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 WIENER ISLAMSTUDIEN 3
3
This pioneering volume defines the contours of the emerging engagements of
Muslim women scholars from around the world with the authoritative inter-
pretive traditions of Islam, classical and contemporary. Muslima theology, en-
compassing a range of perspectives and arising from multiple social locations,
now claims a place alongside womanist and mujerista readings that interrogate
scripture and other forms of religious discourse to empower women of faith to
speak for themselves in the interests of gender justice.

Ednan Aslan / Marcia Hermansen / Elif Medeni (eds.) · Muslima Theology

Ednan Aslan / Marcia Hermansen /
Elif Medeni (eds.)
Ednan Aslan is Chair of the Institute for Islamic Studies and Islamic Religious
Education in the Centre for Teacher Education at the University of Vienna.
Marcia Hermansen is Director of the Islamic World Studies program and Pro-
Muslima Theology
fessor in the Theology Department at Loyola University Chicago.
The Voices of Muslim Women Theologians
Elif Medeni is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Education at the Uni-
versity of Vienna.

ISBN 978-3-631-62899-7

WISL 03-262899_Aslan_VH_A5HC Entwurf3.indd 1 05.06.13 11:01

 WIENER ISLAMSTUDIEN 3
3
This pioneering volume defines the contours of the emerging engagements of
Muslim women scholars from around the world with the authoritative inter-
pretive traditions of Islam, classical and contemporary. Muslima theology, en-
compassing a range of perspectives and arising from multiple social locations,
now claims a place alongside womanist and mujerista readings that interrogate
scripture and other forms of religious discourse to empower women of faith to
speak for themselves in the interests of gender justice.

Ednan Aslan / Marcia Hermansen / Elif Medeni (eds.) · Muslima Theology

Ednan Aslan / Marcia Hermansen /
Elif Medeni (eds.)
Ednan Aslan is Chair of the Institute for Islamic Studies and Islamic Religious
Education in the Centre for Teacher Education at the University of Vienna.
Marcia Hermansen is Director of the Islamic World Studies program and Pro-
Muslima Theology
fessor in the Theology Department at Loyola University Chicago.
The Voices of Muslim Women Theologians
Elif Medeni is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Education at the Uni-
versity of Vienna.

WISL 03-262899_Aslan_VH_A5HC Entwurf3.indd 1 05.06.13 11:01

Muslima Theology
WIENER ISLAMSTUDIEN
Herausgegeben von Ednan Aslan

Band 3
 Ednan Aslan / Marcia Hermansen /
Elif Medeni (eds.)

Muslima Theology
The Voices of Muslim Women Theologians
Bibliographic Information published by the Deutsche
Nationalbibliothek
The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the
Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data is
available in the internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

Cover Design: © Olaf Gloeckler, Atelier Platen, Friedberg

Cover illustration: © Anadolu Agency

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Muslima theology : the voices of Muslim women theologians /
Ednan Aslan, Marcia Hermansen, Elif Medeni (eds.).
pages cm. — (Wiener Islamstudien ; Bd. 3)
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-3-631-62899-7
1. Women in Islam. 2. Islam—Doctrines. 3. Women theologi­
ans—Islamic countries. I. Aslan, Ednan, 1959- II. Hermansen,
Marcia K., 1951- III. Medeni, Elif.
BP173.4.M935 2013
297.2082—dc23
2013021602
ISSN 2194-7988
ISBN 978-3-631-62899-7 (Print)
E-ISBN 978-3-653-03238-3 (E-Book)
DOI 10.3726/978-3-653-03238-3
© Peter Lang GmbH
Internationaler Verlag der Wissenschaften
Frankfurt am Main 2013
All rights reserved.
Peter Lang Edition is an Imprint of Peter Lang GmbH.
Peter Lang - Frankfurt am Main • Bern • Bruxelles • New York •
Oxford • Warszawa • Wien
All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any
utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without
the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to
prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions,
translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in
electronic retrieval systems.
www.peterlang.de
 T ab l e o f C o n t e n t s

9 Series editor’s forew ord

11 Introduction:
The New Voices o f Muslim Women Theologians
Marcia Hermansen

PART 1— MUSLIM WOMEN

AS THEOLOGIANS: HISTORICAL AND
C O N T E M P O R A R Y PERSPECTIVES

35 Early Community Politics and the Marginalization

o f Women in Islamic Intellectual History
Ednan Aslan

45 Muslim Women as Religious Scholars:

A Historical Survey
Zainab Alwani

59 Feminist Readings o f the Quran:

Social, Political, and Religious Implications
Ndeye Adújar

81 Muslim Feminist Theology in the United States

Aysha Hidayatullah

5
PART 2 — THEOLOGICAL A N TH R O PO L O G Y
A N D MUSLIM WOMEN

101 Women and M an’s “F a ll”:

A Q u r’anic Theological Perspective
Riffat Hassan

115 The Position o f Woman in the Creation:

A Q u r’anic Perspective
Hatice Arpagu ş

133 M isogynistic Reports in the H adith Literature

Hidayet Şefkatli Tuksal

155 Gender Justice and Gender

J ih ā d— Possibilities and Lim its o f Q u r’anic
Interp retation fo r W om en’s Liberation
Muna Tatari

PART 3 — MUSLIM WOMEN

A N D ISLAMIC RELIGIOUS LAW

167 Gendering R itual: A M u slim a ’s Reading

o f the Laws o f P urity and R itu a l Preclusion
Celene Ayat Lizzio

181 Ibn T aym iyya’s Fem inism ?

Im p riso n m en t and the Divorce Fatwas
Carolyn Baugh

6
197 Sexing the Prayer: The Politics o f R itual
and F em inist A ctivism in Indonesia
Etin Anwar

217 Violence A gainst Women in Q u r’an 4:34:

A Sacred Ordinance?
Rabha Al-Zeera

PART 4 — MUSLIMA
CONSTRUCTIVE THEOLOGY

231 From Sexual D ifference to Religious Difference:

Toward a M uslim a Theology o f Religious Pluralism
Jerusha Tanner Lamptey

247 R esisting the Veil o f Universalism :

M uslim W om anist Philosophy as a Lens fo r
A u th en tic R epresentations o f A frican A m erican
M uslim Women
Debra Majeed

267 In Search o f al-Ins ā n:

Sufism , Islam ic Law, and Gender
Sa‘diyya Shaikh

309 Bibliography
335 Contributor Biographies

7
 S e r i e s e d i t o r ’s f o r e w o r d

We are pleased to present the third volume of “Wiener Islamstudi-

en”—works in the field of Islamic Studies from the University of Vi­
enna. This series aims to make intellectual contributions to Islamic
discourse while providing material that is academically rigorous and
accessible to the general public.
The current volume on Muslima Theology highlights an impor­
tant emergent phenomenon in contemporary debates about the sit­
uation of Muslim women. This is the growing role played by female
Muslim theologians and academics working in the field of religious
studies who are critically reflecting on their position within Islam
through making interpretive contributions that challenge the preva­
lent patriarchal readings of religious tradition.
Numerous books have been published about ‘Women in Islam’
and it remains a popular topic in popular debates. A naive perception
is that the position of women has already been defined within the Is­
lamic religion for all eternity and one only needs to open the classical
books in order to obtain the answers to today’s questions on gender is­
sues. This overlooks the fact that Islam as it exists today, in all its vari­
ety and richness, developed historically. After all, today’s Muslims are
not the first generation to be faced with the task of dealing with new
social and religious situations and the need to find reasonable ways to
resolve the concomitant challenges and crises.
9
 Series editor’s foreword

Previous generations of Muslims found their own answers to such

questions in various cultural and geographical regions of this world.
It is therefore not possible to speak of a single Islam, rather we en­
counter a multitude of cultural and historical expressions of the re­
ligion in the most diverse cultural environments. In its dynamic his­
tory throughout the past centuries, Islam has been able to continually
adapt and incorporate diverse theological traditions of interpretation
and practice.
The work of female Muslim theologians in this volume indicates
that Muslim women are increasingly drawing on the dynamic origins
of the religion and deriving from them a theology fit for the needs of
our time. While rooted in authentic Islamic sources and interpretive
methodologies, the contributions from Muslima theologians featured
in this collection clearly demonstrate their creative and future-orient­
ed approach.
This volume, initially intended as a project within the Department
for Islamic Religious Education at the University of Vienna, would not
have come about without the valuable contribution of my colleague
Prof. Dr. Marcia Hermansen. In addition to her valuable introduction
to the topic, she also took charge of the entire editing and translitera­
tion requirements of the volume. The success of this work is due to her
indefatigable commitment.
We would also like to acknowledge the contributions of an inter­
national team of graduate student assitants including Elif Medeni,
Danny Gibboney, and Jason Renken. Dr. Barbara von Schlegell also
provided valuable assistance during the editing process.

Ednan Aslan
V i en na, May 20 13

10
 Marcia Hermansen

Introduction.
T h e N e w Voi c e s o f M u s l i m
Women Theologians

While it is clear that, historically and doctrinally, there is no barrier

to females commenting on and interpreting Islamic sacred texts, af­
ter the first generation of Muslims, women primarily functioned as
transmitters rather than as interpreters of the tradition.1 It is only with
modernity and the rise of mass literacy that Muslim women, beyond
the circle of a few elite scholarly families, began to have access to the
education and tools needed to engage in writing interpretive theolo­
gy. Of course, this could also be said to a greater or lesser extent of all
major religious traditions. While much of this new Muslim theology
undertaken by female interpreters is explicitly feminist or womanist,
the participation of many women in Islamist or socially conservative
pietistic movements has also opened up the field of religious discus­
sion and activism to those Muslim women who seek to reaffirm many
traditional Islamic tenets while also speaking in a female voice that ad­
dresses issues of special relevance to women.
The very concept of Islamic theology requires historical contextual-
ization. Unlike Christianity, and more similarly to Judaism, law, rather
than theology, became the privileged intellectual discipline in classi­
cal Islamic religious thought. The budding rationalistic theologies of
1 This is not to say that transmission is always devoid of individual input and perspectives. There were excep­
tions throughout history of M uslim wom en becoming legal experts, issuing fatwas and making legal decisions
as well as, in very limited cases, speaking or writing critically about male interpreters. See, for example, Ruth
Roded, Women in Islamic Biographical Collections: From Ibn Sa’d to Who’s Who (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1994).

11
 Marcia Hermansen

ninth century Baghdad such as M u ʿtazilism eventually fell into eclipse

in the Sunni world. While the Sunni ʿAsharite and Maturidite schools
of thought continued to exist, their articulation was generally limit­
ed to commentary on existing texts rather than full-scale reinterpreta­
tion of revealed sources in order to make them speak to the particular
concerns of a changed context. In the Shiʿa world and in some areas of
traditional Sufism, elements of philosophical or mystical theologizing
continued. However, their main concerns were neither gender nor the
challenges of contemporary social and political issues.
Terms for theology in classical Arabic are “ʿilm al-kalām” and
“ʿaqīda”. ʿIlm means science or discipline while kalām literally means
speech or discussion, and the scholastic “question and answer” format
of early treatises on issues that impacted the Muslim community in­
itially reflected political and subsequently more theoretical debates
about issues such as “who is a Muslim?” or “free will vs. determinism”.
A crucial debate that emerged early and continues until the present
concerns the scope of applying rational or metaphorical interpretation
to the revealed sources, in contrast to restricting readings of their terms
and injunctions to the literal meanings, in which only texts could be
used to comment on other sacred texts.
ʿAq īda, the second term related to theology in the Islamic tradition,
is derived from a root that conveys “binding, commitment, and con­
tract” and suggests the binding nature of religious conviction. While
Islam is not creedal in the same way as Christianity, some early Mus­
lim figures drew up lists of basic tenets of faith.
The documents to which the terms ʿaqida or ʿaqa’id are applied vary in length,
and the longer ones cannot be sharply divided from the comprehensive theo­
logical treatises (e. g. al-ʿAq īda al-Niẓāmiyya by Juwaynī ). The terms, however,
may usefully be taken to signify compositions where the chief interest is in
the formulation of doctrine or dogma, and not in intellectual discussion or
argument about it ... Creeds are often built round either the shahāda (as al-
Ghazālīʾs) or the tradition, which elaborates a qur ʾanic formula, that faith is
faith in God, His angels, His books, His prophets, etc. (as Birgewīʾs). Sometimes
they are included in legal treatises, as introductory statements of what it is ob­
ligatory for a Muslim to believe.2
2 W. M ontgom ery Watt, “ ʿA ḳīda,” Encyclopaedia o f Islam I, 2nd ed., eds. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bos-
worth, E. van Donzel, and W.P. Heinrichs (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2011), 332.

12
 Introduction. The New Voices of M uslim W omen Theologians

Current lively and critical discussions about the interpretation of re­

ligion and the role of Islam in all areas of life have provoked a renew­
al in speculative theology among Muslims which addresses all areas
of ethical, interpretive, and constructive engagement with religious
teachings. When contemporary Muslim women engage in scriptural
interpretation and theology they are breaking new ground in a num ­
ber of areas, not only as females, but also as interpreters of the reli­
gious tradition in the context of significant contemporary challenges.
Their sources cannot be limited to pre-modern theologies of ʿ ilm al-
kalām and ʿaqīda, which tended to be scholastic in argumentation and
to address matters that are no longer compelling or relevant to most
Muslims. Therefore, the writings of the new cohort of Muslim women
theologians draw on a range of initiatives that support their project,
including the following.

ISLAMIC LIBERALISM
Islamic modernist or liberal thought emerged in the late nineteenth
century, due to rapid social and historical change accompanied an in­
creased acquaintance with Western post-Enlightenment methodolo­
gies for reading scripture that applied historical criticism and the anal­
ysis of literary tropes and genres.3
Both secularized and explicitly religious writers and activists had
an influence on reformist currents in Muslim societies. For example,
Q ā sim Am ī n’s Liberation of Women was thought to have been influ­
enced by the Egyptian modernist Shaykh al-Azhar, Muhammad Ab-
duh (d. 1905).4 Modernists such as Abduh aimed to liberate society
from the effects of medieval interpretations and to ultimately trans­
form family life and the understanding of the husband-wife relation­
ship with its extreme gap between the sexes.
Other male Muslim liberals such as ʿAlī Sharīʿatī (d. 1977) and Fa-
zlur Rahman (d. 1988) presented Islam in ways that addressed the lim­
itations placed on women by taking historical critical approaches to
traditional interpretations. In particular, Rahman’s approach of his­
3 Charles Kurzman, Modernist Islam, 1840-1940: A Sourcebook (New York: Oxford, 1998) and Liberal Islam: A
Sourcebook (New York: Oxford, 2002).
4 Leila Ahmed, A Quiet Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011).

13
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The secret of
Oaklands
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The secret of Oaklands

Author: M. Harding Kelly

Illustrator: G. Henry Evison

Release date: March 24, 2024 [eBook #73245]

Language: English

Original publication: London: R.T.S.--Lutterworth Press, 1919

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET OF

OAKLANDS ***
'WHAT A JOLLY LITTLE PLACE!' REMARKED MARGARET
 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.

In a few minutes more the train reached Steynham. The girl gazed up
and down the platform, feeling more friendless than ever now she no longer
heard the kindly voice of her fellow-traveller. She felt she would have been
glad if she could have had his companionship until she was safely under the
care of her employers.

This tall, elegant-looking girl getting out at Steynham did not pass
unnoticed; her high-bred air and softly modulated voice quickly attracted
the attention of the railway officials, who gathered round her as she stood,
the one solitary passenger, beside her box.

"Is there a carriage to meet me?" she asked.

"I don't think so, miss," replied a porter, running to take a look up the
road.

"No, there is no vehicle here, and none in sight, miss. Who were you
expecting?"

The question was put with a desire to render assistance, for the
Steynham porters knew all the surrounding gentry, and a good deal about
them too, if village gossip was to be relied upon.

"I am expecting someone to meet me from Mr. Medhurst's—Oaklands

is the address, near Wychcliff."

"Near Wychcliff—Oaklands!" repeated one or two of the officials.

"Don't know it, miss—don't know the name."
 "Then—what can I do?" said Margaret, a slight quiver in her voice.

"I'll ask the station-master," said the first speaker, and, hurrying to the
ticket-office, he soon returned with a fresh authority.

"What place was it you wanted?" he asked politely.

"Oaklands," repeated Margaret for the third time—"Mr. Medhurst's."

A shade of surprise crept over the station-master's face.

"Did you say Oaklands?" he repeated.

"Yes—yes, that is the name. Oh, you do know it?"

"Certainly," he replied, "and I fancy a pony-trap from there met the

earlier down-train; a man-servant and a little girl came and watched the
passengers alight, and then drove off again."

"Oh, that is it then! They must have made some mistake in the time of
the train. Now, what can I do? Is this place far away?" asked Margaret,
somewhat anxiously.

"Several miles, miss. It's right up on the hills."

For a few moments nervous fear assailed her, and then she said bravely,
"Can you get me a cab?"

"I'll see, miss," one of the porters answered civilly. "You come into the
waiting-room, and I'll go and fetch Mr. Cramp."

"Who is he?" she inquired.

"Oh, he's the man that has the fly. If it isn't out, it'll be here in half an
hour."

Half an hour! Her heart died at the prospect, as she followed her
luggage down the platform into the stuffy little waiting-room. The window
was closed, and it looked as if it ought to have a poster up with "TO LET"
on the door.

"The station is more comfortable, I think," said the porter, taking a

considering look at the elegant figure in front of him, as, setting down her
bags a moment, he turned to her and motioned to the bench by the entrance
door.

"Thank you, I will wait here."

"I won't be long, miss," he continued encouragingly. "I'll just give these
to the booking-clerk to look after, and I'll be back in no time."

In a few moments more she had the satisfaction of seeing him start out
briskly, and pass through the white station gates.

Wearily she gazed out of the window. It was a warm day, in early
summer, and the scene before her was not wholly dispiriting. A straight road
from the station led up to the village; on the left was a squarely built house
with the words "Coffee Tavern" written upon it in large letters; then came a
few cottages. The road was sheltered at places by some fine old elms, and
on the right hand she saw something that made almost a thrill of hope pass
through her, as she drank in the sight and breath of its beauty.

Spring had long since awakened the sleeping trees, rich life-giving sap
had risen, and the sun coaxed them into opening their eyes to the new
season. The orchard upon which Margaret was now gazing showed her a
wealth of promise, as the gleam of fruit clusters shining through the green
foliage caught her eye.

The outlook on the opposite side of the station, which she could just see
through another window, was the exact counterpart of that near to where
she was sitting, and presented a view prosaic enough, which needed some
conjuring of the mind to suggest any ideas of romance.

Margaret tried to be interested, but her thoughts were trailing back to

the dear old home surroundings when she heard the rumble of a cab. A few
minutes later a one-horse vehicle drew up at the door, and her friend the
porter jumped down, as she rose with alacrity and went to meet him.

"It's all right, miss, he knows Wychcliff, and says he can find 'Oaklands'
when he gets there—it's an old farm that has stood empty for some time."

In a few minutes more Margaret had started upon her quest.

Steynham, quiet enough in the spring-time, but showing much more life
as the fruit and hop seasons come round, was soon left behind, and the
gradual ascent to Wychcliff was begun—a long drive through two or three
villages, and then a steep climb up a narrow, grass-grown road, to the hills
beyond. There was only room for one vehicle at a time, and Margaret was
startled by suddenly hearing the driver calling at the top of his voice, "Hie
—back—there!—back!" and the old cab came to a sudden standstill with a
violent jerk. A sharp altercation ensued between the two Jehus, which
sounded decidedly uncomplimentary; then her vehicle was jerked
backwards down the hill, nearly overturning as it ran up on to the bank.

Miss Woodford was used to horses, and not easily frightened, so she sat
tight, preferring the chance of an upset to getting out on to this unknown,
narrow road, and in the darkness trying to find standing-room in the hedge.
It was not a pleasant experience, as those who have driven up, or down
Wychcliff hill in the evening can testify. Here and there at long intervals
there are wider spaces cut back into the adjacent fields to allow vehicles to
pass. Fortunately, one was near, and after much jolting and noise, with a
good deal of argument on the part of the drivers, and a last shout from
Cramp, whose temper was now up, of "'Nother time I'll see you back yer
old caërt before I stop my currage for such as yew!"—and the cab crawled
on again.

Would it ever end? she wondered, and the remembrance of that dark,
lonely drive, with night settling down around her, never quite faded from
her mind, although she little knew then the fears and doubts that were to
await her later.

By dint of inquiry at a solitary cottage, which was passed at the top of

the hill, they discovered the whereabouts of Oaklands Farm.
 In the gloom Margaret could not see what her future home was like, the
darkness being increased by the thick trees which surrounded it, only
leaving just room for the cab to draw up before the front door.

She got out and paid her fare, as the man set down her box on the step,
and then, after violently ringing the bell, climbed back to his seat.

"Seems pretty lonely," he remarked, as he gathered up the reins; "not

much of a place for a young lady like you."

The girl shivered at his words.

"Look here," he continued, "if you want to get away whoam any time,
yew jest write to Mr. Cramp, Cab Driver, Steynham, and I'll come for yer,
miss—see?"

Tears rose in the back of Margaret's eyes at the mention of the word
home. She thanked the kindly old man, who was always liked by his
"fares," but she did not explain her destitute condition to him.

He waited, after setting her box on the step, until the door opened, and
looked backward as he drove away to see she had entered. Then he
vanished into the darkness.

As the door opened, Margaret was agreeably impressed by the bright

glow of the hall into which she entered. The man-servant who appeared was
civilly polite; the dark oak furniture and rich red carpet and walls,
artistically decorated, gave a sense of warmth and comfort to the tired girl.
Then she was startled by hearing a shrill voice screaming over the banisters:

"So you are here at last, and I can't even come and look at you, because
I'm supposed to be in bed. It is a shame! I want——"

"Go back, Miss Ellice, now," said James reprovingly; "the master will
hear you."

"Who cares!" said the elf, leaning still further over the balustrade until
she was in danger of falling.
 At that moment the dining-room door opened, and the child, in spite of
her boasting, disappeared, as a tall, dark, well-set-up man appeared.

"Is it really Miss Woodford?" he inquired, holding out his hand.

"Yes. I'm afraid I'm very late, but I had a difficulty in finding a
conveyance at the station. I hope I've not caused any inconvenience."

"Indeed no; the fault is ours. I must apologise. We sent a trap to meet
you, but unfortunately Mrs. Medhurst made a mistake about the train—we
have only just found it out. I'm sorry you've had the trouble of finding your
way here alone."

"Ah, here's Betsy," he added, addressing an elderly woman who at that

moment made her appearance in the hall. "Will you take Miss Woodford
upstairs at once," he said, "and then," turning to Margaret, "we shall be
ready for dinner, when I can introduce you to my wife; your little charge is
in bed, and asleep by this time, I expect."

This last was received with a grim smile by old James, as the young
governess followed the woman to her bedroom.

A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, which was pleasant, for the
early summer nights were still cold. Margaret glanced around her room with
pleasure. The subdued green carpet, cream-tinted walls, and shelf of goblin
blue china all expressed a thoughtful kindness and artistic taste.

As she laid her toilet requisites on the old Chippendale table, Margaret's
heart gave a throb of thankfulness that her environment was so tasteful and
pleasant. There surely could be nothing to fear here? Mr. Medhurst was
evidently a gentleman, while the servants she had seen were of the good
class so often regretted in this century. Her future pupil might prove a
handful, but that part of her life had to be tested.

She felt she was travel-stained, but she did not wish to keep dinner
waiting, so, refreshed with a wash, and smoothing her hair which, in spite
of much brushing, would ripple in natural, careless waves over her
forehead, she prepared to descend.
 Betsy was outside waiting, and in another moment threw open the
dining-room door, and announced "Miss Woodford."

There was a rustle of silk, a subtle scent of violet perfume, and a tall,
graceful woman rose from the table to receive her.

Mrs. Medhurst spoke a little languidly as she welcomed the governess,

giving her hand a slight pressure as she said kindly, "I am so glad you have
come! You will excuse our beginning; we had almost given up expecting
you, but my husband has told me of my stupid mistake."

Margaret was a little disconcerted, as she took the seat offered to her, to
find her hostess in full evening-dress, the rich yellow velvet throwing up the
beauty of her dark eyes and olive-tinted skin. A collar of diamonds flashed
rainbow hues upon her white neck.

The conversation flagged, but from time to time Mrs. Medhurst

appealed to Margaret in her soft modulated voice.

She was a beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed, as though she might be

going to a dinner-party; the servants and appointments of the house, so far
as Margaret could judge, seemed all perfect in their way.

Miss Woodford of Woodford Abbey knew how things ought to be done,

and she was pleasantly surprised at her surroundings. But the thought would
present itself, why were these people living in this lonely out-of-the-way
place? It seemed so utterly incongruous, considering their style. The girl
tried to smother the thought, and, being young, and withal hungry, was able
to enjoy the meal in spite of the sense of strangeness which pervaded the
place.

"Will you come into the drawing-room with me?" said the hostess, as
she gave the signal to rise from the table.

Miss Woodford was glad the invitation had been given, as she was not
quite sure how much she was to be received into the family, or exactly what
her position was to be.
 The drawing-room was a dream of cosiness, comfort, and taste. The
chairs and couch were of the easiest, the dove-coloured walls, against which
stood some handsome cabinets of old china, the rich pile carpet where one's
feet sank softly, gave a feeling of rest and luxury which reminded Margaret
of her boudoir at Woodford Abbey.

Mrs. Medhurst sat sipping her coffee and lazily fanning herself at
intervals, until, presently, Margaret inquired if she might ask her a few
questions as to her future duties.

"Yes, certainly. I don't think I have much to tell you," she answered,
"except I should like you to have breakfast in the dining-room, and lunch
with Ellice in the school-room, and dine with us in the evening. We are so
quiet here, we shall be glad of your society then. I am having the rest cure,"
she said, with a strange little laugh, "and although I am much better than I
was, it really is almost too quiet at times."

"I am so sorry you have been ill," said Margaret sympathetically.

"I have been dreadfully weak. I'm gradually gaining strength now, but I
can't stand Ellice's high spirits, and so I pass her on to you. Manage her as
you like."

"I will do my best," said Margaret. "You know I have had no

experience, but I love children, and always have got on with them."

"Oh, yes. I expect she'll be good with you; you are young, and will be
able to enter into her pleasures better than I can—my poor head is unable to
bear much."

"And about the lessons?" asked the new governess.

"Teach her just as you like. She's a fearful little ignoramus, I'm afraid;
she's made up of oddments. Anything she can pick up from the cottagers, or
from her father, she retains with ease, but knowledge she ought to have
acquired she is quite deficient in, I imagine. I'm afraid you'll be horrified at
her ignorance."
 Margaret rose and placed a cushion at Mrs. Medhurst's back, as she
noticed she fidgeted restlessly in her chair.

"Thank you—thank you; that's heaps nicer. How kind of you to notice!"
and the sweet smile that accompanied the words transfigured the otherwise
cold look of the speaker's beautiful face.

Mr. Medhurst came into the room soon after, and the conversation
became more general. Several times he glanced anxiously at his wife, and
then he crossed to Miss Woodford:

"Mrs. Medhurst has not been very well to-day, and one thing she enjoys
more than anything else is music; we are so shut off from it here. Would it
tire you too much to sing, or play?"

"I haven't unpacked my box, but I can remember some of

Mendelssohn's short things, if that will do?" answered Margaret readily.

"Yes, indeed, she likes them so much."

The piano was one of Brinsmead's best, and the musician soon lost
herself in the joy of her themes. Her touch was exquisite, and she seemed to
pour her whole soul into the expression she produced from her fingers. She
went from "The Bees' Wedding," thrilling with its busy revellings, into
quieter grooves, until gently there stole through the room the subtle
exquisiteness of No. 1 of "Songs Without Words."

There was a hush over the room as she rose from the piano, and for a
moment she feared she had not given pleasure. Then she caught the grave
glance of appreciation of her host as, offering her a seat, he said quietly,
"Thank you."

Mrs. Medhurst did not speak, but as she rose to say good night,
Margaret noticed something like the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

The girl was very tired when she went to bed, and the sun was
streaming in at her window before she awoke the following morning.
 She sat up and looked round her room with a puzzled air, wondering
vaguely for a few moments where she was. Then the remembrance of all
that had happened returned, and, looking at her watch, she discovered with
dismay it was nine o'clock. She dressed hurriedly, and came downstairs,
feeling anxious as to what would be thought of her unpunctuality if
breakfast should be over. No one last night had remembered to tell her what
hour it would be, and she had forgotten to ask.

She encountered James in the hall with a tray in his hand.

"I am afraid I am late," she ventured.

"Oh no, miss; Miss Ellice is in the garden, and has not breakfasted yet.
You're all right," he answered, a little patronisingly.

Margaret heard the words with a great sense of relief.

The dining-room looked delightful in the morning light; the casement

windows were thrown wide open, and roses peeped a welcome into the
room.

Miss Woodford noticed the table was laid for two only, and wondered.

Presently the door opened, and James appeared.

"Will you like breakfast now, miss?" he inquired.

"Oh—yes—but what about Mrs. Medhurst?" she inquired.

"She always takes hers upstairs, and the master has it with her when
she's had a bad night," he answered.

"I am sorry she is not so well?" she replied.

The interrogative tone of her voice brought no response from the man-
servant who waited.

"What about my pupil, won't she breakfast with me?" inquired Miss
Woodford.
 "I can't say, miss. I wouldn't advise you to wait for her; she's off in the
woods somewhere, and there's no knowing when she'll come back. Betsy
will keep something hot for her."

"Oh. I see"—and the new governess realised something of the difficulty

of her position as she sat down—"I won't delay any longer then."

She had not quite finished when she heard a child's laugh, and the door
was flung open,-and a sharp little voice exclaimed:

"There you are; I thought I'd find you here. Good morning, Miss—oh,
what's your name?"

"Good morning. I'm Miss Woodford, and you—you are my pupil Ellice,
aren't you?" said the new governess, with a smile.

"Yes. I wonder what your other name is?"

"It's Margaret."

"Oh, that's rather nice; it's nothing like mine. Isn't it stupid I can't call
you by it? Mamma said I was to say Miss Woodford when I spoke to you."

"Yes, of course, because you are a lady, you see, and ladies always
behave politely—they can't help it."

"Oh—yes—I—see," answered the child, drawling the words out in

surprised tones.

Here was a puzzle. This new governess seemed to think she couldn't
behave rudely—because—because she was a lady! It was awkward; she
hadn't thought of it like that before. It looked as if the fun was going to be
spoilt. A puzzled expression of disappointment clouded her face for a
moment, but in an instant it lighted with an illuminating flash, as a thought
rushed to her mind. "I wonder what she'll think on Saturday?"

She was an interesting looking child, but she had none of her mother's
beauty, the brilliant brunette which had so struck Miss Woodford. Ellice
was a fairy-looking little creature, with dancing blue eyes, tiny features, and
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