Chapter XVII: An Anxious Sunday

IT was a lovely Sunday afternoon in September, with a fresh, sweet air stirring the yellowing leaves of the tall, elm trees which grew near the lake in the Priory grounds, around which Felicia wandered disconsolately, watching the ducks and swans disporting themselves in the water. Her heart was very heavy, for Uncle Guy was ill, suffering from one of the acute attacks of pain to which he was subject on occasions; and her grandfather had spent all the day, so far, in his son's room, which latter fact alarmed the little girl and made her guess the truth, that the invalid was far worse than usual. The doctor had been at the Priory during the morning, but he could do little to ease the sufferings of his patient.

"The pain will just wear itself out," Mrs. Price had said to Felicia in answer to her eager questions, "and by-and-by it will leave him weak and helpless as a baby almost. Poor Mr. Guy!"

"It is very terrible for him," thought the little girl pityingly. "I suppose he will be more or less ill all his life. Oh, dear, how sad that is! He has been very kind to me—kinder almost than anyone; I wish I could do something for him."

A rustling in the brushwood which bordered the lake on one side interrupted her train of thought at this point, and as she glanced in the direction from which the sound came, she saw a movement in the under-growth of high ferns and brambles.

"Lion! Lion!" she called, thinking the mastiff was coming in search of her; "is that you, old boy?"

It was not Lion, however, but another dog—a lean lurcher with a rabbit in its mouth—which emerged from the brushwood, and without taking any notice of Felicia, made off as fast as its long legs could carry it in the direction of the high road. It was gone in an instant, leaving Felicia amazed at the speed with which it had disappeared from sight. She reflected that the dog most probably belonged to the gipsies, who had doubtless trained it to do a little poaching on its own account, and she felt glad her grandfather had not seen it.

But if Mr. Renford had not seen the trespasser on his property, someone else had, for a few minutes later a tall man—clad in a much worn suit of brown corduroy velvet and carrying a gun—came crashing through the brushwood with a spaniel at his heels. The newcomer proved to be Brown—Mr. Renford's head gamekeeper. When he saw Felicia, he came up to her and spoke to her.

"Have you seen a strange dog about, miss?" he inquired.

"Yes," she replied; "a thin, long-legged dog, do you mean?"

"Yes, a lurcher—that's the one. Which way did it go, miss?"

Felicia pointed with her finger in the direction of the high road, and explained that the dog had had a rabbit in its mouth, hearing which Brown grew quite excited and red with indignation.

"I caught sight of it behind the elms," he said, "and followed it, but it was too quick for me. I saw it was carrying something. If I'd been within gun shot it should not have got away like that."

"Oh, surely you would not have shot it?" cried Felicia, horrified at the thought. "Perhaps the poor thing was hungry," she suggested; "it looked half-starved."

"Those sort of dogs always have a starved look with them; it's the breed of them," Brown said carelessly. "Depend upon it, that lurcher belongs to one of the gipsies who are encamped on the common; it must be a bold poacher to venture as near the house as this. It'll be wanting a duck next, I shouldn't wonder."

"Oh, I hope not! What would have happened, do you imagine, Brown, if Lion had been here and encountered the lurcher?"

"There would have been a fight, most likely, and if so, Lion would certainly have killed the other."

"Oh, then I am thankful he was not here!" the little girl exclaimed shudderingly.

"I'm sorry to hear Mr. Guy is so ill to-day," remarked Brown with a change of tone, his somewhat harsh voice softening; "I suppose the master is with him, miss?"

Then, after Felicia had replied in the affirmative and explained that her grandfather had not left her uncle's room that day, he continued: "Ah, Mr. Renford was always a devoted father, though strict with his children, and Mr. Guy's affliction has been a terrible trial to him. You see, he wasn't born deformed; it came about by his nurse's carelessness. That makes it all the more sad, to my mind." And touching his hat respectfully, Brown moved away.

Felicia walked slowly back to the house, her mind now fully occupied with thoughts of the gipsies. She had continued to keep her visit to the common a secret from her grandfather, though on several occasions she had longed to tell him about it, for it weighed heavily on her conscience; but he had appeared so prejudiced against the gipsies, and Doris had succeeded in making her so fearful, that her courage had always failed her when it had come to the point of speaking out. Now, as she entered the house, she met Mr. Renford in the hall, and followed him into the dining-room to inquire for her uncle.

"He is resting, I am thankful to say," he told her, as he threw himself into an easy-chair, looking very weary himself; "the pain ceased about half-an-hour ago, and now he is trying to sleep."

"I am so glad he is better, grandfather," said Felicia earnestly, "for your sake too. It must be dreadful to watch him suffer and not be able to do anything for him—except pray for him."

"Ah! You have been doing that—eh?" He looked pleased and touched. "Where have you been all the afternoon, child? I thought perhaps you would have gone to the Vicarage with your cousins."

"No; Aunt Mary asked me to go there to tea and to church with them afterwards. She invited me when she came to inquire for Uncle Guy after morning service, but I didn't want to go, and she said I could do as I pleased. I have been watching the ducks and the swans on the lake, and the only person I've seen to speak to this afternoon was Brown."

She explained about the long-legged dog, whilst a frown of annoyance gathered on her grandfather's brow.

"Brown said he would have shot it if he had been able to," she said distressfully; "oh, you wouldn't like him to do that, would you? It was such a poor, thin creature!"

"Brown does not like poachers whether they are men or dogs, so I do not wonder that he appeared vexed; but I should not like him to shoot the lurcher, for I saw just such an animal as you have described playing with a couple of gipsy children on the common yesterday; it was evidently a great pet. No, I should not like it to be shot, bold poacher though it must be. I will tell Brown so."

"Oh, grandfather, that is kind of you!" Felicia cried, her face brightening; "you have so many rabbits that you can well spare a few, can't you?" she asked ingenuously.

"That is not the point," Mr. Renford replied, with an amused laugh. "Are you going to side with the poachers against me?"

"No, indeed, grandfather."

She had been standing by the side of his chair as they had conversed, and now he put his arm around her and drew her nearer. His manner was so affectionate, and he looked so indulgent and kind that she was on the brink of taking him into her confidence anent her visit to the gipsy encampment, when Mrs. Price came to the door with the intelligence that Mr. Guy felt sufficiently well to speak to Miss Felicia and would like to see her.

The little girl, accordingly, went to her uncle at once, and though she was much shocked at the sight of his countenance, which was drawn and pallid from recent suffering, she hid her dismay, and restrained the exclamation which rose to her lips, and bending over the bed pressed her soft lips to his forehead.

"Well, little ditch flower," he said, with an effort to speak playfully, but his voice sounded weak and exhausted.

"Oh, dear Uncle Guy, I am so glad you are better!" she murmured; "are you really quite out of pain?"

"Yes, really. At this moment I feel as though I haven't a nerve in my body. Sit down, Felicia—yes, on the edge of the bed where I can see you. What book is that in your hand?"

"My Bible. I brought it because I thought you might want me to read to you."

"Well, so I do—presently. Did you go to church this morning?"

"Yes, and sat in the Priory pew by myself. I thought of you all the time, Uncle Guy, and I prayed for you that God would help you bear your pain and, do you know, when Uncle Nathaniel was preaching, I believe he was thinking of you, because his sermon was about the man with the withered hand, whom Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, and—and isn't it nice and comforting to know that people—those who love you—are thinking and praying for you?"

"And do you mean to say there's a corner in your heart for such a cross-grained individual as myself?" he inquired.

"Of course there is, Uncle Guy."

By-and-by he declared himself ready to listen to some reading, and asked for the chapter of the Bible which told of the man with the withered hand. He listened attentively, whilst she read the account of the miracle as told in Saint Matthew's gospel, but he would let her read no further.

"'And a great multitude followed Him, and He healed them all,'" he repeated, quoting her last words. "That will do, thank you. I don't want to hear any more."

She closed the book and waited to see if he intended resuming their previous conversation, but apparently he did not. For a long while there was silence, then the little girl spoke, asking some trifling question, but she received no answer, and saw that he had fallen asleep. She bent nearer to him to make certain such was the case, and he moved uneasily, muttering to himself, but the only words Felicia could make out were, "He healed them all." The tears rose to the little girl's eyes as she listened. Oh, if only a miracle could be performed for Uncle Guy! The cross he had to bear was a very heavy one, and her tender heart reproached her because often she had thought he had borne it less patiently than he might have done. She determined to be more than ever gentle with him in the future; and as she gazed at his pain-worn countenance and saw the ravages which ill-health had made, she realised to the full the deep grief it would be to her now to be parted from Uncle Guy.

"I believe he would miss me, too, if grandfather sent me away," she thought, "for he really seems to like me to be with him, and he never intends to be unkind, I know—he is not like Doris, who says cruel things on purpose to hurt. Oh, I hope nothing will happen to make grandfather send me to boarding-school now!"

When Mrs. Price peeped into the room a short while later, she was gratified to find her young master sleeping peacefully, and Felicia watching him, with an exceedingly thoughtful expression on her face, and a redness about her eyes which told of recent tears. Why should the child have been weeping, she wondered, when her uncle was undoubtedly better? The good woman was perplexed.