CHAPTER VII

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.