Chapter XVI: Doris and Felicia

FOR several days Doris held to her determination to be nicer to her cousin, and Felicia, who was not in the least of a resentful disposition, met her half-way, so that things went more comfortably. Miss Barton was pleased to note this, and hoped Doris had overcome her jealous spirit; but, as a matter of fact, it was only slumbering, and a few words of her mother's, casually spoken, and not intended for her ears, proved quite sufficient to, awaken it once more.

"It is wonderful what a power that child is becoming at the Priory," Mrs. Pring had remarked to her husband. "Mrs. Price tells me that father is growing very fond of her, and Guy's simply wrapped up in her. And she's not been there quite three months!"

Doris was thinking of these words—which she had overheard—as she strolled about the front garden of her home one afternoon, close on tea-time. She was really trying to overcome the feeling of jealousy which was struggling for predominance in her heart, and had nearly succeeded in doing so, when, on reaching the laurel hedge which divided the garden from the road, she heard voices—one of which she was certain was her cousin's.

"Who can Felicia be talking to?" she thought. "She ought to be at the Priory, for she left here nearly half-an-hour ago. Perhaps she's with grandfather."

Her jealousy in arms again, she peeped between the laurels, quite expecting to see Mr. Renford, and gave a little gasp of astonishment at the sight which met her gaze—Felicia, with a bundle in her arms, and a little dark-haired, dark-eyed gipsy maiden of about eight years of age, coming along the road side by side, apparently deep in a confidential conversation. As the couple passed by, Doris saw that the bundle Felicia was carrying was a very young baby, wrapped in an old faded shawl, and she also remarked that the little gipsy girl's face was tear-stained, whilst she limped in her walk.

"Well," exclaimed Doris in amazement, "I wonder what this means! And what would grandfather say if he saw Felicia at this moment? Where can she be going? It cannot be that she intends going to the encampment? I believe that is it. Oh, what a naughty, disobedient girl she is, when grandfather forbade her to go there, and she knows he dislikes gipsies How can she bear to touch that horrid baby! It's sure to be a dirty little creature. I'll wait and see her when she goes back, and hear what she has to say for herself; she'll be obliged to pass this way."

Feeling greatly excited and very curious, she went to the garden gate leading into the road; but fully twenty minutes elapsed before her cousin at length reappeared in sight. Felicia was alone and running, but she came to a full stop as her eyes fell on the figure at the gate, and she exclaimed—

"Oh, Doris, is that you? Where do you think I've been?"

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Doris responded severely. "I saw you pass just now with a dirty, common, gipsy child, and you were actually carrying a baby. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Why?" asked Felicia, looking taken aback. She was hot and flushed, and spoke rather breathlessly. "I don't think the little girl was dirty," she added dubiously, "or the baby either."

"How came you to be with them?" demanded Doris in a tone of rebuke. She considered her three years' seniority gave her the right to take the other to task.

"Well, it was like this. I had nearly reached home when I caught up to a little girl carrying a baby. I saw at once that they were gipsies, so I took no notice of them because of what grandfather had said; but suddenly I heard a scream, and then I stopped and glanced behind to see what had happened, and oh, Doris, the poor little girl had fallen with the baby and knocked herself! The baby wasn't hurt a bit, though it cried dreadfully, and I went back and picked it up and tried to quiet it—the dear little thing!—end presently it stopped crying; but the poor little girl had knocked her knees and hurt one of her arms so badly—I suppose she must have sprained it—that she couldn't possibly carry the baby, and so, of course, I had to. What else could I have done? I couldn't have left them there in the road. Grandfather wouldn't have wished me to do that, would he? Why, that would have been acting like the priest and the Levite in the parable! Oh, you surely don't think grandfather will be angry with me for carrying the baby back to its mother?" and Felicia regarded her cousin with anxious blue eyes.

"You took it to the encampment?" Doris inquired. She would not have touched the baby herself, much less have taken it in her arms.

"Yes. The poor mother was so grateful to me. Surely grandfather will not mind when I tell him?"

"I believe he will be furious with you," Doris declared emphatically; "you have most deliberately disobeyed him. Molly told me that he forbade you to go to the common whilst the gipsies remained there."

"He did, but—"

"He will accept no excuses for disobedience. Why, instead of taking possession of the baby like that, did you not go to the Priory and send one of the servants to the assistance of the little gipsy girl?"

"I never thought of that," Felicia replied truthfully; "I suppose that is what I ought to have done," she added with a sigh, for the way in which Doris had taken her story had rather alarmed her.

"Of course. Grandfather will say so. Oh, how angry he will be! Nothing upsets him more than to have any order he gives set at defiance. How very foolishly you have behaved, to be sure!"

Felicia was filled with dismay. No other course had presented itself to her mind but to herself befriend the gipsy children; she had thought she could easily explain the matter to Mr. Renford, but Doris had put it in a different light.

"Do you—do you think grandfather will punish me for disobeying him?" she asked hesitatingly, after a few minutes' uneasy reflection. "He has never been angry with me yet—"

"He will be now," Doris interposed; "you may take my word for that."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Felicia; "what do you imagine he will do to me?"

"I don't know." Doris paused a moment, as though she was considering the point, then she went on: "Soon after your arrival at the Priory, grandfather was talking to mother about you, and I overheard him say, 'We will try the plan of educating her with her cousins, but if it does not answer—if she proves troublesome or, disobedient, I shall send her to a strict boarding-school.' Those were his exact words. How would you like to go to boarding-school, Felicia?"

"Not at all. Oh, do you really think grandfather will send me to one just for such a little thing as that? Oh, I don't want to leave the Priory now; I've grown to like it; and there's Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary, and—and—oh, I do hope I shan't be sent away from you all!" The tears rose to Felicia's eyes, and slowly trickled down her cheeks. "I meant no harm," she added plaintively, "but I see now I did wrong."

"Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?" suggested Doris, her conscience beginning to prick her for teasing her cousin, who was evidently in great distress. She knew well enough Mr. Renford had now no intention of sending Felicia to boarding-school, though he had contemplated the idea seriously at one time. "Did you meet anyone in particular on your way to the common?"

"Only a few of the villagers."

"Well, I shan't tell grandfather or anyone—not even Molly—that you were with the gipsies, so you can please yourself whether you mention the matter or not."

"Oh, thank you! It is very good of you to say that, but I think perhaps that it would be right—that I ought to tell grandfather—"

Doris did not wait to hear the completion of the sentence, but turned impatiently away and retraced her footsteps to the house, whilst Felicia walked on slowly towards the Priory in a very disturbed state of mind. She had no idea that Doris had been deliberately endeavouring to frighten her with the thought of her grandfather's anger, and her spirits grew more and more depressed as she reflected on the possibility of being sent to boarding-school. She felt so upset that she took a turn around the lake to gain time and control of her feelings before encountering her grandfather and Uncle Guy; and when, at last, she entered the house, it was a positive relief to hear that the former was not at home.

"Father's bothered about the gipsies," Uncle Guy informed her when she sought him in his sitting-room, where, subsequently, they had tea together; "they've been setting snares for rabbits in the woods, he has found several himself to-day, and he's furious about it. I believe father would rather give away a hundred rabbits than have one poached. Woe betide the man caught in the preserves after this!"

"Do you think it is really the gipsies who are snaring the rabbits?" Felicia asked in somewhat faltering accents.

"Little doubt of it. I only hope there will be no fuss between them and the gamekeepers. Poachers are, as a rule, a desperate set. I wish these gipsies would see fit to clear out of the district."

"I wish they had never come," Felicia said so fervently that her uncle was surprised.

The little girl had resolved she would tell her grandfather she had been to the encampment, and explain the circumstances which bad taken her there; but, unfortunately, she did not see him that night, and the next morning, when she met him at breakfast, he was so full of his grievances against the gipsies that she could not summon up sufficient courage to make her confession. So the opportunity for telling him passed, and as the day wore on she began to ask herself if she need tell him at all. Why should she risk his anger when she had not intended to do any harm? Still, she had disobeyed him, and her conscience told her she ought to inform him of the fact. She did not do so, however, for the longer she procrastinated, the greater became her dread of speaking out, and at the root of her cowardice was the fear that he would send her away from the Priory. Her relations had become very dear to her, especially Uncle Guy, and Molly—the only friend near her own age she had ever possessed, whilst she had grown deeply attached to Miss Barton, in whose favour she had been prejudiced from the first.

"Have you told grandfather about the little gipsy girl you played the good Samaritan to the other afternoon?" Doris asked Felicia a few days later, with a faint note of sarcasm in her quiet voice.

"No; I took your advice—"

"My advice?" Doris quickly interrogated; "what do you mean? I gave you no advice that I remember."

"You said, 'Why do you say anything to grandfather about it?'" Felicia reminded her a trifle reproachfully.

"Well, that was merely asking you a question. I never advised you not to—you know I did not."

"But—I thought—I thought—"

Felicia paused, her face twitching with emotion, a sensation of indignation against her cousin in her heart. She saw now that Doris would not be sorry if she got into trouble with her grandfather.

"Why are you so unkind to me, Doris?" she demanded at length in a pained tone. "I have done you no harm, but yet you dislike me. We are never alone without you say things to hurt me. Is it because Molly and I are friends? Oh, surely you need not be jealous on that account!"

"And do you think I am jealous of you?" Doris asked, her usual reserve of manner deserting her as she realised her cousin had discovered the truth; "of you," she went on scornfully, "who have been accustomed to live in a garret in a common lodging-house? They are right when they call you a ditch flower—"

She stopped, cowed by the flash in her cousin's blue eyes, and turned away with a short, embarrassed laugh, and a shamed expression crossing her face; whilst Felicia with difficulty restrained the passionate words which rushed to her lips, and wisely held her peace.