Chapter VII: The Family at the Vicarage

"DORIS! Such news! You'll never guess what it is!" And the speaker, Molly Pring, caught her sister by the two shoulders and, in her excitement, treated her to a hearty shake, which caused her to drop the book she was reading and look at the disturber of her peace with reproachful eyes.

"I declare, Molly, you're too bad! What do you want? I'm reading such an exciting story—"

"It can't be half so exciting as the story I have to tell," interrupted Molly, "for mine is true, and quite as interesting as a made-up one."

"Well, let me hear it," said Doris with an air of resignation as she picked up the fallen book and carefully examined it to make certain it was uninjured.

Doris and Molly Pring were the children of the Reverend Nathaniel Pring, the Vicar of N—, and their mother was the only daughter of Mr. Renford, the master of the Priory. Doris, who was nearly fifteen, was a quiet, reserved sort of girl, wrapped up in herself, and not a very congenial companion for her sister, who was two years her junior, and, truth to tell, a great tomboy. They were both nice-looking children, though neither could be termed pretty, and they were endowed with perfect health, a fact to which their clear complexions and rosy cheeks bore witness; but Molly was the more popular of the two, being cheerful and light-hearted, and always ready to do anyone a good turn. It came natural to Molly Pring to speak pleasantly, for she was a kind-hearted little soul, and her words but echoed the sentiments of one of the truest hearts that ever beat. There was not a man, woman, or child in the parish who did not love Miss Molly, and even old Harry Budd, who had been sentenced to several terms of imprisonment for poaching, had his word of praise for the Vicar's younger daughter, and declared she knew nearly as much about the habits of animals and birds as he did himself.

It was nearly nine o'clock, on the evening of the day that Felicia had arrived at N—, and the sisters were together in the schoolroom at the Vicarage. Doris had been reading by the light of the lamp which she had lit and placed on the table which occupied the middle of the room, and Molly had just come upstairs after having been present at an interview between her grandfather and her parents.

"Well, tell me your news," Doris said a trifle impatiently, as her sister, having whetted her curiosity, appeared in no hurry to satisfy it; "I hope something really exciting has happened, for I am sure our lives are dull enough, as a rule. Is it anything to do with Miss Barton?"

Miss Barton was their governess, who had gone to her home in Bristol a fortnight previously, on account of the illness of her mother. The invalid was now reported much better, and the governess was expected to return to her pupils soon.

"No," Molly replied; "nothing whatever. Grandfather has been here—and, oh, Doris, who do you think is at the Priory? You'll never guess if I give you a dozen chances, so I may as well tell you. Our cousin!"

"Our cousin!" echoed Doris wonderingly. "What cousin?"

"Why, we have but one. Have you forgotten? Surely not. Don't you remember mother told us that when her brother John died, he left a wife and a child—a little baby girl? And it's that little girl who's at the Priory. Fancy! she came from Bristol by herself, and she is only twelve years old. Mother would not allow you or I to travel alone, although we are older, but her mother is dead—she only died about a week ago. Oh, isn't that sad? And her name is Felicia. Did you ever know a prettier name? Father says it means 'happiness.'"

"What made her come to the Priory?" asked Doris, now thoroughly interested.

"I suppose there was nowhere else for her to go, her mother being dead. Grandfather said she told him such a miserable tale about herself and her mother, that they had been terribly poor and had been obliged to support themselves by doing needlework; and to-morrow he's going to Bristol to find out if it's true; he thinks it is. Oh, Doris, doesn't it seem dreadful that our own cousin should have been in want when we have always had such a good home and plenty of everything? Grandfather said she has the appearance of having been half-starved, and he looked so red and queer when he said it, and mother cried, and father—oh, there was such a grave, sad expression on his face!"

"I remember mother told me grandfather wanted to have Uncle John's little girl to live at the Priory years ago," Doris remarked reflectively.

"Yes, but her mother wouldn't give her up—of course she wouldn't. Do you think our mother could bear to part with one of us?"

"No. But Uncle John's wife was quite a common person, I've heard, so that's different."

"How?" asked Molly, opening her grey eyes wide with astonishment. "If she wasn't a lady, I expect she loved her little girl quite as much as though she was. Father wouldn't like to hear you speak like that; you know he doesn't like to hear anyone called 'common.' Oh, I'm longing to meet Felicia, to see what she's like. But grandfather said he would rather we did not come to the Priory till he sends for us—not even mother. He wishes to make certain Felicia has told him the exact truth before he introduces her to us."

"Does he mean her to live at the Priory?" Doris inquired.

"I think he does. He did not say so, but he spoke as though she was to remain there. Oh, by the way, Lion found her asleep in the deep ditch at the bottom of Greenside meadow, and he's taken such a fancy to her. Grandfather seemed pleased at that."

"What was she doing in the ditch?"

"Simply resting in the shade under the hazel bushes. She had been to the Priory and had not found grandfather at home and had crept into the ditch, because it was cool and quiet there. Grandfather said she was lying amongst the meadow-sweet and irises; he called her 'a pale, little ditch flower, unaccustomed to sunshine.'"

"Then I don't suppose she's very pretty," observed Doris meditatively. "Well, I don't envy her if she is going to live at the Priory, for I expect grandfather will be very strict with her, and then—there's Uncle Guy! I wonder how he will like having her there?"

"Grandfather said he had not told Uncle Guy about her yet, but he will, to-morrow, before he goes to Bristol. Uncle Guy has been in one of his worst moods to-day, and has not left his own rooms."

At that moment the schoolroom door opened, and the children's mother came in. She was a tall, fair, handsome woman, and the expression of her face was frank and attractive.

"Supper is ready, my dears," she remarked, "and your father is waiting."

"Has grandfather gone?" Molly inquired.

"Yes. I wanted him to stay, but he would not. He said he had just dined but I doubt if he had eaten much. I could see he was very excited."

The little girls followed their mother downstairs into the dining-room, where their father was standing by the open window looking out into the moonlit garden. He immediately joined his wife and children at the supper table; and as soon as the parlour-maid had left the room, the conversation naturally turned to the newcomer at the Priory.

"I thought father was not unfavourably impressed with her," said Mrs. Pring, glancing anxiously at her husband.

"I thought the same," he agreed. "It is a pity he never had an interview with the child's mother," he proceeded, "things might have been so different if they had met face to face. I could never blame her for keeping her baby girl."

"Nor I. In fact, I always had a better opinion of her on that account," admitted Mrs. Pring. "I could not think father right in wanting her to give up the child; but, of course, his idea was that little Felicia would be better away from her mother's influence. I believe he meant to do right though he appeared harsh, he never dreamt the mother would prove so stubborn."

"He had probably formed a totally erroneous estimation of her character," remarked Mr. Pring.

"It was a terrible blow to him when John married her," said his wife, sighing; "indeed, it was a trouble to us all. I hope Felicia will be a nice little girl, but brought up as I fear she must have been—"

"My dear, we don't know how she has been brought up," Mr. Pring broke in, a slight tone of reproof in his tone.

"But, father," said Doris gravely, "she can't have been brought up very well, can she? I heard Uncle Guy say once that Uncle John had picked his wife out of the gutter."

"Your Uncle Guy never saw his brother's wife, Doris," her father reminded her; "and—poor fellow!—he seldom reflects before he speaks, or he would not have uttered such a speech as that."

"Then isn't it true, father?"

"It is true that your Uncle John's wife was a foundling, he told me so himself. She was the adopted daughter of the landlady of the house where he lodged when he was a law student in London."

"And Uncle John's wife was a music teacher, wasn't she?" questioned Molly eagerly.

"She was. Your grandfather was prejudiced against her because nothing was ever known of her parentage, and the person who brought her up was only a lodging-house keeper. You see, my dears, he has lived at N— most of his life; if he had rubbed against people like those I used to meet daily when I was a curate in the East End of London, he would know that there are good, noble women whose self-sacrificing lives shine all the brighter in contrast to their uncongenial surroundings. There are saints of the gutter, Doris, living in slums amidst poverty and sin; I have known many such amongst the women-workers who have crossed my path, many of whom have failed of worldly success but who are certainly not failures in the sight of their Father in Heaven. Remember it is not always the purest atmosphere and the brightest sunshine which rears the fairest flowers. The finest forget-me-nots in N— grow on the bank of that dirty, stagnant pool outside the village, and I noticed as I passed yesterday that the water-lilies there are far more beautiful than those in the lake in the Priory grounds; they have blossomed in mud and slime, and God has made them spotless and perfect. And so it is with some souls, reared in dark surroundings of poverty and maybe sin, they grow in grace and beauty, and we, in our ignorance, wonder how that can be. 'It is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.'"

"Oh, father, I do like your little sermons!" Molly exclaimed with a smile. "I wish grandfather could have heard this one."

"He has heard it before, I expect," Mrs. Pring said sighing. Then her face brightened, and the glance she gave her husband was full of understanding and affection. He was more than ten years her senior, but they were a very united pair. "We are not to go to the Priory to-morrow," she proceeded after a brief pause, "for father does not wish us to make Felicia's acquaintance till he returns from Bristol. He evidently means the child to live with him; I do not know how that will answer, I am sure. As I said before, I hope she is a nice little girl; if so, you two will like her for a friend," and she regarded her daughters with a slightly wistful look.

"Oh, yes!" they both agreed, and Molly added: "We must be as kind to her as ever we can be, because she must be very sad and lonely now her mother is dead."

"That's right, Molly," her father said heartily; "and you must make allowances for her if her ways are not quite your ways. Remember her path in life has not been so smooth as yours. My little girls have been reared in the sunshine, and hitherto this little maiden has walked in the shade."