Chapter XXII: Conclusion

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 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.