CHAPTER X

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.