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.