"Because Jesus spoke of them. He had been telling His disciples not to trouble about how they should live, because their Father in Heaven knew all they wanted, and He said: 'Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, they spin not: and yet I say unto you, That Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these;' and—oh, don't you—can't you understand, she remembered how wrong it was to worry and fret, and that Jesus said, 'Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom,' and she knew she ought not to fear. She told me how she had troubled, and—and I shall never see white lilies again without thinking of her, lying as I saw her last—" Felicia paused and caught her breath in a sob. Her uncle was observing her intently, with a keenly interested expression in his eyes.
"I did not know your mother was a religious woman," he remarked at length, "and you—are you religious too?"
She looked at him in great surprise, amazed at such a question.
"I—I try to be good," she answered, flushing; "I do try to be, but it's very hard sometimes, and—and it's so difficult to believe God knows best—but He does, I'm certain of it deep down in my heart."
"I suppose you read your Bible every day?" he questioned.
"Every day. Mother and I used to read a chapter aloud every morning and every night."
"Well, look here, suppose you read it to me occasionally. There's poetry in that verse you repeated to me just now: 'Consider the lilies how they grow'—and there's a tone in your voice I like—it rings true. Will you read to me, or would you look on it in the light of an infliction?"
"Oh, no, no! I would do anything to please you, Uncle Guy, I would indeed," she answered in all sincerity.
"Thank you. You seem a good-natured little soul, and I believe we shall be friends. You don't get on with my father, Felicia?" he questioned.
"I—I—" stammered Felicia—"I don't see much of him, Uncle Guy; he's very kind to me, but I'm rather afraid of him."
"You need not be. By the way, you 're not afraid of me?"
"Not in the least. I like you—I do indeed."
"Ah! you don't really know me yet. My father is much more worthy of your liking than I am, as you will learn some day. Poor father! he has had many disappointments in his life, and I'm one of them, though nothing would make him admit it. Now, go and take off your hat, and order tea to be brought here; we will have it together."
"To think that she should set up for being religious," he mused, after Felicia had left the room to do his bidding; "and she was so serious about it too. Evidently she is sincere. That was a strange story about the lilies; it touched me somehow. 'Consider the lilies how they grow.' Ah, yes! one can believe in the God of love when one looks on the perfection of beauty, but it's the poor, misshapen allowed to disfigure the world that makes one doubt His omnipotence. Ah, me! I must be careful to say nothing to cloud that child's innocent faith. It must be a great solace to be able to believe that God is good."
FELICIA'S life now became one of routine. Every morning she breakfasted with her grandfather; then, Sundays excepted, went to the Vicarage, where she remained with her cousins, sharing their studies, and returning to the Priory at four o'clock. She frequently took tea with her uncle in his sitting-room, at his desire, after which she prepared her lessons for the following day, retiring to rest subsequent to an early supper. Mr. Renford dined alone in the large dining-room, and generally spent the evening by himself, though occasionally he sat an hour with his son, or paid a visit to his daughter. He was naturally of a sociable disposition, and must have often grown very weary of his own society.
"They are beginning to cut the corn in that big field at the back of the Vicarage," Felicia informed her uncle one August evening as she stood at his sitting-room window looking into the garden, gay with dahlias and other showy autumn flowers. "It's such a pity you never go out, Uncle Guy, for everything's so lovely. You haven't been downstairs once since I came."
"And probably I never may again," he responded moodily.
"Oh, don't say that! Why shouldn't you come downstairs and go into the garden? It's not as though you were lame or couldn't walk."
"Has my father been telling you to say this to me?" he demanded.
"Oh, no!"
"Because he's been lecturing me on the point himself. He might as well leave me in peace instead of advising me 'to rouse myself and try to take an interest in life,' as he put it. If his back ached as mine does sometimes, he'd have more sympathy with me, perhaps."
The querulous tone in which this was said was full of bitterness, and Felicia thought it wiser to make no reply. She knew her grandfather was far from being unsympathetic—indeed, he always made his son his first consideration—and she thought her uncle had no right to speak of him complainingly. Evidently the invalid was in one of his most dissatisfied moods. The little girl had been warned by Mrs. Price that there was no pleasing Mr. Guy to-day, and she would certainly have kept away from him if he had not sent a message to her to the effect that he desired her company as soon as she had finished her lessons. And now she was here, he did not appear to want her. She had offered to read to him, as she had done on several previous occasions—sometimes from the Bible—but he had declined to listen to her. The truth was, he had worked himself into a state of nervous irritability on account of a conversation he had had with his father, during which Mr. Renford had urged him to come downstairs and dine that night, and he had declined to do so.
"It's all very well for those in good health to say I should bestir myself," he proceeded; "I'm tired of being preached at. It's always the same old lore, first from my sister, then from her husband, and even Doris and Molly keep up the refrain, 'You ought to come out in the sunshine!' Ought I? I think I should be allowed to do as I like. There's Lion at the door, Felicia, you may as well let him in first as last, for he'll keep on scrape-scrape-scrape till you do."
The little girl admitted the dog, and returned to her former post at the window, whilst Lion approached the sofa, and wagging his tail with the utmost amiability, commenced to lick the invalid's hand. To Felicia's astonishment her uncle repulsed the dog, hitting him across the head with the magazine he was holding at the moment. Startled at this unexpected reception of his caress, Lion sprang awkwardly aside and knocked over a small table which held several books and a handsome Venetian vase which Mrs. Pring had presented to her brother on his last birthday. The poor dog, puzzled at the treatment he had received from one who was usually kind to him, and shocked at the mischief he had wrought, retreated into a corner of the room, whilst Felicia set the table on its legs and picked up the scattered books, but the beautiful vase was smashed.
"Oh, what a pity!" the little girl exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle Guy, your vase is broken into several pieces! Oh, how sorry I am!"
She paused, too frightened to continue, for her uncle's face was actually distorted with passion, and his eyes blazed with rage.
"Get out of my sight!" he cried roughly, "you and the dog, too! You have done mischief enough for one day. Go away, I say!"
"But, uncle, it was not my fault, I could not help it. You told me to let Lion in," she reminded him.
"I know that, but he would not have come scraping at the door if you had not been here. He follows you like your shadow. Oh, what a day this has been! Am I never to be allowed any peace? Go away! Do you hear? Go away, and take Lion with you."
Frightened and indignant, Felicia hastened to do his bidding. She spoke to Lion, who came to her immediately, and with her hand on his collar she led him out of the room. In the corridor she encountered Price, and told him what had happened. The old man appeared sorry, and sought to soothe her ruffled feelings.
"You mustn't take notice of anything Mr. Guy may say or do," he said gravely; "he isn't himself when he's in a passion, and he'll be sorry enough to-morrow that he so forgot himself to-day. The fact is, he's had his own way all his life, miss, and his mother spoilt him. You must make allowances for him, as we all do."
Felicia felt very little inclined to make allowances for her uncle at present, seeing that it had been simply to please him she had visited him at all that night. She would much rather have spent her leisure hour in the garden than in listening to the invalid's grumblings; but it was not too late now to have a breath of fresh air before supper, and, followed by Lion, she hastened downstairs and out of the front door.
It was growing dusk, for the August evenings were shortening, but she thought she would have time to go as far as the lake ere it became dark, and she started in that direction, her cheeks aflame with indignation, her heart full of resentful feelings against Uncle Guy. Who, seeing him to-night, would think he could be so nice and kind? It should be a long while, she determined, before she would consent to keep him company again; and if he wanted someone to read to him—well, she would not be that someone, that was all.
"It was shameful of him to hit Lion like that," she mused, "and cruel too! How could he have done it? What a temper he was in, to be sure! And I'm in a temper now, but then I've a right to be angry, and he had none."
Her eyes were so full of tears that she could scarcely see where she was going, and her heart was aching badly, for she had grown very fond of Uncle Guy; and then, who should she meet but her grandfather taking his after dinner stroll, and of course he noticed her emotion, and asked her what was amiss. In faltering accents she explained to him what had occurred.
"Poor Lion! Poor old fellow!" he exclaimed, with a sigh, as he caressed his favourite. "I am sorry you have been in mischief, old boy. He couldn't help it—eh? No, I understand. It is rather late for you to be out, Felicia; you had better return with me."
"Yes, grandfather," she responded obediently.
"Cheer up, my dear. You have looked so much brighter lately, and I have been very pleased to see it. I want you to be happy—you should try to live up to your name. Your uncle is not himself to-day; you must not grieve because he was cross—"
"He was so—so unjust!" Felicia interposed; "it wasn't fair of him to turn on me like that when he had sent for me. Next time he sends for me I won't go."
"I think you will, my dear; I am sure you will not bear malice in your heart," Mr. Renford said quietly, with a ring of sadness in his voice; "I've done that before now, myself, and I've lived to regret it. Do you see that tree?" he asked with a change of tone, indicating a high elm in the distance. "I remember your father climbing it once when he was a small boy, and being unable to come down again; I had to climb up and fetch him."
Felicia looked at the tree with great interest, and ventured to put a few questions about her father's childhood, all of which Mr. Renford evidently took pleasure in answering. It was evident he had been deeply attached to his elder son. By-and-by Felicia asked him, rather timidly, if he had any objection to her writing to Mrs. M'Cosh.
"She was very kind to me," the little girl said earnestly, "and though I didn't promise to write, I feel sure she would like to hear from me, and I should like to tell her how I am getting on, and about Aunt Mary and my cousins, and—and—everyone."
"Write to her by all means," he responded heartily; "I do not wish you to appear ungrateful, and you might get Mrs. Price to pack a hamper with a nice chicken, and some butter, and eggs, and cream—and send her as a little present. People in town always welcome a hamper from the country. It is to be sent in your name, remember that."
"Oh, grandfather, thank you! How good of you! Mrs. M'Cosh will be delighted."
The tone of Felicia's voice spoke her pleasure. She caught Mr. Renford's hand and squeezed it gratefully; then, with an abrupt revulsion of feeling, she burst into tears.
"What is it?" her grandfather asked in astonishment. "Why are you crying, my dear?"
"It—it is very foolish of me," sobbed Felicia, "but I was thinking—oh, don't be angry!—how I wished mother was living, and—and I was sending a hamper to her. It's dreadful to remember I can never do anything for her more, and—and there was so little I could do for her when she was alive."
"But that little you did, child," Mr. Renford reminded her in a tone which showed he was inexpressibly touched. "Mrs. M'Cosh told me you were the greatest comfort your mother had. I wish she had not hidden herself from me, and I wish—but it's useless regretting the past. I may have been a hard man—God forgive me if I have—but I was certainly never so heartless as your mother thought. Maybe I misjudged her, and certainly she misjudged me. But come, my dear, the dew is falling and we must go indoors. Come, Lion."
The dog followed them obediently into the house. His tail hung between his legs, and his manner was depressed as though he was conscious—as no doubt was the case—that he had been unjustly served; and there was a very wistful expression in his eyes which appealed to Felicia's tender heart. The greater part of her indignation against her uncle was on poor Lion's account.
FELICIA had determined it should be a long while before she would visit her uncle again without he sent for her, in which case she supposed, on reflection, she would be obliged to do his bidding; but when, on the evening after he had treated her so unjustly, she had finished preparing her lessons for the next day, and had gone into the garden, something prompted her to fix herself on a seat under an arbutus tree, from which she could, if she liked, view the more modern wing of the Priory and the windows of her uncle's apartments.
At first she studiously avoided glancing at the upper windows of the house, and opening the story-book she had brought out-of-doors with her—one Doris had lent her—she commenced to read; but she failed to find it interesting. On ordinary occasions the tale would have chained her attention, but this evening she could not concentrate her thoughts. Other words than those on the printed page kept recurring to her mind—words she had read in her Bible that morning: "And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
"Uncle Guy wasn't kind to me last night," she reflected; "of course, if he sent for me I'd go to see him, I shan't otherwise."
She glanced up hastily, but the lace curtains were drawn before her uncle's sitting-room window; she saw one move, however, and guessed she was being watched from inside. If Uncle Guy would pull back the curtain and beckon to her, or even give her a smile of encouragement, she would go and talk to him for a little while; but though she stared at the window for several minutes, there was no further sign that she was observed.
"And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted—"
Felicia sighed as the words rang in her ears again. She had not had much time to think of Uncle Guy during the day, for her mind had been fully occupied with her lessons, and on her return to the Priory at four o'clock she had sought Mrs. Price and consulted her about the hamper her grandfather had said was to be sent to Mrs. M'Cosh. Mrs. Price had promised the hamper should be despatched on the morrow, and Felicia had accordingly written to her kind friend telling her what she was to expect and when it would arrive, so that she had really had no opportunity to dwell on Uncle Guy's harshness to her till now. And he had been very harsh to her, she reminded herself, as her heart began to soften towards him. He had spoken roughly, and his temper had been unjustifiable. Still, he must be very lonely, she thought, and perhaps unhappy, too. If he would only look out of the window for a moment, she would be able to judge by the expression of his face if he wanted her or not; she hesitated to go to him, fearing a repulse.
Once more she tried to read, but it was no good, she could not; so at last she shut the book with an impatient sigh, and rising, walked slowly across the lawn towards the house. At the front door Lion joined her, and followed her upstairs. Her mind was made up now, she was going to see Uncle Guy, whether he wished it or not.
"You must be on your best behaviour if you come with me," Felicia informed her companion gravely; "I daresay Uncle Guy won't want either of us, but we'll certainly find out."
Lion wagged his tail by way of response, and hurrying ahead, preceded her down the corridor, pausing before the crimson-curtained door. Felicia's hand trembled as she pulled back the curtain, and gave a gentle tap.
"Who's there?" demanded her uncle's voice, in a by no means amiable tone.
"It is I, Uncle Guy—Felicia," she responded timidly, "and Lion is here, too."
"Well—come in."
The tone of his voice had decidedly changed; it spoke a kind of pleased eagerness now. The little girl opened the door and stood on the threshold of the room, her hand on the dog's collar. Her uncle was seated on a chair by the window; he had evidently been looking out. His face brightened into a smile as he turned it towards his visitors.
"So it is you, Felicia," he said; "I did not expect you. I thought you would not come."
"I—I didn't mean to come. I—I thought very likely you might not want me, and if you do not, I will go away again."
"Nonsense! Come in."
"And Lion, too? Both of us?" she questioned dubiously.
"Yes."
After shutting the door behind her, Felicia crossed to the window, the dog still at her side.
"I have been watching you under the arbutus tree," observed her uncle, "but you did not appear much interested in your book. Is it not an entertaining one?"
"Not very—at least, I did not find it so. Doris lent it to me."
Felicia glanced at the small table, minus now the beautiful Venetian vase. Her uncle followed the direction of her eyes, and he said impulsively—
"It was good of you to come and see me to-night, child; I don't think I could have done it in your place. I should have been more inclined to stay away and leave my cantankerous uncle to himself."
"That's just what I did feel inclined to do," confessed Felicia ingenuously.
"Then what made you come?" he asked in astonishment.
"I thought it would be unkind to stay away—if you wanted me."
"You had not forgotten that I had treated you unkindly last night?"
"No; and Lion has not forgotten how you treated him either. Look at him, Uncle Guy."
He turned his attention to the dog. The sagacious animal was watching him with a look of mingled doubt and sadness, which seemed to say, "I am disappointed in you—you have not served me fairly," but he proved magnanimous, and when Mr. Guy patted his head and spoke to him in a gentle tone, his reproachful eyes softened, and his whole demeanour showed that he was willing to overlook past injustice, if he could not forget it.
"There, Lion, you and I are friends once more," Mr. Guy observed, "though I fear you hold but a poor opinion of me, old dog. Come, Felicia, you are not hard-hearted, you will forgive me for my ill-temper, won't you? Yes, I knew you would; but I suppose you did bear malice in your heart—eh?"
"I—I—yes," Felicia admitted; "it made me very unhappy, and even when I was under the arbutus tree I never intended seeing you to-night without you sent for me—but I couldn't stay away."
"How was that?"
"I kept on thinking of that verse in the Bible about being kind and tender-hearted, and so—and so I had to come."
"What is the verse? Repeat it to me."
Felicia did so, in a low tone and rather hesitatingly, for she was always a little shy and fearful that Uncle Guy would misunderstand her. He made no comment, however, but, by-and-by, he asked her what she had been talking about to his father on the previous night, he had heard their voices in the garden; whereupon, her grave countenance broke into smiles, and she informed him of the present which was to be sent to Mrs. M'Cosh.
"I have written telling her to expect it," she explained. "Oh, won't she be pleased? Dear Mrs. M'Cosh! I don't suppose I shall ever see her again," she added regretfully.
"Why not? My father often goes to Bristol; you must persuade him to take you with him one day to visit your old friends."
"Oh, do you think he would?" Felicia cried excitedly.
"Well, I hardly know; still, there would be no harm in asking him. I believe, really, he would like you to forget your old life; but it does not appear that he was unfavourably impressed by Mrs. M'Cosh. Father is rather a good judge of character."
"Have you ever been to Bristol, Uncle Guy?" inquired Felicia.
"No, never. I suppose you had no opportunities for seeing the sights of the place?"
"On Sundays, when mother was pretty well, we used to go to the Cathedral, or to St. Mary Redcliffe, or to one or another of the city churches; and one afternoon last summer we went to Clifton and crossed the Suspension Bridge to the Leigh woods. Oh, that was splendid! We did have such a good time! We went home by the hot wells—"
Felicia broke off, suddenly remembering that never as long as she lived would she share a pleasure again with the dear companion of those days. Her uncle noticed her emotion, but he made no comment upon it; instead, he turned his attention from her, and rising, moved about the room as though in search of something. By-and-by Felicia, having furtively wiped her eyes, glanced towards him and saw he was turning over a heap of books on a side table at the end of the room.
"What are you looking for, Uncle Guy?" she asked. "Can I help you search for it?"
"No, thank you. Here it is. It is only an old photograph album I thought I should like to show you, in which there are several likenesses of your father taken when he was a boy."
Uncle and niece seated themselves on the sofa side by side whilst they looked through the pages of the album. Felicia was delighted with the photographs of her father, and also those of her grandparents; but she was disappointed that there was not even one of her uncle, and said so.
"Did you never have your likeness taken, Uncle Guy?" she inquired.
"Good gracious, no, child! Who would want the picture of an ugly fellow like me—a hunchback?"
She caught the ring of mingled pain and bitterness in his tone, and remained silent for a minute, uncertain what answer to make. That he was very sensitive on the point of his deformity she was aware, for her cousins had told her he shrank from meeting strangers on that account, but he had never mentioned it to her before.
"Why do you speak of yourself like that, Uncle Guy?" she said at length reproachfully. "Did anyone ever love you the less because—because of that? Didn't your mother love you? I know she did, for Mrs. Price told me you were always her favourite child. And grandfather—why, if he didn't love you, he wouldn't trouble because you keep yourself shut up here; and he does trouble about it, Uncle Guy, and so does Aunt Mary. Molly was telling me only this morning that you used to go to the Vicarage when your mother was alive, and you never go now—and they're all so fond of you, too! I think it's very unkind of you not to try to make them all happier. Don't you think grandfather must be dreadfully lonely, sometimes? I do—and oh, I do feel sorry for him!"
"And aren't you sorry for me?"
"Yes, indeed, I am, when you're ill and suffering."
"You think me selfish, I perceive."
"I—I don't think you're very—kind," she confessed; "perhaps I ought not to say so, but—"
"Oh, I like to hear the truth, even if it is unflattering. Say on!"
"Now you're angry, I'm afraid," she said deprecatingly.
"No," he answered, and there was a slight smile on his lips, though the expression of his face was grave; "I will reflect, at leisure, on the lecture you have seen fit to give me, Felicia; it is a subject which requires some consideration."
EVERY Saturday was a holiday for Felicia and her cousins, and the former was not expected at the Vicarage, but nevertheless she generally found her way there, if Molly did not call for her at the Priory; and Mrs. Pring was satisfied that the plan, which she herself had originated, of educating her niece with her daughters was answering well. Sometimes Doris and Molly took tea with Felicia at the Priory, and then the latter could not help remarking that her cousins were rather in awe of Uncle Guy, and seemed happier when they were out of his presence; they were never at their best before him, Doris in particular always showing to a disadvantage by being quieter and more reserved than usual.
The day following the one on which Felicia had spoken her mind to her uncle was a Saturday, and at the breakfast-table her grandfather asked her if she would care to drive with him that afternoon to T—, the nearest market down. Felicia assented delightedly, and long before the appointed hour she was ready, so as not to keep Mr. Renford waiting. Seated by her grandfather's side on the front seat of the high dog-cart, drawn by Sultan, a big brown horse, she was whirled along through narrow lanes, across which the hazel bushes, laden with ripening nuts, nearly met overhead, up hills and down dales, until, after a long spin on the high road, the town was reached. They stopped at several shops, out of which the shopkeepers hurried to take Mr. Renford's orders, and by-and-by drew up before a confectioner's, where they alighted, and went inside to have tea in a large room upstairs, whilst Sultan was left in charge of the groom, who walked him up and down the street.
Felicia was very quiet as she sipped her tea and ate her thin bread and butter and cake, for she was recalling some afternoons in London when her mother had taken her to a restaurant to tea, and how greatly she had enjoyed those occasions. And now, instead of her mother's pretty face, with its loving smile, on the other side of the little, marble-topped table, was the sunburnt countenance of her grandfather, with its firm though not unkindly features, and clear, blue eyes.
"Make a good tea, Felicia," he said; "the drive ought to have made you hungry. Did you ever have a meal in a place like this before?"
"Oh, yes, grandfather, when I was at school, but not lately—never in Bristol."
"Ah! I thought it was no novel experience to you. I remember the first time I brought Doris and Molly here, they were so taken up with watching the people at the other tables that they scarcely ate anything. One could tell at a glance that they were country-bred; but you keep your eyes from wandering."
Mr. Renford looked pleased. It astonished him often that this grandchild of his, whose mother had been a "nobody," as he had always considered her, should have such good manners; never once had he had occasion to complain of word or action of hers during the six weeks she had lived beneath his roof, and she had long since ceased to be shy or awkward in his presence.
"Your aunt and uncle are going to dine with me to-night," he proceeded, "so we must reach home fairly early. I wanted Guy to join us, but—" He paused and shrugged his shoulders.
"I wish he would," Felicia said earnestly, a faint colour rising to her cheeks as she recalled the words she had spoken to her uncle on the preceding night; "Aunt Mary says he spends a great deal too much time alone."
"Yes, brooding over his affliction, poor fellow. Still, I do think he has been brighter since your arrival, child; he likes you to be with him. I often wonder what you find to talk to him about. Have you finished your tea? Yes. Then we will go."
The drive back to the Priory was even pleasanter than the one to T— had been, for it was much cooler now. They reached home in good time, and, having thanked her grandfather for the pleasure he had given her, Felicia ran upstairs, and sought her uncle to tell him what an enjoyable afternoon she had spent. But he was not to be found in his sitting-room, and Ann White, whom Felicia met in the corridor, informed her that Mr. Guy had gone downstairs.
"Gone downstairs!" echoed Felicia. "Oh, I am glad! Then he means to dine with grandfather to-night?"
"I believe so, miss."
The little girl went to her own room to change her dusty frock for another. Her scanty wardrobe had been replenished by Mrs. Price, according to her grandfather's orders, and she had no lack of clothes now. A feeling of bewilderment crept over her sometimes when she compared her present life to that she had lived with her mother in their attic home. Oh, if only she had her dear mother with her to share the comforts of the Priory, how contented she would be! The one drop of bitterness which spoilt her cup of happiness was the remembrance that her mother had suffered privations, and had died in poverty.
By-and-by Mrs. Price knocked at the door, and on being told to come in, entered, with a beaming countenance.
"Your grandfather desires you to dine with him to-night, miss," she said; "he sent me to tell you so. Your aunt and the Vicar are coming, you know."
"Oh!" cried Felicia nervously, "I have never dined of an evening before; I do hope I shall do nothing out of the way. I suppose Uncle Guy will be there?"
"Yes. The master was so pleased to find him downstairs. Come, miss, you mustn't dawdle, or you'll be late, for it's nearly seven o'clock, and—there, I hear your aunt's voice in the hall. Let me help you. I'll do your hair, shall I?"
Ten minutes later Felicia walked slowly downstairs and entered the drawing-room. It was a large room, facing the west, and was flooded with sunshine on this August evening, for the master of the house loved light and air, and kept the blinds pulled up. He stood by one of the open windows in conversation with his daughter, and he glanced towards Felicia with a smile as she came into the room.
"I thought you might as well dine with us to-night, child, as take your supper alone," he remarked kindly. "The drive has given her quite a colour, hasn't it, Mary?" he questioned, turning to his daughter.
"It has, indeed," Mrs. Pring replied, smiling at the little girl.
"She is looking very well," observed the Vicar, who stood side by side with his brother-in-law on the hearth-rug. He peered at Felicia in his near-sighted way as he spoke.
And then Uncle Guy added his comment—
"Our ditch flower is beginning to bloom," he said.
After all, Felicia did not find dining with her relations such a trying experience as she had anticipated; nevertheless, she was relieved when the meal was over. Mrs. Pring gave most of her attention to her brother, being genuinely delighted at his presence. He was in the best of humours, and it astonished Felicia to see how amusing he could be when he chose.
"If only Guy would think less of his affliction and take more interest in the world at large he would be so much better and happier," she overheard the Vicar whisper to her grandfather after dinner, when the brother and sister were carrying on a lively conversation. "I wish we could get him to the Vicarage sometimes."
Once during the evening Felicia had a conversation alone with Uncle Nathaniel, as she had learnt to call the Vicar. She had stepped out of the drawing-room window into the garden when he joined her.
"A beautiful night," he said, drawing a long breath to drink in the fragrance of the flowers. "Do you see that glow in the east? The moon is about to rise."
"Uncle Guy says it makes him melancholy to watch the sky," remarked Felicia; "I wonder why it should. I love to see the moon rise, and the stars come peeping out like eyes. On fine nights at home—I mean where we lived in Bristol—we used to watch for the moon to rise from behind the chimneys, and I used to say, 'Let us guess which chimney-pot the moon will come out of to-night,' for it really looked as though the moon did come out of the chimney." She laughed, then grew suddenly grave. "When mother died I thought I should never laugh again," she went on in a troubled tone, "but somehow, lately, I've found myself smiling over the little jokes she and I used to have together—it's not that I forget she's gone—oh, it's not that!"
"Why should you not smile, my dear child? Your mother is not lost to you altogether; you are only separated from her for the time. Be happy if you can, enjoy the good things God sends you, and accept them as blessings with a thankful heart."
"It is a comely fashion to be glad, Joy is the grace we say to God."
"I consider those lines are worth bearing in mind. Never think you ought not to be glad."
"But—but it seems as though it must be wrong to be happy when—when mother was so poor, and—"
"My dear little girl," the Vicar interposed, "do not be always thinking of what is past; think instead of your mother in the presence of her Saviour as one of those who have come out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. 'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more,' and trouble shall no more have power to touch them, for 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"
"Oh, you believe that, don't you?" said Felicia earnestly.
"Most certainly I do. It is the Christian's sure hope—"
"Because, do you know, I don't think Uncle Guy does believe it!" she broke in.
The Vicar started, and across his kind face there flitted an expression of anxiety and pain.
"What makes you think he does not?" he asked. "Has he been discussing the subject with you?"
"Oh, no. But he doesn't seem to believe that God cares anything about him, and when he speaks of his mother he never does so as though he hopes to see her again, and yet I know he loves her. Oh, no wonder he is so wretched, sometimes, poor Uncle Guy! What should I feel if I thought I should never meet my mother more? Oh, I believe my heart would break!"
"Felicia, listen to me," the Vicar said earnestly; "I see you have discovered your uncle has not that faith in His Father in Heaven which is the guiding light of every true Christian. Pray for him that what is dark to him now may be made plain to him. His lack of faith was a terrible grief to his poor mother; and it was her constant prayer that he might be brought into Christ's fold. As she lay dying she told me that she believed one day her prayers would be answered, and that your uncle's heart would find rest and happiness. Does he ever speak to you about religion?"
"Not often; but sometimes of an evening I have read the Bible to him." And she explained how that had come to pass.
The Vicar was evidently much surprised, and he heard all she told him with great interest.
"He says he likes listening to my voice, and he always lets me choose the parts I like best, so I read to him from the New Testament generally. He's rather interested in Saint Paul—he says he had a fine intellect, and he liked hearing how he talked to Agrippa," Felicia concluded thoughtfully.
The Vicar smiled but rather sadly.
"Weren't you surprised to find Uncle Guy downstairs to-night?" the little girl asked after a brief silence.
"Most agreeably surprised. What are you looking so mysterious about?"
But Felicia shook her head smilingly, and declined to say. She had no intention of telling her companion of the conversation she had had with her uncle on the previous evening, though she had little doubt her impulsively spoken words had had something to do with causing him to throw off his inertness and bestir himself to-night; and she was certain of it when her bedtime came, for on saying "Good-night" to Uncle Guy, he detained her to whisper in a low tone so that only herself should hear—
"By the way, Felicia, I considered your lecture, and—you see the result."
IT was an oppressively hot August day—far too hot to go out into the sunshine for pleasure—and Miss Barton and her pupils were spending the hour before dinner, which they usually passed in the open air, in the schoolroom at the Vicarage. From the window was an extensive view of fields golden with ripening grain, and others where the corn was being cut, whilst in the big field adjoining the kitchen garden, at the back of the house, the sheaves stood in mows, ready to be carted away.
"There's not a breath of air stirring," remarked Molly, as she leaned head and shoulders out of the window; "I believe it's the hottest day we've had this year."
"I think it was quite as hot in June," responded Felicia; "at least, it was in Bristol. I remember—"
"What do you remember?" asked Doris curiously. She was leaning back in an easy-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. She had been watching Felicia with a thoughtful expression on her countenance and a sensation of jealousy in her heart, because her cousin had driven with her grandfather to T— on Saturday, and she would have liked to have gone herself. "Go on, Felicia," she said a trifle impatiently; "why do you stop?"
"I was only going to say that I remember my mother fainted with the heat one day in June; but then, of course, she was ill and felt it more on that account. Oh, it was dreadfully hot in—where we lived!"
"By the way, in what part of Bristol did you live?" asked Molly; "you have never told us. Mother took us to Bristol to see an exhibition of pictures in the spring; I wish we'd known you were living there then; we'd have called to see you."
"I'm glad you didn't!" Felicia exclaimed involuntarily. "That is," she added in some confusion, "I don't think you would have cared for the part where we lived, and it was right at the top of the house, in one room—"
She paused, struck by the expression of bewilderment on the faces of both of her cousins. Although she had never told them of her life in Bristol, she had imagined they must know about it; but she now saw that they had been ignorant concerning the full extent of the poverty she and her mother had endured.
"You lived in one room!" Molly cried in shocked tones. "Oh, Felicia, were you so poor as that? We knew your mother was obliged to do needlework, but we never knew before that you lived in one room. Oh, how awful!"
"It wasn't awful," Felicia said quickly; "though, of course, we didn't like it; and it was bitterly cold in winter, and dreadfully hot in the summer—because it was close to the roof."
"It must have been a great change for you when you came to the Priory," observed Doris reflectively.
"Oh, it was! Sometimes, even now, I have to pinch myself to make sure I am myself, for it seems so unreal to have plenty of everything—food, and clothes, and—"
"Do you mean to say you hadn't always enough to eat?" questioned Molly, her face full of amazement and concern.
"We were never without bread, but it was difficult to earn the money for that sometimes, and when mother was ill, I don't know what we should have done but for Mrs. M'Cosh."
"Mrs. M'Cosh? Who is she?" inquired Doris.
"A kind, good woman—a mason's wife—who lived in the same house with us. You know I stayed with a friend after mother died? That was Mrs. M'Cosh."
"Oh, how funny!" said Doris. "Fancy having a mason's wife for your friend! I wonder what grandfather would say to that?"
"He knows," Felicia replied, colouring, for there was derision in Doris's voice; "and he sent her a present on Saturday—a hamperful of nice things."
"The idea of his doing that! I am surprised," declared Doris.
"Why?" asked Molly; "of course, if this Mrs. M'Cosh was kind to Felicia, grandfather would feel grateful to her, wouldn't he, Miss Barton?"
"I should think so," the governess agreed, joining in the conversation for the first time.
"I should think not, judging from what I know of him," Doris persisted; "I should think he would want Felicia to have nothing more to do with her, if she is only a common woman. Why, he would have taken Felicia away from her own mother altogether—"
She paused, looking a little frightened, for she had said more than she had intended, and her eyes fell guiltily beneath Miss Barton's reproachful gaze. The fact was she was daily growing more and more jealous of Felicia, who she feared would have pleasures which would be denied to Molly and herself. She was jealous, not only because her grandfather had driven Felicia to T—, but because the little girl had dined with him afterwards. Neither she nor Molly had ever dined at the Priory in their lives. Then, too, she was jealous of Uncle Guy's showing a preference for Felicia's society; and because, in short, the cousin who she had really pitied, though, truth to tell, she had rather despised her by reason of her mother's lowly birth, appeared likely to become a general favourite.
"I don't believe grandfather would have taken her away from her mother really," said Molly; "that is, not against her mother's wish. Grandfather never means to be unkind, I'm sure. What's the matter with you, Doris? You're evidently very cross, and you don't know how ugly you look when you're in a bad temper."
"Hush, Molly!" chided Miss Barton; "don't try to tease your sister, my dear."
"Then Doris mustn't be nasty," Molly returned, glancing anxiously at Felicia who was looking much distressed. "I think if anyone had been kind to me I should be grateful—even if she was a mason's wife. But I daresay Doris wouldn't, for she's a bit of a snob at heart."
"Molly," flashed out Doris, "how dare you say so!"
"Molly, Molly, I will not have you speak of your sister in that way," Miss Barton said sternly.
"Well, it's true what I've said," Molly declared; "Doris wouldn't make a friend of anyone who doesn't live in a nice house, and—"
"Don't I visit the villagers sometimes with mother?" broke in Doris indignantly.
"Yes; but that's different—"
"Oh, children, children, don't wrangle!" interposed Miss Barton; "what is there for you to get so angry about? I am sorry though, Doris, to hear you speaking of someone as 'common' again, for it is an ill-bred mode of speech, as I have told you before. I am surprised at you. I think if you remembered that every time you bend your knees in prayer it is to worship Him who, when He lived on this earth, was regarded as only a common man, a carpenter's son, one who made His friends mostly amongst common people, such as fishermen and those of the labouring classes, you would speak with greater respect of working folks."
Doris hung her head in sudden shame, whilst Felicia's face cleared of the shadow which had overspread it, and Molly said gravely—
"Father says we ought not to judge people by their position in life, or by their money, because those are things that pass away."
"Yes, but goodness remains, and it crops up often where we least expect it," Miss Barton replied.
"Oh, yes!" agreed Felicia eagerly. "I am certain if you saw Mrs. M'Cosh—she is very plain, and has a big red face—and heard her gruff voice, you would think she was a grumpy old thing, and really she's one of the dearest, kindest souls in the world. I am sure if Doris knew her she would think so too."
"Do tell us some more about her," said Molly; "why have you never spoken of her before?"
"I—I did not quite like to speak to you about how very, very poor we used to be," admitted Felicia; "and I couldn't talk much of Mrs. M'Cosh without speaking of that."
A few minutes later the dinner-bell rang, and the conversation was not resumed afterwards. When Felicia returned to the Priory at four o'clock she was in a somewhat depressed condition of mind, which had been brought about by the knowledge, which had become more and more apparent to her during the day, that her elder cousin had a grievance against her. She could not imagine what it could be; but she was certain she had somehow offended Doris.
On entering the house she found a letter awaiting her, and on opening it saw it was from Mrs. M'Cosh. It ran as follows, in a laboured handwriting:—