But Felicia waited to hear no more. Sobbing bitterly she left the study and rushed across the hall, opened the front door, and fled into the garden. Poor little girl, she had gone into her grandfather's presence with such a happy heart, conscious that she was carrying him good news, and now she was filled with misery and despair. He would send her away from the Priory, of that she was certain. Oh, would she ever forget the hard, cold expression of anger on his face? He would never trust her again, but always regard her with suspicion. Oh, why had she not been frank with him and told him all that had transpired between herself and the gipsies? He might have blamed her then, but not so much as he did now, for he would have understood the circumstances which had led to her disobedience. His words so harshly spoken, "You have presumed on my kindness to disobey me," kept sounding in her ears. Oh, what an ungrateful girl she must be in his sight!
Felicia, forgetful that she wore no hat, when she reached the gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, went straight on, and never-slackened her pace till she found herself in the thick woods where she and Molly had spent the morning. There, panting and exhausted, she flung herself on the mossy ground at the foot of a spreading beech tree, and tried to restrain her grief; but she sobbed heart-brokenly long after her tears had ceased to flow. At length, quite worn out, she lay still watching the golden leaves flutter from the branches overhead. By-and-by her eyelids drooped, and just as the rays of the September sun disappeared in the west, she fell into a deep sleep, from which she was awakened an hour later by a heavy peal of thunder and raindrops on her face.
THUS rudely awakened, Felicia sprang to her feet in fright, not realising where she was. It took her several minutes to recall what had happened, and by that time a flash of lightning had momentarily lit up her surroundings, and her first instinct was to get out of the woods as soon as possible, for she had heard it was extremely dangerous to be under trees during a thunderstorm. She stumbled along, scratching her hands in brambles as she felt the way before her, whilst the lightning flashed and the thunder roared like artillery overhead, and the heavy rain soaked through the cotton frock she was wearing; and the farther she went the more bewildered she became, until at length it dawned upon her that, unaided, it was most improbable she would be able to find her way out of the wood at all. Then a sense of despair seized her, and she shouted loudly for help, but no one came to her assistance. Who would be likely to be out in such a storm? At last, almost faint with fright, she sank upon her knees on the already sodden ground, and covering her face with her trembling hands, asked the protection of her Father in Heaven. God was with her, she knew; but oh! it was enough to strike awe to the bravest heart to be alone in such a spot during that terrific storm.
"It is no good my trying to find my way home," Felicia thought; "but perhaps grandfather will send to look for me—he must have heard me leave the house. I will shout once more."
She did so, and again there was no response; nevertheless, her voice had been heard. Though she was unaware of the fact, she was quite near the high road, along which two men were passing—one, a tall, young gipsy, the other, no other than old Harry Budd.
"I thought I heard someone shouting for help," observed the latter during the silence which followed a heavy peal of thunder; "who could it be? Shall we go and see?"
"Best be careful, Harry," advised the gipsy; "we don't want to fall into a trap and be found in the preserves, and that Brown is a wily one."
The old man grunted assentingly, but he seemed reluctant to proceed, and stood still listening.
"It sounded to me like a child's voice," he said; "you don't think your little maid has wandered into the woods and lost herself, do you?"
Poacher and vagabond though he was, the young man was an affectionate father, and the thought that his little daughter might have missed her way, and was terrified by the storm, roused him to go and ascertain if such was really the case. Bidding his companion wait for him, he disappeared over the hedge, into the wood beyond, and after a few minutes cautious search, he came upon Felicia drenched to the skin, the most forlorn-looking object possible. She had given up hoping any one would find her whilst the storm lasted, and therefore great was her relief of mind when the gipsy touched her on the shoulder as she crouched against the trunk of a tree, and asked her in accents of intense amazement what she did there alone.
"I've lost my way," she said tremulously; "oh, take me home! Take me home!"
"Why, it's the little lady from the Priory!" he exclaimed. "Come with me, miss; 'tis dangerous under the trees. Come."
Felicia grasped his strong, brown hand thankfully, and thus he led her through the wood the way he had come, and lifted her over the hedge into the road where old Harry Budd stood waiting.
"Am I far from the Priory?" asked Felicia anxiously.
"Right t'other side of the wood," said the gipsy, "you're nigh the common."
"How did you come to be out at this hour, and in this weather, missie?" questioned the old man curiously. "I recognise your voice; you're Mr. Renford's little grand-daughter, who's living with him now."
"Yes. Oh, please show me the way home. Grandfather and Uncle Guy will be wondering what has become of me, and—oh dear, my legs do shake so dreadfully! I can hardly stand."
"Best take shelter with my wife and the little ones till the storm's over," suggested the gipsy kindly.
"No, no!" cried Felicia in great distress, alarmed beyond measure at the idea. "I must go home at once—at once! Oh, please, don't prevent me!"
She felt a strong desire to run away, lest the gipsy should carry her off to his caravan against her will; but her legs refused to move. There was a singing in her ears, and utterly overcome with the exhausting emotions she had endured during the past two hours, for the first time in her life the little girl fainted, and fell forward on her face in the road.
When Felicia came to herself again, she was in bed in her own room at the Priory, and her aunt and Mrs. Price were with her; but the latter moved away as soon as she opened her eyes.
"How did I come here?" asked Felicia in a weak-sounding voice, as Mrs. Pring kissed her and told her she was better.
"Your grandfather fetched you, Felicia. Don't excite yourself. You lost your way in the storm, and a gipsy found you and sheltered you in his caravan, leaving you in the care of his wife whilst he came here with the news of what had become of you. You had knocked your head somehow—there is a bruise on your forehead—and were unconscious, so you know nothing about the drive home in the carriage. Lie still now and rest."
"Is grandfather very angry?" questioned Felicia.
"Not angry, but disappointed in you."
"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary, let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"
"Very well—if it will make you happier."
"Oh, it will, it will!" And in faltering tones Felicia told how she had befriended the gipsy children, refraining, however, from mentioning that Doris knew anything about the matter.
Mrs. Pring's countenance brightened as she listened, and when Felicia had finished her tale she kissed her affectionately.
"But why did you not tell my father at the time?" she very naturally inquired; "that would have been the straightforward course to have taken." Then, as the little girl made no response, she suggested kindly: "I will tell him how it happened that you disobeyed him, shall I?"
"Oh, Aunt Mary, will you?"
"Certainly, my dear. You should have been frank with him, and you would not have found him unreasonable. It is not to be wondered at that he was very angry when he thought you had determinedly laid yourself out to disobey him. You were a very foolish little girl to run off to the woods last evening, but I suppose you acted thoughtlessly. You gave us all a very anxious time."
"Is it morning now?" Felicia asked.
"Yes—nearly daybreak,"
"And you have been up with me all night, Aunt Mary?"
"Yes, my dear; there has been no sleep for anyone in the house. But I want you to rest now, and then I shall get a nap on the sofa myself. Take this, and try to sleep."
Felicia drank the milk her aunt offered her, and five minutes later she was in a deep sleep. The next day she was kept in bed, but in the afternoon she was allowed to see her grandfather.
"Why did you mistrust me, child?" he asked reproachfully, after he had inquired how she was, and had been satisfied with her answer that she was quite well, and would be about again on the morrow. "What made you think I should blame you for your impulsive kindness to those gipsy children? I am glad to find there was a good cause for your disobedience, but you should have told me, my dear."
"Yes, I know I ought," she faltered; "but I was so afraid that—that you would send me away from the Priory. I did not want to go away to be parted from Uncle Guy, and—and—" she paused in confusion.
"I admit I did once think of sending you to boarding-school—though I do not know who can have told you so—but certainly not of late. Guy would miss you, and I, too, should find the Priory lonely now without our ditch flower."
"Oh, how I love to hear you say that!" Felicia exclaimed happily; "I don't believe, grandfather, I shall ever be afraid to tell you anything again."
The following day Felicia arose at her usual time, and directly after breakfast paid a visit to her uncle. He received her with a warmth of affection which surprised and touched her.
"It was dreadful to lie here helpless thinking of you out in the thunder and lightning and rain," he said with a slight shudder; "I suppose you did not notice the storm coming because you were under the trees. What? You were asleep I Oh, you babe in the wood But seriously, Felicia, you must promise to be more careful of yourself in future, or I shall never have a moment's peace of mind when I do not know where you are. I suppose you were terribly alarmed?"
"Indeed I was," she admitted, "though I tried not to be. I shouted and shouted and no one came, and at last I knelt down and prayed, and remembered that God was everywhere, and that no harm could come to me against His will. I kept repeating, 'Thy will be done—Thy will be done—' mother used to call that the perfect prayer, because it's asking God for what's best for us when we don't know what's best ourselves. The storm confused me so that I couldn't think properly, and I was quite dazed by the time the gipsy found me, and then I was horrified when he spoke of taking me to his caravan. I thought grandfather would imagine I had gone there of my own accord. Everything seemed going against me."
"You might have confided in us about your visit to the common, Felicia; I have heard all about it from father. You should have trusted us; I cannot think why you did not. But there, don't look so distressed. Why, I declare your eyes are full of tears."
Felicia made no response, and by-and-by he continued—
"The gipsies left the common at daybreak this morning, and the district will be well quit of them, for of course they do steal the game, though in other ways I don't believe they are as bad as they are represented, and certainly no worse than old Harry Budd, who, in spite of calling them 'a thieving set,' appears to have been hand-and-glove with them all along. By the way, if you had had Lion with you the night before last he would have brought you home in safety, but they tell me he had been chained up all the afternoon so that he should not follow father into the preserves—he disturbs the game—and no one thought of releasing him. Poor old Lion, he lost an opportunity of distinguishing himself. However, all's well that ends well, and our ditch flower is safe—thank God."
The last two words were spoken almost in a whisper, but the little girl heard them with a sensation of mingled happiness and surprise, for she realised that from her uncle's lips they were no mere idle phrase. She felt certain that he really did thank God.
WHEN Miss Barton returned to her duties at the end of her week's holiday, the first piece of news she learnt from Doris and Molly, who met her at the station, was that Uncle Guy was going to London for a course of treatment recommended by the specialist who had been to the Priory to see him, and that there was a strong hope that he might be cured of the attacks of severe pain which had kept him an invalid all his life.
"He is not very hopeful about it himself," Molly said, "and at first he said nothing would induce him to go to London, but when he saw how much everyone, and grandfather especially, wished it, he consented, and so he's going very soon. Oh, Miss Barton, won't it be wonderful if he can really be made better? Grandfather doesn't say much about it, but one can see he is quite excited, and Felicia—oh, you haven't heard about her yet! She gave us such a fright the night of the thunderstorm!" And the little girl explained at some length all that had occurred. "Wasn't it silly to be afraid grandfather would send her to boarding-school?" she said in conclusion.
"I think someone must have put the idea into her head," was the thoughtful response, at which Doris started guiltily.
"Did you see Mrs. M'Cosh?" asked Molly.
"Yes; and I am the bearer of I don't know how many messages from her to Felicia, all of which I must deliver to-morrow."
The following morning Felicia listened to the account of the interview which had taken place between her governess and Mrs. M'Cosh. The latter had given Miss Barton a warm reception, and had actually shed tears of joy at hearing how well cared for Felicia was.
"Master and I would have liked to have kept her," she had told her visitor, "and now I don't suppose we shall ever see the dear child again; but, please, tell her never a day passes but we speak of her, and we remember her in our prayers, and always shall."
Felicia's blue eyes were misty as Miss Barton repeated this, but there was a smile on her lips, for it was sweet to receive an assurance of her good friends' lasting affection.
It was difficult to settle to lessons again after the week's holiday, and the governess and her pupils were not sorry when the morning's work was over. Felicia had avoided Doris since the night of the storm, believing it had been her elder cousin who had informed Mr. Renford of her visit to the gipsies' encampment, and feeling naturally very indignant against her; but as she was leaving the schoolroom to follow Molly into the garden for a stroll in the fresh air before dinner, Doris called her back, saying—
"Wait a minute, Felicia; I want to speak to you."
"Yes?" Felicia said interrogatively.
Miss Barton had gone to her own room, and Molly was already out-of-doors. Doris looked paler than usual, but her manner was quite composed, whilst Felicia appeared embarrassed.
"I want to set you right on one point," Doris said quietly; "I did not tell grandfather you had had anything to do with the gipsies."
"Oh, Doris, I thought you did!" Felicia cried, distressed beyond measure to think she should have misjudged her cousin; "of course I know you said you wouldn't, and I ought to have known you wouldn't break your word, but—oh, do forgive me for distrusting you and believing you had!"
"I have nothing to forgive. I—I have behaved very badly, for I heard grandfather speaking of your having been to the common, and I never told him why you went; he would not have been angry if he had known the true facts."
"You could not tell that."
"Yes; I—I misled you. I knew grandfather would never send you to boarding-school; he is much too fond of you. I frightened you about it intentionally; and—and I allowed him to believe you had purposely disobeyed him when I might have set the matter straight for you."
"It was very unkind of you," Felicia said with deep reproach in her tone; "I wouldn't have behaved like that to you."
"No, I know you would not have," Doris admitted. It had cost her a great effort to make her confession, though she had spoken so calmly, and now the tears which had been gathering in her eyes overflowed and ran down her cheeks. "The night of the storm when no one knew where you were, I felt dreadful about it," she proceeded less steadily; "grandfather came to see if you were here, and he said he had been harsh with you on account of your having disobeyed him, and I was afraid to tell him then why you had done so; he would have asked me why I had not told him before, and—and I was afraid."
The sight of the other's emotion was too much for Felicia. She flung her arms around her cousin's neck and kissed her.
"Forget all about it," she said generously; "I will try to, too. I know you have never liked me—"
"It has been all my wicked, jealous temper," Doris broke in; "you don't know what it is to have a temper like mine, it spoils everything for me."
"But you shouldn't let it, Doris."
"Do you forgive me, Felicia?"
"Of course. We will try to be better friends in future. Come out into the garden now, or Molly will be returning in search of us."
So there was peace between the cousins, and Doris really did try to curb her jealousy of Felicia, and though she did not succeed all at once, it grew less and less as time went on. She ceased making little spiteful speeches in reference to Felicia's former life, and in many ways endeavoured to make up to her cousin for the petty annoyances she had caused her to endure in the past.
During the first week of October Mr. Guy went to London to the nursing-home, where it had been arranged he should stay for the next two months. His father accompanied him, and left him in charge of the celebrated doctor who had undertaken his case. For several weeks after his return to the Priory, Mr. Renford lived in dread lest he would hear his son had determined to come home; but as the days passed by and no such tidings reached him, his spirits began to rise, and one morning brought a letter which informed him the invalid really considered the treatment he was receiving was doing him good. Great was the rejoicing both at the Priory and the Vicarage on that day; and when further letters came with continued cheerful reports, Mr. Renford's delight was boundless, and he now dared look forward to his son's returning in better health.
December brought Mr. Guy back to the Priory. He had desired no fuss should be made of his homecoming, and accordingly none was made. Felicia, on her return from the Vicarage one afternoon, was informed of her uncle's arrival, and that he desired to see her in his own sitting-room. Thither she hastened at once, and found him resting in an easy-chair by the blazing fire, with his father standing on the hearth-rug, and Lion lying contentedly at his feet. Felicia flew across the room to his side, and flinging her arms around his neck, kissed him again and again—nearly smothering him, as he afterwards declared—then she drew back and gazed at him, exclaiming—
"Oh, grandfather, he does look better, doesn't he?"
"Much better," Mr. Renford agreed, his face beaming with pleasure; "and you feel it, don't you, Guy?"
"I do; and the doctor says the improvement in my health is likely to be permanent. I have had no pain for weeks."
"I am so glad of that," Felicia said fervently; "for that is the greatest blessing, isn't it?"
"Yes; I never thought to be rid of the giant, Pain; but God has been very merciful to me."
"Oh, Guy, I wish your mother had lived to hear you say that!" Mr. Renford exclaimed involuntarily.
His son made no answer, but a look of deep regret settled on his face.
It was Felicia who, by-and-by, broke the silence by asking: "Were you comfortable at the nursing-home, Uncle Guy?"
"Very. Everyone was kind and considerate to me, and the other patients—ah! Felicia, many of them were greater sufferers than I have ever been!"
The Vicar and his wife spent an hour at the Priory during the evening; and the next day Doris and Molly came to visit their uncle. Everyone was surprised to see how greatly Mr. Guy had altered in appearance for the better; and not only did he look stronger and healthier, but as Molly remarked in confidence to her, sister, he appeared so much better tempered, too, and was so genuinely glad to see them all again.
Soon after her uncle's return to the Priory, Felicia had an unexpected treat. Her grandfather, who had business to transact in Bristol, took her with him, and allowed her to spend the afternoon with Mrs. M'Cosh. The good woman had just finished cleaning up the kitchen after the mid-day meal, when there came a knock at the door, and on opening it, Felicia, literally sobbing with excitement and joy, sprang into her arms.
"Why, my dear, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh, her broad, red face deepening in hue. "How did you get here? I hope nothing is amiss."
"No, no. Grandfather brought me, and he's coming for me this evening," Felicia explained. "Oh, how glad I am to see you! How is Mr. M'Cosh?"
"Very well; and proud and pleased he'll be to come home and find you here, my dear child. Let me look at you. Why, how you've grown, and you've such a pretty colour, and you look quite the lady, that you do. My, what a world this is with its ups and downs! To think of your living in a grand house, with servants to wait on you, and plenty of everything!"
"It seemed very strange at first," Felicia said seriously.
"It must have. And you've not forgotten us! Well!"
"I shall never forget you, dear Mrs. M'Cosh—never!"
They had a long chat, during which Felicia told her companion every detail of her life at the Priory which she thought would interest her, and was listened to with the greatest attention. Tea-time arrived before they were aware, bringing Mr. M'Cosh, who was no less surprised than had been his wife at the sight of the visitor, and quite as pleased. Then the trio had tea together, and soon afterwards Mr. Renford arrived to fetch his grand-daughter, and Felicia took a smiling good-bye of her friends, the good couple being cheered by the assurance that, all being well, she would come to see them again. As the little girl walked to the railway station by her grandfather's side, she was very quiet, and Mr. Renford rightly guessed her thoughts were busy with the past.
"Do you remember your first evening at the Priory, and how you begged to be allowed to return to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh?" he asked abruptly at length.
"Yes," Felicia answered gravely; "but I—I felt so lonely, and I did not understand you then, grandfather, and I did not know there was such a person as Uncle Guy." She paused, thinking how her world had widened of late, and of the many new interests which had come into her life. "I should have liked to have seen the old attic," she added; "but it wouldn't have seemed like home without mother, so perhaps it's just as well I did not."
The journey by train—which was a fast one—was soon over, and they were met by a carriage at N— station, which in less than ten minutes conveyed them home, where Mr. Guy was eagerly waiting their arrival, curious to learn how Felicia had fared during the day. After supper, which the travellers had found in readiness for them, Felicia had a little chat with her uncle before going to bed.
"It seemed so natural to be in Bristol again," she informed him; "and I almost felt once as though, if I left Mrs. M'Cosh's kitchen and walked upstairs, I should bear the 'whirr-whirr' of mother's sewing machine, and find her sitting at the table at work, and it comforted me to remember she would never be tired or overworked again. And where she's gone, I expect she knows why God let her be so dreadfully poor, and—oh heaps of things which are so difficult to understand! Mother always trusted in God even when things were very, very hard."
"Ah! that's when comes the trial to faith, Felicia—when life is dark and gloomy, and one is tempted to think that a good and loving God would have spared us sorrow and pain."
The little girl's face was very grave for a moment, then it brightened, and slowly and softly she quoted—
"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darknessIf He knew you could bear the light;But you would not cling to His guiding handIf the way were always bright;And you would not learn to walk by faith,Could you always walk by sight."
"God never would send you the darkness
If He knew you could bear the light;
But you would not cling to His guiding hand
If the way were always bright;
And you would not learn to walk by faith,
Could you always walk by sight."
There was a brief silence, during which Felicia watched her uncle with an expression of anxiety on her countenance. By-and-by he said—
"You make me ashamed of myself, Felicia; but you have taught me one lesson—that God is mindful of His own; and that He does guide and strengthen those who trust in Him."
He did not continue the conversation further; but Felicia's eyes had been opened to the change which was taking place in her uncle's views of this life and of things eternal. Truly, he was much altered, spiritually as well as physically. Better in health, he was far more cheerful, and no longer gave way to the violent temper which had been the terror of the household so long, and grew kinder and more considerate to his relations and friends. He now bore the affliction of his deformity with resignation, and thought of others instead of simply studying his own pleasure as he had once done. Everyone recognised whose influence it was that had brought about this happy change—everyone, that is, but Felicia herself, who was utterly unconscious that she had come as a God sent blessing to the lonely, melancholy invalid, to widen his sympathies and teach him that, not the circumstances of life, but a wayward faithless heart is the one barrier between man and God.
The little girl herself accepted the sweets of life now offered to her with a thankful, grateful heart; and we will leave her to grow from childhood into womanhood, in that "large room" where God has set her feet, rich in the affection of the households at the Vicarage and the Priory, and especially devoted to her grandfather and Uncle Guy, who still speak of her as their "little ditch flower"—the endearing name she loves to be called, which even Doris would not use by way of disparagement now.
THE END.
LORIMER AND CHALMERS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.