Chapter XVIII: An Unexpected Holiday

WHEN Felicia arrived at the Vicarage on the following morning, her aunt met her in the hall, and inquired for the latest news of the invalid.

"He is much better to-day," Felicia answered, with a ring of gladness in her voice; "I saw him for a few minutes after breakfast, and he said he had passed a most restful night without any pain, and he asked me to tell you that if you can spare the time to sit an hour or so with him, he will be delighted to have a chat with you."

"Oh, then he must be feeling much better!" Mrs. Pring exclaimed joyfully. "What do you say to the prospect of a week's holiday?" she continued, with a smile. "As a rule, Miss Barton goes home during August and the first half of September, but this year, on account of her mother's illness, she had to have her holiday earlier—it could not have been much of a holiday for her, poor girl—so I have suggested that she should take a week now, before the fine weather breaks up, and it has been arranged for her to go home this afternoon. So you children will have no lessons to-day, or for a week to come. Miss Barton is preparing for her journey; but Doris and Molly are, I believe, in the schoolroom. Run upstairs, my dear."

Felicia found her cousins in high spirits. They were engaged in packing their lesson books away in a cupboard, to get them out of sight as well as out of mind, as Molly explained. Both expressed pleasure on hearing their uncle was so much better, and then fell to discussing how the week's holiday was to be spent.

"I consider it is very hard lines we are not going to the sea-side this year," Doris observed with a sigh of regret; "it was most unfortunate that Miss Barton's mother should have been ill in June and upset our plans. It would have been so much nicer to have had our six weeks' holiday later on as usual. Father said something at breakfast about mother taking us to Weston-super-Mare for a week, but she did not like the thought of leaving home now Uncle Guy is ill. The doctor says he has been worse than he has ever been before."

"He looks dreadfully bad," Felicia said, shaking her head sadly.

"Have you seen him?" Molly inquired in surprise.

"Yes, last night, and for a few minutes this morning. Your mother is going to sit awhile with him by-and-by. He is quite out of pain now. Oh, here comes Miss Barton!"

The governess entered the room, looking very bright and happy, and immediately addressed herself to Felicia.

"I was wondering if you would like me to go to see your friend, Mrs. M'Cosh, whilst I am in Bristol, my dear," she said kindly; "don't you think she would like to hear how you are getting on?"

"Oh, I am sure she would!" Felicia cried. "How very good of you to think of it, Miss Barton."

"Not at all. What shall I tell her about you?"

"That I am very happy at the Priory, and that grandfather is very, very kind to me. And please say I shall never forget all she did for mother and me, and that I think of her and dear Mr. M'Cosh every day of my life."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, I should like you to tell her what a beautiful old house the Priory is, and about Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary, and—"

"Really, Felicia, there is no necessity that Mrs. M'Cosh should know all about us," Doris interposed impatiently in a displeased tone.

Felicia looked snubbed, and grew very red, whilst Miss Barton turned a reproachful glance upon her eldest pupil, who pretended not to notice it, and Molly spoke out in her usual impetuous way—

"Tell Mrs. M'Cosh all about me, Miss Barton, do, and be sure you say Felicia and I are the greatest friends."

"I will tell Mrs. M'Cosh everything in connection with Felicia that I think will interest her," Miss Barton said quietly; "and I should not have suggested calling on her, Doris, if I had not already mentioned the matter to your mother and heard that she approved of my doing so."

"I did not know that," Doris murmured in some confusion.

"No, my dear, how should you?" There was a brief pause, after which Miss Barton remarked in a lighter tone: "I hope you will all have a pleasant time in my absence, and make the most of this unexpected holiday, as I intend to do."

"We shall go to the station to see you off," declared Molly.

This the young folks accordingly did, accompanied by the Vicar, and when Miss Barton had gone, they all went for a most enjoyable ramble through the woods, now turning golden, and across stubbly fields from which the corn had lately been carried. Felicia, unaccustomed to walking in the country, was very tired when, at length, she parted from her uncle and her cousins at the entrance to the Priory grounds; but she had spent a most pleasant afternoon, and she hummed a little tune as she passed up the carriage drive.

The first person she encountered in the house was Mrs. Price, who informed her that Mr. Guy was stronger than he had been in the morning, and the doctor was very satisfied with his condition. The little girl had her tea in the housekeeper's room, and was going upstairs afterwards, when the sound of the study door opening caused her to pause. Glancing over the balusters she saw her grandfather crossing the hall with Price, and Brown, the gamekeeper. Price opened the front door, and Mr. Renford and Brown went out together.

"Is anything amiss, Price?" Felicia asked, her curiosity prompting her to put the question.

"Why, yes, miss," was the answer; "the gipsies have been up to mischief, and there's a fine to-do."

"What have they been doing?"

"Setting snares for rabbits, and allowing dogs in the preserves, disturbing the game. Brown's put out because the master won't let him shoot a lurcher he's seen continually; it seems it belongs to a gipsy called Reuben Smallridge, who owns one of the caravans on the common, and to-day it's commenced carrying off the ducks from the lake; one was missing this morning, and Brown says he's certain the lurcher has had it. I declare it's too bad. Mr. Renford's going to see the village policeman, to tell him to keep an eye on the doings of this man, Smallridge—he's a youngish man, with a wife and two children."

Felicia wondered if Reuben Smallridge was the father of the two children she had befriended—it seemed very likely—but she questioned Price no further. A short while later she went to visit her uncle, and found him expecting her.

"So you are to have a week's holiday, Mary has been telling me," he said, as she drew a chair to his bedside and sat down to talk to him. "Where have you been all the afternoon? Out in the sunshine, that I can see by your complexion."

"I have been for a long walk with Uncle Nathaniel, and Doris, and Molly. Have you wanted me, Uncle Guy? I'll stay with you all day to-morrow."

"I shall not permit that, though I have no doubt you would make an excellent nurse, you are so quiet in your movements, and yet I believe you are naturally a merry little soul."

"I believe I am," Felicia admitted with a soft laugh; "mother was, too, when she was well. Oh, you don't know what fun we used to have together sometimes; we were never dull. Mother used to say people ought to try to make the best of things and be happy, because if they did not it was as though they had no faith in God. When she was a girl she used to be very dissatisfied and unhappy, often—"

"Yes? Go on. Tell me some more about your mother. Why was she dissatisfied and unhappy?"

"Well, you see, mother never knew who she really was, and that used to trouble her."

"Did you ever hear the history of your mother's early days, Felicia?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, yes! It is such an interesting story. I never used to tire of listening to it."

"I wish you would tell it to me some day, will you?"

"Yes, indeed I will—to-morrow, if you like, Uncle Guy."

"Thank you; I should much like to hear it. I fear I shall not be strong enough to get up to-morrow. It is wearisome lying here on my back, and I get tired of reading, so if you will spare me an hour of your society during the afternoon, I shall be very glad. Your aunt will be here in the morning, and father's sure to spend awhile with me after breakfast. By the way, what sort of friends are you and Doris now?"

"Uncle Guy, how did you know—who told you—" Felicia stammered, flushing and looking confused. "We are not friends at all," she admitted dejectedly.

"I imagined not."

"I—I believe Doris rather despises me," the little girl said in a faltering voice, "and—and it makes me so angry to know it is because of—of mother. Doris doesn't say so, but I know, and she looks down on me because we lived in an attic—I am not ashamed of that, I hope I never shall be. Mother said I was to remember that if she was a 'nobody,' and not very wise—that is what she said—she tried to teach me to be a good girl and did the best she could. And she said God doesn't ask more than that. Oh, it hurts me to think anyone should—should—"

Felicia's voice faltered, and she could not finish her sentence. Glancing at her uncle's countenance, she saw it bore the traces of strong emotion. She knew she ought not to excite him, and for his sake she strove to restrain her tears.

"I'm very silly," she continued, as soon as she could speak, "and I know I ought not to be so angry with Doris, because she doesn't understand how dearly I loved mother; but you understand, you always have." And the look she gave him was full of confidence and affection.

"Because I loved my own mother dearly," he replied, much touched; "and yet I was often cross and unkind to her, and I can never think of her without a feeling of remorse. I might have let her see how dear she was to me, but I never did; I might have listened to her when she would have talked to me of—of things she loved to speak about but I would not. And now it is too late. Often I used to bring the tears to her eyes; but she was always patient with me, and never reproached me—never! I did not realise all she had been to me till she was gone, and now there is not anything I would not give to be able to look in her face for a moment."

"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, Uncle Guy. It's—it's agony. But you mustn't think of your mother with tears in her eyes, because, you know, God has wiped them away, and she's perfectly happy where she's gone."

"You are a rare little comforter, Felicia," he told her, a tender smile driving the look of sorrow and regret from his face.

"Am I?" she asked earnestly. "You would not like me to be sent away from the Priory, Uncle Guy?"

"No, child, certainly not. But who would think of sending you away? Not my father. We cannot part with our ditch flower now."