The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFriendless FeliciaThis 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 restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Friendless FeliciaOr, a little city sparrowAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeRelease date: June 23, 2023 [eBook #71028]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1908*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDLESS FELICIA ***
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 restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Friendless FeliciaOr, a little city sparrowAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeRelease date: June 23, 2023 [eBook #71028]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1908
Title: Friendless Felicia
Or, a little city sparrow
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Release date: June 23, 2023 [eBook #71028]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1908
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIENDLESS FELICIA ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAPTER
I. AN ATTIC HOME
II. MRS. M'COSH GOES UPSTAIRS
III. WHITE LILIES
IV. DESOLATION
V. LION'S FIND
VI. FELICIA AND HER GRANDFATHER
VII. THE FAMILY AT THE VICARAGE
VIII. UNCLE GUY
IX. FIRST DAYS AT THE PRIORY
X. A GREAT SURPRISE
XI. UNCLE GUY'S TEMPER
XII. FELICIA SPEAKS OUT
XIII. ONE SATURDAY
XIV. DORIS IS JEALOUS
XV. UNDER THE ARBUTUS TREE
XVI. DORIS AND FELICIA
XVII. AN ANXIOUS SUNDAY
XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED HOLIDAY
XIX. FELICIA'S STORY
XX. FELICIA IN TROUBLE
XXI. THE STORM
XXII. CONCLUSION
"YOU won't be able to see much longer, Felicia, and I'm sure you're trying your eyes dreadfully, now. Put up your work, child. Perhaps to-morrow I shall be strong enough to help a bit."
Felicia, a little girl of about twelve years old, who sat industriously working a sewing machine at a round table close to the window, finished running together the two lengths of print she was in the midst of joining, and then, dropping her hands into her lap with a gesture expressive of weariness, looked at her mother with a smile as she exclaimed in a tone of relief—
"There! I've finished for to-night. I've not done such a bad day's work after all."
"I'm glad to hear that; and I'm very glad you've finished, for the noise of the machine does make my head ache so badly, it gets on my nerves, so that even in the night I hear the 'whirr-whirr-whirr'—it won't let me sleep."
"Poor mother!"
The little girl's voice was full of intense sadness and regret, as her soft, blue eyes anxiously scanned the pallid countenance of her mother, who lay—worn almost to a shadow—on the bed which occupied one corner of the room. In this attic of a house let in tenements, situated in a side street in the heart of the city of Bristol, Mrs. Renford and her little daughter had lived for the past two years, supported by the earnings of the former as a blouse and apron maker.
A few days previously, Mrs. Renford, who had been ailing for some time, had fallen ill, and much to Felicia's alarm did not appear to be getting better, though she was lying in bed—to pick up her strength, she herself said. Felicia had desired to call in the parish doctor, but her mother had strenuously opposed this suggestion, declaring every day she would be stronger on the morrow; meanwhile, work had to be done to supply money for daily bread, and the little girl was obliged to do it, labouring from daybreak to dusk at the sewing machine. How thankful she was that it was summer! Though it was intensely hot in their attic home, that was better than having to suffer cold, as they certainly would have done had it been winter, for where would the money have come from to purchase coals?
"It's time I saw about supper," Felicia observed after a brief silence, during which she had succeeded in mastering a strong inclination to cry, for she was, in truth, very weary, and her right arm and hand ached with turning the handle of the machine. "I wish I had something nice to tempt your appetite, mother," she proceeded, as she went to a cupboard and produced some bread and a small slice of butter, "you have taken hardly anything to-day."
"I don't want anything to eat, my dear," was the reply, "but I could enjoy a cup of tea."
"And you shall have it!" the little girl declared.
"But you've no hot water—"
"I can easily get some from Mrs. M'Cosh; she's sure to have her kettle boiling, for she always cooks a supper for her husband, I don't mind asking her a favour at all."
Having measured the tea into a brown earthenware teapot, Felicia nodded encouragingly to her mother and left the attic, proceeding downstairs to the second floor, where she rapped gently upon a closed door with her knuckles.
"Come in," said a deep, gruff voice, which sounded like a man's, but was, in reality, a woman's. Felicia opened the door and entered the room—a comfortably furnished kitchen-sitting-room it was. Before the fireplace stood Mrs. M'Cosh, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a broad, red face, which usually wore a somewhat grim expression. A woman of few words was Mrs. M'Cosh, but those words were generally much to the point. She was frying liver and bacon for her husband's supper, giving her best attention to the work in hand.
"Please, Mrs. M'Cosh," said Felicia, "could you oblige me with a little boiling water? Mother fancies a cup of tea to-night."
"Help yourself, child," was the response; "but, first, put your teapot on the stove to warm."
Felicia did so, whilst she watched Mrs. M'Cosh turn the liver in the pan. How delicious it smelt! Poor Felicia, she had had nothing to eat but bread thinly spread with butter that day.
"Mother better?" inquired Mrs. M'Cosh, glancing furtively at her visitor.
Felicia shook her head mournfully, the tears rising to her blue eyes, a choking lump in her throat.
"No appetite, I suppose?" continued her interrogator, "and little enough to eat anyway. Humph! Blouse-making is badly paid—far better to scrub for a living."
"Mother cannot scrub," said Felicia hastily; "she is not strong enough for such hard work as that."
"Not brought up to it, I take it."
Mrs. M'Cosh had placed the frying-pan on one side, and was warming a vegetable dish now; and as the teapot was hot, Felicia put the boiling water to the tea. "Let it draw on the stove for a minute," advised Mrs. M'Cosh, as she proceeded to slip several slices of liver and bacon into the vegetable dish. "There now, your mother will have a good cup of tea, and perhaps she will fancy a bit of my 'fry' for her supper," she added, as she placed the cover on the vegetable dish and put it with the teapot on a tray which she thrust into the little girl's hands.
"Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh!" gasped Felicia, quite overcome with astonishment and gratitude, "how can I thank you?"
"Don't, child. Liver's cheap, and there's plenty left for my husband. There, don't stop talking, but go to your mother. You can return the dish to-morrow."
She pushed the little girl out of the room and shut the door upon her. With flushed cheeks and eyes shining with gladness, Felicia climbed the stairs, carrying the tray very carefully.
"See, mother, what Mrs. M'Cosh has given me!" she exclaimed excitedly when she reached the attic. "Such a beautiful supper! Oh, isn't it kind of her?"
"It is, indeed," the sick woman agreed, raising herself on her elbow, and looking longingly at the covered dish. "What is it? It smells delicious."
"Doesn't it? It's fried liver and bacon. Do you think you can eat some?"
The invalid thought she could, and, posted up in bed, she drank her tea, which cheered and refreshed her greatly, and ate a little of the "fry." But her appetite was poor, and by far the larger half of Mrs. M'Cosh's present fell to the share of Felicia, who made an excellent supper.
"What a dear good soul Mrs. M'Cosh is," said the little girl gratefully; "and yet I used to be rather afraid of her—because she has such a blunt way of speaking, and such a sharp way of looking at one, I suppose."
"I have never had much to say to her," remarked Mrs. Renford, "for I have always had the impression that, for some reason, she does not approve of me. I remember once, soon after we came here, meeting her on the stairs, and her asking me why I did not go out charring; and when I told her I knew very little about housework, she cast such a scornful glance at me. I am sure," the poor woman continued plaintively, "I would gladly do charring if I could, for, though I've worked my best with my needle these two years past, it's been hard to earn enough for the necessaries of life, and only you and I know, Felicia, how short of food we've been sometimes. If you hadn't helped me out of school hours and proved yourself so clever with your needle, I don't know what we should have done. Oh, I hope I shall soon be better and able to work again!"
"I hope so, mother," Felicia replied. "If you are not better to-morrow we really must have a doctor—"
"No, no!" the invalid interrupted. "A doctor would want me to go into a hospital, or perhaps into the workhouse infirmary. I know he would, and then we should be separated! Oh, I couldn't bear that! We've never been parted, and—oh, may God forgive me if I've been a selfish mother!—I've always set my face against that! Maybe it won't be long we shall have together, anyway," she added in a lower tone.
"What do you mean, mother?" Felicia asked in a troubled voice, a look of apprehension creeping into her eyes. "You don't mean—oh, you cannot mean that you would give me up to my father's relations?"
"No, no! Never mind what I mean now. When I lost my husband I vowed I would never give you up; and though, often since, I've thought I perhaps acted unwisely and against your interests, I've never really regretted the stand I took. I'm a poor creature at best now, Felicia; but if only I'd not had that terrible illness two years ago, I should have been able to bring you up and educate you as a lady. Oh, it's very, very hard to think that God wills everything for the best."
"But He does, doesn't He, mother?"
"I try to think so, my dear, but I am afraid I am not a very brave woman. Still, in my heart of hearts, I realise that God does know what is best for us. 'Be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.' Yes, we must be of good courage."
Mrs. Renford was still sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, a crimson shawl arranged around her shoulders over her night-dress. She was a very pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, with small, delicate features, and there was a bright, deceptive flush on her thin cheeks as she conversed with her little daughter. Felicia thought how much better her mother was looking to-night, and her spirits rose as she reassured herself with the thought that she had taken a turn for the better, and would soon be well again.
After the little girl had washed the supper things and tidied the room—the floor around the spot where she had been seated at work all day had been strewn with ends of cotton and scraps of print—she went to the window, which was wide open to admit as much air as possible, and looked out. The moon, like a golden globe, was high in the heavens, and illuminated the roofs and chimney pots which, with a glimpse of the sluggish river, comprised the view.
"It is a beautiful night," Felicia informed her mother as she raised her tired eyes to the cloudless sky; "the air is so fresh, and the river is shining like silver—who would think it is actually so dirty? Oh, mother dear, you must make haste and get strong enough to go out-of-doors, for one forgets it is summer, shut up here!"
"I AM afraid that poor woman up in the attic is in a bad state," remarked Mrs. M'Cosh to her husband half-an-hour after she had so summarily dismissed Felicia; "I've not seen her for weeks, but the last time I met her on the stairs I was struck by her appearance, she looked as though a breath of wind would have blown her away, and now she's laid up altogether."
"Dear me, dear me," responded Mr. M'Cosh, "that's sad—very."
Husband and wife were seated at the supper table. The former had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and was now dawdling over the drinking of his second cup of tea. He was a small, wiry man—a mason by trade—with a mild, clean-shaven face, thin, iron-gray hair, and a pair of light blue eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh usually addressed him as "Master," and he always spoke of her as "the missus," but it was the general impression of outsiders that Mrs. M'Cosh was master and mistress too. However that may have been, they were a united couple, for James M'Cosh was a steady, hard-working man, and his wife was a thrifty, industrious woman who made their home—the second storey of the house—a comfortable and happy one.
"Yes, it's very sad," agreed Mrs. M'Cosh. She sat in silence for a few minutes, her brow knitted in a frown. "They seem lonely folks," she went on by-and-by, "without a friend in the place. Felicia—why couldn't her mother have called her plain Mary, or Susan, or Jane, or some sensible name?—was here to beg some boiling water just now, and she looked fit to drop. I expect she'd been at the sewing machine all day."
"Poor child!" said Mr. M'Cosh; "such a bright-looking, pretty little girl she is, too, to be kept shut up in that attic all day long! It's very hard for her."
"I don't know why it should be harder for her because she's pretty!"
"I didn't mean that; but it always goes to my heart to hear of young folks in trouble, and when I see the child of that poor widow upstairs, I always think of our child—about the same age as this Felicia she would have been if she had lived, wouldn't she?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded, her plain countenance softening, her shrewd grey eyes growing dim. She had never had but one child—a baby girl who had lived but a few months to gladden her parents' hearts.
"Now, I rather like the name Felicia myself," Mr. M'Cosh admitted; "it's out of the common. What makes you object to it?"
"It's too fanciful, to my mind; it would do well enough for a lady, but think of a girl who'll have to work for her living being called Felicia! I should say her mother is a foolish, unpractical sort of woman."
"Poor soul! It's easy to see she's come down in the world," commented Mr. M'Cosh.
"Yes," agreed his wife; "she's a way of wearing her clothes so as to make the best of them, and I must admit she and the child always look tidy and clean. If she'd been able to scrub she'd be better off to-day; blouse-making and that sort of employment is heartbreaking work, and there's very little profit, I'm afraid, after paying for the hire of a sewing machine. 'Tis 'sweating,' that's what it is, and it never ought to be allowed."
"Has Mrs. Renford had a doctor?" inquired Mr. M'Cosh. Then, as his wife shook her head, he added, decidedly: "Someone ought to see to her."
Mrs. M'Cosh made no rejoinder immediately. She rather prided herself on having nothing to do with her neighbours and "keeping herself to herself," as she expressed it. At length, however, she said—
"'Tis the duty of ministers and district visitors to find out those who are sick and in want of assistance. You can't think it's my place to interfere. Mrs. Renford has always rather kept me at a distance."
Mr. M'Cosh regarded his wife with a smile lurking it around the corners of his mouth, and an expression of amusement in his mild blue eyes; and when he spoke again, it was to change the conversation.
Supper finished, Mrs. M'Cosh washed and put away the supper things, then sat down near the open window opposite to her husband. This was the hour of the day she liked best, but to-night she failed to enjoy it quite so much as usual by reason of her mind being so full of the sick woman upstairs. She was obviously restless and ill at ease. At ten o'clock, that being the time at which they generally began to think of going to bed, she fetched her Bible and read a chapter aloud as she did every night. On this occasion it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Saint Matthew's Gospel which she read, and when she had finished it, she shut the Bible, and looked exceedingly thoughtful.
"There's wonderful teaching in those last verses," observed Mr. M'Cosh meditatively, with a sly glance at his better half. "'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,'" he quoted; "to think that the smallest act of kindness one may do is doing it unto Him! 'Tis a solemn thought."
Mrs. M'Cosh had no answer ready, but the expression of her face was gentler than usual, and a little regretful as she reflected that the privilege of helping others for Christ's sake might have been oftener hers if she had pleased.
She made no mention of Mrs. Renford to her husband on the following morning. He was up and at work soon after daybreak, and came home to breakfast at eight o'clock. When he had gone again, his wife left her own domain, and for the first time during the many years she had lived in the house, found her way upstairs. Flight after flight she climbed until the top storey was reached and the attic where the sick woman and her little daughter dwelt. The sound of a sewing machine fell upon her ears as she knocked at the closed door. Immediately, the "whirr-whirr-whirr" of the machine ceased, and Felicia answered her summons.
"Oh!" cried the little girl, "I am sorry I have not returned your dish; I was going to do so by-and-by. It was a most lovely supper—"
"I have not come about the dish," interposed Mrs. M'Cosh, panting, for she was breathless after her climb, "but to inquire for your mother. How is she this morning?"
"Please come in," said the invalid, recognising the visitor's voice. Then, as Mrs. M'Cosh entered the room, she exclaimed with real pleasure in her tone: "How good of you to come to inquire for me! I am so glad to see you, for I want to thank you for your kindness to us last night."
"Don't mention it," replied Mrs. M'Cosh.
She took the chair Felicia placed for her by the bedside, and proceeded to examine the sick woman's countenance critically.
"But I must mention it because I feel so very, very grateful," Mrs. Renford said, smiling. "God bless you. You have proved yourself a neighbour indeed."
Mrs. M'Cosh's colour deepened till it was the hue of a peony. Her eyes wandered from the sick woman's face to the slender, white fingers which played nervously with the coverlet, and with a gesture which was wholly womanly and kind, she covered them with her large hand as she asked—
"What have you had for breakfast?"
"A cup of tea. I could eat nothing—I have no appetite. But I do not think I am worse to-day, I feel in better spirits. Do you know, I think your goodness has cheered me up? We are so alone—Felicia and I."
"Isn't there anyone you could send for?" Mrs. M'Cosh inquired. "Have you no relations?"
"None of my own. I never knew either father or mother; I was brought up in London by a French lady, a Miss de Musset—one of the best women that ever lived! I was always very musical, and as I grew up it was discovered that I had a beautiful voice which I was so fortunate as to have well trained. I worked hard, and, in due course, I set up as a music and singing mistress. I gave up my work when I married; but when my husband died soon after Felicia was born, I took it up again and earned a good living for myself and my child till a little over two years ago. Then I had a most serious illness. I caught typhoid fever, and lay for a long while at death's door; I lost my beautiful voice and was partially paralysed for many months."
"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. M'Cosh commiseratingly; "that was the beginning of your troubles, I suppose?"
"Yes. When I was well enough to work again, I realised that my career as a music and singing mistress was at an end. I have never regained my voice, but the paralysis left me after a while and I could use my hands for sewing. By that time the little money I'd saved had all been spent; and I didn't know what to do."
"What made you come to Bristol?"
"I knew the forewoman of a factory here, and she promised me work. She kept her word, but the work was too trying for me. I could not do it, and—it's so easy to go downhill—"
"There, there, don't tell me any more," broke in Mrs. M'Cosh, and there was a note of sincere sympathy in her deep, gruff voice; "I can guess how things went. What you've got to do now is to pick up your strength, and you must try not to worry. Well, I suppose I must not stay longer, for I'm interrupting Felicia in her work."
"Would you come and sit with me an hour this evening whilst Felicia goes out to do some errands?" questioned the invalid eagerly.
"Certainly," was the prompt response.
"Oh, thank you! Felicia doesn't care to leave me alone. I shall be so glad if you will come, for I want to have a talk with you."
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded and left the room, motioning to Felicia to follow her. Outside the door she whispered to the little girl to run downstairs presently and fetch a glass of egg and milk which she was going to mix for her mother.
"What did she say, dear?" Mrs. Renford asked when Felicia returned, and on being told, she murmured: "How very, very kind!" Later, she was able to drink part of the egg and milk and declared she felt better, her headache had gone, and she really thought to-morrow she would be able to get up. Felicia was so cheered to hear her mother speaking hopefully that her heart sang with joy as she worked. During the afternoon Mrs. Renford sat up in bed and made the button-holes in the heap of blouses which were waiting for her finishing touches. Long before her task was at an end she grew very tired, but she succeeded in completing it; then, too weary almost to speak, she lay back on her pillows to rest.
The hot summer sunshine shone through the open window, and the room grew more and more airless, whilst Felicia laboured uncomplainingly, seldom removing her eyes from her work. At length, however, she made some remark, and receiving no answer turned to look at her mother. Mrs. Renford was lying white and still, and Felicia ran to her side with a cry of alarm to find she had fainted.
FRIGHTENED immeasurably at the discovery that her mother was quite unconscious, Felicia summoned Mrs. M'Cosh, who bathed the invalid's face and hands with cold water and soon succeeded in reviving her and in reassuring the little girl who stood trembling by the bedside. One point Mrs. M'Cosh now insisted upon, and that was that a doctor should be called in. Accordingly, the parish doctor was sent for, and came and examined the sick woman very carefully. He spoke of heart trouble and general debility, but much to the relief of mother and daughter he did not suggest the patient's removal to a hospital. He would tell the district nurse to look in, he said, and he would also speak to the relieving officer.
"Meanwhile, I will undertake to see that Mrs. Renford wants for nothing," declared Mrs. M'Cosh; "I live in the house and understand nursing."
The doctor nodded and took his departure, promising to call again on the following day. Mrs. M'Cosh followed him downstairs and held a brief conference with him ere he left the house. Ten minutes later she reappeared in the attic, bearing a tray which held a teapot, three cups, a cake, and a plate of daintily cut bread and butter.
"I thought it would be pleasant for us all to have tea together," she remarked as she put her burden on the table. "Now, Felicia, try to make a good meal, to please me, and do you try also, my dear," she added, glancing at the invalid.
"I shall never be able to thank you for your kindness," Mrs. Renford replied, with rather an uncertain smile. She was deeply touched by the way in which Mrs. M'Cosh had called her "my dear."
"Please don't try," was the quick response; "I've a notion that if I was ill you'd do as much for me. Yes, I know you would. Now, Felicia, cut that cake whilst I pour out the tea."
The little girl obeyed. She was looking quite bright and smiling, the truth being that she thought her mother could not be very ill, as the doctor had not ordered her removal to the hospital; and she was so relieved at his not having done so that she was feeling quite light-hearted. Poor little girl, she did not dream of the trouble which was coming upon her!
Mrs. M'Cosh watched her with an expression of mingled sympathy and tenderness which was not lost upon the invalid, who, at the conclusion of the meal, suggested that Felicia should go out and do the errands she had mentioned earlier in the day. Accordingly, Felicia sallied forth, carrying a great bundle of blouses and aprons to be delivered at the shop for which her mother worked, satisfied with the knowledge that Mrs. M'Cosh would remain in the attic till her return.
"Indeed, she is very, very kind," thought the little girl gratefully; "and she seems to get on with mother better than she did at first."
She took the blouses and aprons to the shop, and received the payment for the making of them—only a small sum, certainly, but sufficient to buy a few groceries. How she longed to be able to purchase something very nice for her mother! She lingered outside the provision shops staring into the windows, halt no one took any notice of her. In Bristol, that city of charities, as in most places, it is the deserving poor who are generally overlooked.
"Oh, if I were only rich!" sighed Felicia, pausing by-and-by before a florist's shop. "How I wish I had some of those flowers for mother! Oh, those roses and lilies! How she would love a sight of them!"
A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile, it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.
"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment! Oh, how pleased mother will be!"
On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—
"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"
Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.
"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"
"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt.
"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put my house in order, so to speak—"
"Mother!"
It was an exceedingly bitter cry, full of sorrow and fear, and bursting into a passion of grief, Felicia sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Renford watched her pitifully, murmuring, "Poor child! Poor child! My poor little girl!"
At length it dawned upon Felicia that for her mother's sake she must try to compose herself, and struggling to subdue her sobs, she wiped the tears from her eyes, but they would flow again.
"Oh, mother, it cannot be that you are so ill as that!" she cried at length.
"Yes, my dear, it is so. I do not mind except for you, and—and even for you, Felicia, it may be for the best. Don't look at me so reproachfully, dear, I know what I am saying. Listen to me, little daughter, and don't make things harder for us both than you can help."
"Oh, mother, I will try not to! But, oh, what shall I do, what shall I do when—when—"
"When I am gone? It is about that I want to speak to you. You know, dear, you have relations in Somerset, your grandfather and grandmother—your father's parents."
"I can't bear to think of them, mother. They were cruel to you."
"They were not kind," Mrs. Renford admitted, "but—but they did not understand. They never forgave their son for marrying me, and when he died they would have taken you from me, it is true; but—I want you not to dwell on that. When I am gone, I believe they will give you a home. I've been talking matters over with Mrs. M'Cosh, and she agrees with me that you ought to go to them—but not whilst I live; I cannot part with you yet, my dear, dear child."
Felicia flung her arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her with passionate affection. Her tears had ceased to flow now, but her heart was full of a dull sense of despair.
"My mind has been much troubled by doubts and fears to-day," Mrs. Renford proceeded to admit, "but when you came in just now with those lilies, they reminded me of Christ's promise to care for His own. Did He not say, 'Fear not, little flock'? And you and I belong to His flock, Felicia, and though we shall be parted before long by the valley of the shadow of death, we shall meet again. Oh, my dear, that thought must be our consolation now!"
Mrs. Renford sank back exhausted upon the pillow, but presently she continued the conversation.
"I have made a great many mistakes in my life," she confessed sadly. "I ought not to have married your father without his parents' consent, but I was young and thoughtless, and I did not understand they would so utterly disapprove of me as they did. I was not brought up as they considered their son's wife should have been. Oh, Felicia, if better days come to you, don't let them make you forget the past, and—and—if anyone endeavours to teach you to be ashamed of your mother, remember that, though she was a 'nobody' and not very wise, she loved you and tried to teach you to be a good girl, and—she did the best she could. God doesn't ask more than that, and you know His judgment is not the world's, but infinitely loving and merciful."
"Oh, mother, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you?" Felicia questioned in a heart-broken voice. "Oh, why do you talk to me like this? Perhaps, after all, the doctor is mistaken, and you will recover."
"It may be so, of course; I have heard that doctors cannot always tell how it will be when a patient is suffering from heart disease. But if he is right, you will do as I wish, will you not?"
Felicia nodded silently, and her mother was satisfied.
"I have given Mrs. M'Cosh instructions how to act. I feel she is one to be trusted, and she has proved herself kind and sympathetic—a true friend in need." Mrs. Renford paused, and her eyes wandered to the flowers on the table—the room was full of their fragrance. "How beautiful those lilies are!" she exclaimed, with a ring of pleasure in her frail voice; "God bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is. They have come like a message from God."
For several days the lilies bloomed in the pickle jar, whilst the sick woman grew weaker hour by hour. Felicia was obliged to cease working, for her mother could not endure the sound of the sewing machine; and, instead, she spent her time ministering to the dear invalid who followed her eve loving, wistful eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh came and went; the doctor was very kind and attentive, and the district nurse called to see what she could do; but Mrs. Renford was passing beyond human assistance. One morning found her lying white and lifeless with a smile of ineffable content upon her lips, and Mrs. M'Cosh—her plain face swelled and purple with weeping—laid the pure, white lilies on her breast, and then led Felicia—stunned with grief at the loss she had sustained—unresistingly from the room.
"WHAT a deluge!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh, coming to the window where Felicia stood gazing out into the street. She laid her large hand with a kindly pressure on the little girl's shoulder as she spoke. "I'm afraid master will get very wet coming home from work. One thing I'm glad of, and that is, that it did not rain like this in the afternoon."
"Yes," assented Felicia, "I am glad it kept fine till—till all was over."
That afternoon she and Mrs. M'Cosh had followed her mother to her last earthly resting-place in the cemetery, and now she was experiencing more keenly than ever that sense of desolation which had fallen upon her when she had left the death-chamber three days previously. The weather, which had been dry, though overclouded, throughout the morning and afternoon, had now turned to rain, which was descending in torrents, and running in streams down the gutters on either side of the street. It was weather in keeping with her feelings, Felicia told herself; she thought she would have felt her sorrow still more acutely if the sun had shone that day.
The last week had passed like a dream to the little mourner. She was truly grateful to Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh, who had not only given her the shelter of their own home, but had saved her mother from the degradation of a pauper's funeral; and now she was thinking that she could not remain with these kind friends much longer, she must keep her promise to her mother, and go to her father's people.
"How I wish I could stay with you altogether," she whispered by-and-by, her soft blue eyes shining through tears—"with you and dear Mr. M'Cosh!"
"Ah! I wish we could keep you, my dear, and so does master, I'm sure!"
"Supposing my grandfather and grandmother don't want me," suggested Felicia, sighing, "what shall I do then?"
"Why, then, you can come back to us. Yes, I mean it. Master and I talked the matter over last night, and he said I must impress upon you that you'd never be without friends in the world whilst we're alive."
Felicia flung her arms impulsively around the good woman's neck, and hugged and kissed her rapturously. How much rather would she face the future with Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh than with strangers like her relations. But there was her promise to her mother to be kept. Oh, she did hope her grandparents would refuse her a home!
Later in the evening, after Mr. M'Cosh had returned from work, and had had his supper, he and his wife fell to talking of Felicia's prospects in life. It appeared he had been making inquiries about the little girl's relatives, and had learnt that they lived in a house called the Priory, on the outskirts of the village of N—, in Somersetshire. Felicia had the address in a pocket-book of her mother's, which contained several papers of importance, including her parents' marriage certificate.
"The Priory is a fine place, I'm told," Mr. M'Cosh remarked; "my mate worked there once when Mr. Renford was making some alterations in his stables, but more than half of the house is shut up. Doesn't it seem somehow wrong," he proceeded meditatively, "to think of Felicia and the poor soul who's gone living upstairs in that attic, when there's so many rooms wasting, so to speak, in that great house?"
"It seems most unjust!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Cosh indignantly. "Mr. Renford must be—" She paused abruptly, doubting whether it would be wisdom to say what she thought of Felicia's grandfather.
"Did you, hear what my grandmother was like, Mr. M'Cosh?" inquired Felicia anxiously.
"No, my dear, my mate never saw her, and he was told she seldom went out, except for drives in fine weather. The Priory is a very old house, beautifully situated in the midst of lovely scenery. Why, Felicia, you'll hardly know yourself there!"
"Perhaps I shan't be wanted," said Felicia with a little choking sob.
But Mr. M'Cosh was of a different opinion, and said so. He thought such a pretty little girl as Felicia would be very welcome in the big, lonely house his friend had been at some pains to depict to him. It seemed strange, after all he had heard, that Mr. Renford's grandchild should be his guest, and he regarded her with a somewhat wistful expression in his mild blue eyes, which Felicia noticed and wondered at.
"When do you think I ought to go to the Priory?" she asked in a tearful voice.
"Well, let me see, it's Friday now," Mr. M'Cosh observed reflectively; "we'd like to keep you till Monday, if you'll stay—eh, missus?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded silently.
"If I'll stay!" cried Felicia. "Oh, if I could always live with you, how delighted I should be! But I promised mother to go to father's relations, and, of course, I must go."
"They have the best right to you, my dear. Don't you think, though, you ought to write and say you're coming?" And Mr. M'Cosh glanced dubiously from the little girl to his wife.
"No," the latter answered, "her mother said particularly that she was to go—that her grandparents might see her."
"But I have no money," Felicia said with a painful blush.
"Oh, we can manage that!" Mr. M'Cosh told her reassuringly. "Your journey money will be very little. N— is only an hour's ride by train from Bristol, it's on the main line."
"But—but you have spent so much money on me already," murmured the little girl distressfully, "on me and—her! Oh, don't think I don't realise all you've done for us! I know you've paid for the funeral, and my new black frock and hat, and—and there's nothing I can do for you in return! I owe you so much—so much!"
"Never mind that," said Mr. M'Cosh earnestly, "we've been glad to help." He coughed as though there was something in his throat, then continued: "The missus and I had a little girl ourselves once, my dear; she didn't stay with us very long, and we thought it was cruelly hard God should take her away. When we heard the earth fall on her little coffin, we felt—well, much as you felt this afternoon, I expect—as though our hearts would never cease aching, as though we could never be happy again because of our loss; but as time went on, we were glad to know our child was safe with God. If she had lived, she would have been about your age, and that's made us take to you; isn't that so?" he asked, turning to his wife, who nodded assent.
This was the first occasion on which Felicia had ever heard mention made of the dead child, and she was very touched. Sore-hearted herself, she could enter into the sorrow of these good people, and sympathise with them. She had lost her mother; they had lost their child.
The next day she paid a farewell visit to the home which had been hers and her mother's for the past two years. Already it had been re-let and the new tenant was to come into residence that night. The attic was scrupulously clean, for Mrs. M'Cosh had thoroughly scrubbed the floor and rubbed the few pieces of furniture which belonged to the owner of the house.
Poor Felicia flung herself down beside the empty bed and wept heart-brokenly; then, exhausted by the violence of her grief, she crept to the window and looked out on the familiar view. It almost seemed as though she must hear her mother's voice addressing her presently. The last week appeared so unreal—like a hideous dream, the final scene of which had been enacted yesterday afternoon. Felicia had never attended a funeral before her mother's, and now as she stood by the open window, her aching eyes raised above the roofs and chimney tops to the wide expanse of sky overhead, she recalled the opening words of the Service of the previous day. And as she repeated them softly to herself they fell like healing balm upon her heart—
"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.'"
Her mother had believed, of that she was certain, therefore she need have no fears for her. And for herself—oh, she must not be a coward, she must trust her future to God's hands! She looked around the little attic, and wondered if she would ever see it again. She could picture her mother seated at the round table working the sewing machine even better than she could picture her on the bed in the corner. She was glad of that, for she would far rather think of her well than ill. How bright and cheerful she had been in her days of health, and how bravely she had faced sickness and death. What was that verse she had repeated to her one day when she, Felicia, had been inclined to grumble? Ah, she remembered! And she hoped she might never forget.