THE SECRET OF OAKLANDS

By

M. HARDING KELLY

Author of "Philip Campion's Will," "Roy" "Tom Kenyan," etc.

LONDON R.T.S.—LUTTERWORTH PRESS 4 BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS LTD. LONDON AND TONBRIDGE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. PARTING OF THE WAYS II. OAKLANDS III. TRIALS IV. INFLUENCE V. THE GREAT FIGHT VI. OLD FRIENDS VII. BOB IN TROUBLE VIII. DISCOVERY IX. A BOND OF UNION X. FIRE XI. AN OLD CRIME XII. HAPPINESS

THE SECRET OF OAKLANDS

CHAPTER I PARTING OF THE WAYS

"Father, what is the matter?"

The question came in sharp tones of distress from a young girl who at that moment entered the breakfast-room. Quickly she sprang to her father's side and began chafing his cold hands, as she gazed with fear-stricken eyes into the beloved face before her.

Cyril Woodford made no response, but sat as if stunned, staring with apparently unseeing eyes at the newspaper before him, which his nerveless fingers had just dropped. His face was ashen, and there was a nervous twitching about his lips as he tried to moisten them with his tongue.

"Father dear, speak—tell me why you look like this! Has something terrible happened?"

No answer came in words, but with a shaking finger the man pointed to the heading of a column in the newspaper in front of him.

GREAT FINANCIAL CRASH FAILURE OF SAMPSON'S BANK, LTD.

For a few seconds Margaret Woodford looked at the words with a puzzled expression wrinkling her brows, then something of the trouble involved dawned upon her mind.

"Sampson's has failed, I see—does—does it mean you have lost some money, dear?" she asked a little hesitatingly.

"All—all," he said huskily, while a shiver shook his frame as though he were attacked with ague.

The girl's face paled.

There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then, rising from her cramped position at his side, she said gently:

"I'm going to ring for some fresh coffee, father; yours is cold."

"I don't want anything; I couldn't eat," he answered.

But, ignoring this remark, she rang and gave her order, and in a few minutes a fresh cup of the fragrant beverage was poured out and brought to him.

"Drink it, just to please me," she said coaxingly, "you are so cold; and presently you will explain it all to me, won't you?"

For a minute or two longer her father sat silent, then hastily drained the cup before him, rose a little uncertainly, and went out of the room, leaving his breakfast still untasted.

His daughter remained seated, mechanically eating a finger of toast, and deep in painful thought.

She could not, of course, grasp the enormity of this thing, but that it meant serious trouble was evident. She had never seen her father disturbed like this before, and those last words of his, repeated so despairingly, had been enough to fill her with vague alarm. It surely could not mean the giving up of their beautiful home? Why, the Abbey House had been in their family for generations, and every stone of it was precious to her. And she knew only too well how her father loved it.

The Woodfords of the Abbey House were well known in the county, and the thought that strangers might one day occupy it had never hitherto suggested itself to anyone's mind.

Margaret started slightly as the idea for the first time presented itself to her now.

She gazed with tear-dimmed eyes at the beautiful grassy terraces, and the grand old cedar-tree rearing its head in front of the dining-room windows and sweeping the lawn with its graceful branches. It all looked so peaceful outside in the morning sunlight, as though nothing could disturb the calm serenity of the place.

Alas! for appearances—how poor an index they often are to the stern realities of life!

Mr. Woodford scarcely saw his daughter any more that day; he remained in the library until quite late in the afternoon, refusing admittance to everyone, spending his time in writing letters, and sorting papers in his desk with nervous fingers.

At last Margaret could bear the suspense no longer, and persisted in knocking at the door until he responded to her entreaties to come in.

"There is something very wrong with the master to-day," said old John, the man-servant, as he addressed his fellow-servants. "Something very wrong," and he shook his head dolorously as he spoke.

"Yes—that there is, and no mistake," answered cook, "and as for Miss Margaret, she looks as white as a sheet; just because the master wouldn't come in to lunch she must needs go without."

"I wonder what it means. It's something as come by post upset them, because things seemed all right when the master came down this morning; he looked as cheerful as could be, and when I set eyes on him half an hour later, I never saw anyone look worse."

"Well—I'll tell you what I think it is——"

But cook's explanations, or ideas, were cut short by the violent ringing of the library bell, not once, but two or three times, peremptorily.

"My! listen to that now, be quick, John! Good gracious, I never heard a bell tugged in that way before!"

John forgot he was getting on in years as he hurried breathless up the stairs; he felt already a presentiment of trouble, but he was not prepared for what he found.

"Why—what—what's the matter, miss?" he exclaimed, as he opened the library door and hurried to his master's side.

"I don't know!—-oh, I don't know! but father is very ill—send for the doctor, John, quick—let George take the grey mare!"

John was shocked by what he saw, but he was a sensible man who knew how to keep his head in an emergency. Without further hesitation he hurried back to the servants' hall even faster than he had left it, and quietly issued his orders to the groom.

"Ride hard!—the master's very ill if I'm not much mistaken;" and not waiting to answer any of the questions which were rained upon him, he at once returned to his young mistress.

The time seemed interminable while the two watched by the master of the house, longing and praying in the silence of their hearts for the medical man's arrival.

At last the welcome approach of his gig sounded on the carriage drive, and in a few moments more Dr. Crane was in the room—quiet, calm, issuing his orders clearly and decidedly, and bringing with him a sense of comfort to the frightened girl.

When the patient was at last in bed, and John installed to watch beside him, the doctor called Margaret aside and placed an arm-chair for her.

"Now tell me how this attack began, and what you think brought it on?"

In a few words Miss Woodford described the day's occurrences, and explained that while her father was talking to her that evening in the library, he suddenly cried out as though in great pain and put his hand to the back of his neck, then he seemed to lose consciousness.

"What is it, doctor?" Her sweet grey eyes looked anxiously into his, as she asked the question.

Dr. Crane paused a moment or two before he answered, then he said slowly:

"He has had a stroke consequent upon some unusual excitement or shock."

"A stroke?" repeated Margaret. "Does it mean then—that ... that he is too ill to—to recover?" And her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Oh, I do not say that at all," answered Dr. Crane; "he may, of course, get over this quite well, but in that case he will probably not be quite the same man again that he was before it happened. Perhaps," he continued, "you do not know that your father has consulted me more than once during the last year with regard to his health?"

"No, I did not know that," she replied.

"I am sorry to say so; but he has not been robust for some time; his heart is not what I should like it to be—but there, I am frightening you, and I hope unnecessarily; so far as I can see, there is no reason for serious alarm to-night. Be brave, child; if there is to be illness in the house, you will want all your strength; husband it now by having a good meal and going to bed early, and try to sleep. I shall send the district nurse in to sit up with Mr. Woodford, and you can wire to town to-morrow for a permanent one—at least—you can do that if—if it is necessary," he added hesitatingly, for as he was speaking the remembrance of a hint of monetary difficulties in a recent conversation with Mr. Woodford recurred unpleasantly to his mind.

To think of his old friends, the inmates of the Abbey House, being threatened with poverty seemed almost too extraordinary to be true. Surely there must be a mistake somewhere!

The kind doctor shook off the unpleasant doubt, and, pressing the girl's hand warmly, bade her farewell, with a last promise to call later and not forget to send the nurse.

When he had gone, Margaret stole softly into her father's room, and gazed silently at the still figure upon the bed.

The patient was breathing a little unevenly, but his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be sleeping.

Old John sat by the bedside anxiously watching his master's face.

Reassured by her father's peaceful attitude, his daughter went downstairs and did her best to do as Dr. Crane had told her. For she was sensible enough to realise that if there was trouble to be faced in the unknown future, giving way at the outset would be both foolish and cowardly.

After all, she was a Woodford, and with the courage of her race she knew she must meet difficulties with a stiff lip.

But it was a relief when Nurse Somers arrived, with her cheerful air of confidence and reliability, and took charge of the sick-room.

The next few days were like a dream to Margaret; she seemed to live in another world. Her father rallied from this first attack, and was sufficiently recovered to spend some hours with his lawyer. Then his mind seemed to grow dull, and he talked feebly and childishly of the old happy days when his wife was alive and his daughter a little child—the sunbeam and plaything of the house.

A few days of weakness followed, then came the night when the spirit took its flight from earth's habitation, quietly and silently, in answer to God's summons, and fled to that sorrowless land where all is joy and peace, and rest. And in the dawn of the morning the watchers saw only the hush of death's release for the master; "God's finger touched him, and he slept."

Margaret did not break down; the sorrow seemed too much to bear, too much to understand at first. She felt numb with grief; her cold apathy disturbed the kind nurse, who stayed until the funeral should be over.

"I wish she would cry," she remarked to the doctor; "this terrible calm is unnatural, and a fearful strain."

"Yes—yes—poor child, the reaction will, I am afraid, be all the greater," he answered sympathetically; "but youth is bound to recover."

But it was not until the day of the funeral that Margaret fully realised her loss, when she knelt by her window alone, the pale moon looking down upon her from the clear cold sky. Then the greatness of her bereavement came over her, and she felt, in all the sadness of realisation, the desolation of her future.

Her dear, dear father was taken from her, the one being she loved in all the world, the one who had been everything to her since she had lost her mother, her darling companion as well as parent. And as though to mock at her grief she had learned that day for the first time from the lawyer's lips that she was penniless. Owing to the great bank failure, her father's money had melted away into thin air; and her home, the dear old Abbey House, must pass into other hands, and be sold at once to meet the demands of her father's creditors.

To-night was hers—to-night she could wander through the rooms, and take a last farewell walk round the gardens and park, and touch as she had touched the friend of her childhood, the fine old cedar which had silently watched many generations of Woodfords seated under its sheltering boughs. With tender, lingering fingers she had pressed the smooth trunk, and then broken a tiny piece of the beautiful evergreen, and put it among her own personal treasures. It was that which lay in her hand now, and upon which the fast-falling tears dropped, as she said good-bye to the happiness of the old home, so soon to pass into the possession of strangers. She covered her face, while silent sobs shook her, in the sorrow of those moments.

Presently she grew calm again, and, gazing through the window of her room at those bright worlds which canopy our earth above, her lips moved, and her voice whispered to the One Who knew all her trouble and understood: "Father in Heaven, help me, Thy child, to do Thy will wherever Thou seest fit to send me."

There was no outward answer to that prayer, but the answer was speeding to her then, and strength to prepare her for the difficult days to come.

CHAPTER II OAKLANDS

"Oh, I wish the train would be quick," said a small child, addressing an old man-servant who stood rather anxiously guarding her, as she stamped impatiently up and down upon the platform. "What makes it so long, James? I want to see her—because I shall know directly if she's nice; if she isn't, I'll be naughty every day, and make her just as unhappy as ever I can, and then she'll go away like all the others have. I told daddy so this morning."

"I expect you'll like her, miss," answered the man, with a grim smile, as he gazed with affectionate amusement at the spoilt child in front of him.

"If she's nasty, I'll hate her—so there."

"Come, come, missy, don't talk like that," he interposed.

"Yes, I shall—look! there's the train coming, the signal has gone down, now let's see, James, who can find her first; I feel sure she'll be horrid, and have an ugly old bonnet on."

The train steamed into the station, puffing and snorting vehemently as it came to a standstill, and in a few minutes the carriages had emptied themselves of their passengers.

The old man-servant and little Ellice Medhurst scanned carefully each possible looking person who alighted, to see if they answered to their ideas of the expected governess they had come to meet.

She had sent no description of herself, she had not thought of it, and in fact her employer had forgotten her intention to send to the station, until that afternoon Miss Woodford's future pupil, with a wilfulness which characterised her, had insisted upon going herself to meet her, not from politeness, but curiosity. What sort of person she was likely to expect she had not waited to inquire, but telling James he was to come with her—"Mamma said so"—she set off with him in the little pony-carriage to fetch the new governess to Oaklands.

* * * * *

The journey had seemed long to Margaret Woodford, as, occupied with her sad thoughts, she gazed out of the carriage windows, taking only a languid interest in the stations she passed.

She was still feeling the terrible shock of her father's death and failure, and the loss of the dear old home.

This venture into the great unknown world was a great trial, and it required all her courage to face it as bravely as she was doing.

Her heart glowed with gratitude towards Mrs. Crane, as she thought of her parting words: "Remember, you are not to stay if you are not happy, but to come back to us, and we will look for something else for you."

Happy! She didn't expect to be that, but she would try to be content and to do her duty; she was sure the promise was hers, "I will be with thee in all places whithersoever thou goest." God knew the way that she took, and He would direct her path. That was the one great fact which sustained Margaret Woodford's courage as she faced the world alone for the first time in her life.

She had started for London that morning from her old home in the North, and travelled by the 4.15 from town, and now in the fading afternoon light she caught her first glimpse of the garden of England, as the train steamed past country lanes, cherry orchards, and hop grounds rising into renewed life as the season advanced.

The only other occupants of her carriage appeared to be two farmers—at least she judged they were of that persuasion, by the agricultural topics of conversation which seemed to engross them. Her interest was aroused by their eagerness and enthusiasm; one of them, drawing out of his pocket a little square parcel, hastily untied the string, and, handing it to his companion, said:

"'Taste that, and tell me what you think of it. I can assure you I never grew a finer sample."

Margaret expected to see something eatable, and was more than surprised to witness the man bury his nose in the parcel and, after drawing a deep breath, gasp.

"Beautiful—beautiful, and if it wasn't for this foreign competition eating our very pockets, you'd be making a fine price now on these last years. I think you did right to hold them up. What we are coming to, I don't know; trade is being driven out of the country, and there's nothing but ruin staring most of us in the face. Fortunately, I was in the swim when one got £20 per pocket; but now, well—they are not worth growing; I've grubbed up several acres this season."

There the conversation got quite beyond Margaret's comprehension, as further technicalities in connection with the hop trade were discussed, with summer fruit prices.

Already she felt in a new world, and a sense of loneliness oppressed her. Her thoughts passed from the subjects of her companions' discussion to her own troubles, and a nervous unrest as to whether she was getting near her destination.

The stoppings at small stations seemed frequent, and at each one she gazed anxiously at the names written on the boards and seats upon the platforms.

Her obvious nervousness presently attracted the attention of one of her travelling companions.

"Can I assist you?" he asked her politely, as he saw her struggling to get some of her property down from the rack. "I suppose you are getting out here?" The train was slowing up as he spoke.

"Thank you very much," she answered, as the bundle of wraps was deposited on the seat opposite, then continued anxiously, "I don't know if this is my destination."

"What station do you want?" he asked.

"Steynham. I don't know it at all."

"Oh, that is a little farther on; four more stations, and then yours," he answered.

"Do I have to change at all?" she asked.

"No, this is slow from our last stopping-place."

"I am so much obliged," she answered, in a tone of relief.

After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you further?"

"Thank you, I'm afraid not. I get out at that station, but I shall be met there, I expect. I am going on higher up the country beyond Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands—a Mr. Medhurst's."

"Oaklands—Medhurst," repeated her interlocutor with a slight start, which she did not fail to catch.

"Do you know anything about it—about them?" she asked somewhat timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words had filled her with a vague disquiet.

"No—oh—no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he answered, somewhat hesitatingly.

He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared to get out. As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford.

"The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the platform out of her sight.

"Do you know anything of the place she's going to?" asked his friend, as they descended the steps.

"Not exactly, but I'm sure I've heard no good of it; there's some sort of mystery, or scandal attached to it, I believe, and folks say the youngsters are terrors. I am sorry that is the girl's destination; she's young and pretty—evidently a lady, I should say, and looks as if she's had trouble. But there, one can't pick up strangers' burdens, we've plenty of anxieties of our own just now." And the subject of Margaret Woodford and her possible sorrows and difficulties passed from their minds as they emerged through the station door, jumped into the gigs awaiting them, and drove away to their homes.