosen to marry again, you are putting
yourself out, and making up your mind to be as beastly as you can to
her--his wife, I mean. I know you--you can be nasty when you
like--at least you used to be," he corrected. "You've been jolly
decent lately; now you are going to spoil it all by being mean."
"Mean? I don't understand. In what way am I mean--and to whom?"
"To father, of course," was the emphatic answer--at Ellice's amazed
repetition of the words. "You are going to spoil all his happiness
by taking up this role of being injured. Dad will, of course, want
you to like her--the message in his letter is plain enough, 'I hope
you will do your best to give us both a welcome'--and all I can say
is, whatever _you_ do, I mean to go home and receive them. Come on,
Sis, pull yourself together! It doesn't say much for your love for
dad, if you set out to cause him trouble like this, and spoil his
happiness. Be nice; very likely she won't be half bad. I expect she
dreads seeing us quite as much as we dread seeing her. What's the
honour of keeping smiling only when things are pleasant? Come
on--get over it. I'm off; it's nearly time they arrived."
There was silence for a moment, and Bob stood fidgeting by his
sister, then in half-disgusted tones he said:
"I can't wait any longer for you; if you won't come--you _won't_."
And with a quick stride he turned and made his way down the avenue
towards home.
For a few minutes longer the struggle for victory went on in Ellice
Medhurst's heart, then suddenly she jumped up with the muttered
words, "I'll try; Bob must be right." She ran lightly down the path
after him, and caught him up at the edge of the wood.
"I'm coming with you," she whispered breathlessly, as she grasped his
arm.
"Well done, young 'un!" he answered. "Come on, we must run, or we
shall be late."
* * * * *
"Here they come!" shouted Bob, as two figures turned into the
drive--a smothered exclamation escaped him as he rushed to the front
door.
Ellice did not follow immediately, her knees were shaking, and she
felt strung up to such a pitch of mental excitement she hardly felt
capable of following Bob at first. Then suddenly she heard her
father's voice saying, "Where's Ellice?" The reaction came
immediately; she flew to the door, and threw herself blindly into her
father's arms with a smothered sob.
"Why, ladybird, what is it?" he said, stroking her hair gently.
"Look--have you no word of welcome for my wife?"
"Ellice, dear child," said Margaret's voice gently.
The girl started, raising her head, and looked wonderingly into the
sweet face of her old governess. Then the great fact dawned upon her
mind--Margaret Woodford, whom she loved, was the new stepmother she
had dreaded.
"You?--_You?_" she exclaimed, clasping the hands extended towards
her. "Oh, how lovely!"
Tears of joy glistened in Margaret's eyes.
"I think you can see the reward of other years now, can't you?"
whispered her husband, and Margaret did see, and was wondrously
content.
* * * * *
Two months passed quickly away--two months of unalloyed happiness to
Margaret in her new life.
It was her birthday, and she stood looking out upon the frost-clothed
lawn glistening in a bath of winter sunshine, waiting for the others
to come down to breakfast. It was November--cold, still, and bright.
Presently she felt her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and heard
his voice saying:
"Many happy returns! Here is my double present for your wedding and
your birthday," and he placed an important looking envelope in her
hands.
At first Margaret gazed at the packet uncomprehendingly, then the
nature of the gift became clear.
"_The Abbey House!_" she exclaimed. "You have bought the
Abbey--House--Gordon?"
"Yes, and I now present it to my wife," he said gaily. "I hope she
is pleased?"
"Pleased? I can scarcely believe it--the dear old home--ours?"
"Yes, the late owners are going abroad and wanted to sell, and at last
I have got what I have been hoping to have the opportunity of
purchasing for some time. We will go there to live, dear, as soon as
you like."
"Oh, I don't know how to thank you!--it is beyond my wildest dreams,"
answered Margaret. "I so loved the place. But, Gordon (the
brightness fading a little from her face), how will Ellice like
leaving Oaklands? She is just as attached to it as I was to the old
home."
"I know," answered Mr. Medhurst; "we will keep it, dear, and come out
here in the summer months. Betsy and James can remain in charge."
"That will be splendid, and please us all," she answered quietly,
adding, as if to herself, "I sometimes wonder why God has been so
bountiful to me."
We leave Margaret Woodford, while yet the ministry of life is
unfinished, and her future and that of her loved ones an unwritten
page, knowing that for her and all God's servants, the promise
remains unshakable--"I will be with thee all the days. When thou
passest through the waters, they shall not overflow thee."