FELICITY.
The long journey from the south of Ireland to the old-fashioned,
old-world town of Lutterworth, in the midland counties of England,
took some time. Lutterworth is renowned for its memories of the great
Wyclif, where his church, his Bible, and many other relics of his time
are still to be found. The town stands on a slope, but the church, the
rectory, the well-known grammar school stand on a vast plain, where the
freshest of all fresh air blows and where health is the order of the
hour.
But what ailed the Rector of Templemore? It seemed as though a force
was driving him. He had heard of course of the school where he meant to
take his step-daughters. He had heard of its excellent qualities; he
had even more than once met that most splendid woman, Jane Faithful.
The crossing was a rough one and the girls knew at last what
seasickness meant. They were glad, however, to go to school, for they
had enjoyed themselves in their wild fashion in the school on the
outskirts of Dublin which had been selected for them by their mother.
Henrietta and Daisy now supposed that they were going to a like
establishment. They little guessed what lay before them. They were
crossing over to cold England, a country their mother hated, and which
they could not be expected to love. They expected great sympathy when
they were seasick, but they only received the ordinary care of the
much-tried stewardess.
At last they arrived at Fishguard, and the Rector took them at once
third-class to London. They would have given the world to stay in
London for even one night, but when they suggested this to the Rector,
he said in his quiet voice: "We continue our journey to Lutterworth."
It was late in the evening when they reached Lutterworth. A cab had
been ordered and was waiting for them, and they drove straight to Mrs.
Faithful's house.
They passed the noble old church and the beautiful grammar school, but
still they drove on and on, until finally they turned into a country
lane and stopped before a neatly kept wooden gate. Here the driver got
down, opened the gate, and fastened it back carefully; then the Rector
and the two girls found themselves driving up the long and winding
avenue.
Although it was now the middle of summer, neither Henrietta nor Daisy
could see much of where they were coming to. The house, the Rector told
them, was called Felicity. It was decidedly old-fashioned, and was
built of stone. It had many little windows with small panes of glass.
There was a great bell at the front door. The Rector pulled the bell.
"This is my friend's house, and your future home," he said, turning
gravely to his step-daughters. "Mrs. Faithful is not only my friend but
my cousin. Ah, Jane, you have opened the door for me yourself! I have
brought the girls. Have you any one who can look after them and give
them supper. I have a great deal to talk over with you, my dear Jane."
"What a horrid old maid of a creature!" muttered Daisy.
Mrs. Faithful pursed up her mouth, but did not utter a syllable.
She fixed her large and really kind eyes, however, in a decidedly
uncomfortable manner on the young people.
"I will ring for Dawson," she said. "She will attend to the girls and
give them what is necessary. I have had a cosy supper prepared for you,
Patrick. You don't look too strong, dear kinsman. Come this way, pray,
to the Hall of Refreshment. Ah, here is Dawson! Dawson, give the young
ladies their supper, and then take them to the Chamber of Penitence and
see them into bed. I observe they have brought their luggage. Dawson,
Smith will help you to take the trunks up to the Chamber of Penitence.
Good-night, girls, I will see you to-morrow. Now, Patrick, my man, what
is the matter with you?"
It was with a sinking heart that Patrick O'Brien followed his
kinswoman into the Hall of Refreshment. He had too terrible a story to
tell. He was also wildly anxious to get back to Maureen. The symptoms
of ill-health which had so troubled him were beginning to return under
this new strain. Jane Faithful, however, was a woman of few words and
mighty deeds. She had not started Felicity for nothing. She had not
saved many a rebellious girl for nothing; but her present concern was
not for the Misses Mostyn, but for the Rector's sad and sorely troubled
face.
She put out a strong, sympathetic hand and touched his.
"Now, kinsman," she said, "you do not utter a word until you are
properly refreshed. Here is soup of the very best. Here is a mutton
chop which I have specially ordered for you. Here is the last asparagus
in my garden, and here is what will do you more good than anything
else--a bottle of very old port left to me by my father. Now, eat, man,
eat and drink. Afterwards we will go into Confidence next door and you
shall tell me your story."
"You always were a strong-minded woman, Jane," said the Rector.
"Yes," replied Jane Faithful. "Now, take your soup."
So the Rector found a sudden sense of support, of support both mental
and physical, first in the presence of this brave, good, strong-minded
woman, and, second, in the excellent food she provided.
He ate his chop and his asparagus and drank a glass of the excellent
port wine.
"Upon my word, Jane," he said, when he had finished, "you do know how
to treat a tired man."
"Yes, you are better now. You are staying at Felicity for the night."
"I wish I could; but I must get back to London." "You can't do it,
kinsman; there is no train."
"Oh," said the Rector, with a heavy sigh. Suddenly he turned and faced
Mrs. Faithful.
"How, may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly. Twenty, if you like."
"Why do you call your rooms by these strange and peculiar names?"
"It is a fashion of my own," was the quiet reply. "I find by long
experience that it works well. The idea was first presented to me by
one of my dearest friends who keeps a similar school near London; but
I assure you, kinsman, we are not unhappy at Felicity. Far, far from
that. When once we submit to the rules, which cannot be broken, we
feel--both teachers and pupils--a wonderful sense of pleasure, the
sort of pleasure, my dear Patrick, which does not belong to this cold
earth. Now for you, I have prepared the best bedroom in the house. I
call it the Chamber of Peace. The idea was given to me by that noble
man, George Macdonald, who kept such a chamber in his lovely Palace at
Bordighera. He kept it for the sick and suffering of body, but I keep
it for the few I think worthy. Now, come, kinsman, into Confidence.
There we can have our talk out."
Mrs. Faithful was dressed in dark grey, very soft in texture. She wore
over her head of snow-white hair a little mobcap of finest muslin.
She had a bow at her breast of pale, lilac ribbon, while a similar
bow reposed on her white cap. The whole effect was most graceful and
pretty. The woman herself was not handsome, but there was something
marvellously reposeful about her. Her eyes seemed to look through you.
Anything approaching to falsehood could not live in the room with Jane
Faithful. In short, she was one of the most highly-esteemed characters
in the whole of Lutterworth.
She took her kinsman now into the room she called Confidence. She
herself took a hard chair, but placed the Rector in an easy one.
"Now, Patrick, begin at once," she said. "Tell your story and get it
off your mind, but I had better say frankly and at once that I am not
particularly pleased with the appearance of the young people you have
just brought here. I presume you hope to place them under my roof?"
"I indeed trust you will take them, Jane," and then the poor Rector
began his sorry tale. He left out nothing, he abbreviated nothing, he
told the simple truth from beginning to end. Mrs. Faithful was not one
to interrupt.
When the Rector had ceased speaking she said, "This is awful, truly
awful. What a girl! _What_ a girl!"
"Yes, Jane, you are right. What a girl! But it is my little Maureen
whom I am thinking of."
"Ah," she returned quickly, "I could do with one like Maureen."
The Rector went on to describe Maureen's present state of mind. In
doing so, he broke down completely.
"She says, that dear and faithful, loving heart, that the Spirit of God
has forsaken her and that something evil and awful has entered into
her."
"Send her to me for three months and I will cure her," said Jane
Faithful; "poor lamb, poor pretty dear. Why, she woke up to find
herself that time."
"But I cannot do without her," said Patrick O'Brien. "She is the light
and life of my existence, and Colonel Herbert, a near neighbour, is
equally devoted to her, and Denis and Dominic and little Kitty all
worship her. I cannot give my darling up."
"Well, I intend to make a bargain with you," said Mrs. Faithful. "I
don't want those girls at my school. It will be necessary for me to
devote a special governess to them, and even she will not be able to
prevent them from contaminating the others. I have forty girls at
Felicity at the present moment. The two you have brought make two and
forty, and are forty to be injured for the sake of two? It isn't to
be done. There is only one person who can really save those miserable
girls, and that person is Maureen O'Brien. Send her to me. She has her
work cut out for her here. It is with me she ought to be at present,
helping me with those two. I'll look after her and see that she is
not tormented in any way. She shall sleep in the Chamber of Peace and
that Chamber ensures good dreams and sweet slumber. I have a special
governess, who comes to me occasionally but not always, for luckily
I do not require her always. I shall put that choice pair under her
jurisdiction. Luckily she happens to be in the house at the present
moment. Her name is Joan Pinchin. She is rather old-fashioned and firm
as a rock. She is well educated, and will put the Mostyns through their
p's and q's. The girls will sleep in Penitence and do their lessons
with her in Correction until Maureen arrives. Joan Pinchin will take
them out for necessary exercise. She will be by no means cruel to them,
but she will be firm, firm as a rock. Now, is it yes or no? If it is
no, you'd best take them back with you to-morrow morning, for I can
have nothing more to say to them. There, Patrick, take a night to think
over it. Your child shall return to you when her work is done. Now for
Peace and the Chamber of Dreams, poor, tired, distracted kinsman. The
best train in the day leaves Lutterworth at eight in the morning, and
I'll have a cab for one or three of you according to what you decide in
order to catch that train. The Angel of Peace be with you and give you
rest, Patrick O'Brien."
The distracted Rector found himself in one of the sweetest, purest
rooms he had ever seen. It was all white; white paper on the walls, a
little snow-white bed, a white wardrobe with a long glass, a white
chest of drawers, a white dressing-table, everything white, white
as snow. The windows had white blinds to them and were draped with
white muslin curtains frilled all round. There was a curious feeling
about the room. Try as you would you could not be fretful here. Like
Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress, you had to cast your burden
outside that door, for you could not take it in. It seemed as though
good angels loved to make this white room their home. There were one or
two engravings, different pictures of childhood, Reynolds's immortal
angels, and a few more, not many, done in pen and ink by well known
painters, who had come to celebrity long ago and had given some of the
early fruits of their toil to Jane Faithful. All the pictures were
either of children or of angels, children in prayer, Fra Angelico's
Angels, but there were not many--the walls were mostly bare. On a
little table near the bed lay a large Bible, on the dressing-table
stood a bowl of white roses, on the dressing-table also was a small
exquisitely clean paraffin lamp.
The whiteness and the purity of the room seemed to get into the
innermost heart of the Rector. He fell on his knees by the little bed
and tears came to his eyes. After a short time, although he had not
uttered a word of prayer, he felt strangely, marvellously peaceful,
also very sleepy. He undressed and laid his head on the snowy pillow.
Immediately he fell asleep.
In the morning Jane Faithful brought him delicious coffee and home-made
rolls to his room.
"I know you have slept well," she said. "I see it in your face. It is a
glorious day. See how blue the sky is."
The Rector looked out of one of the windows. Yes, that blue, blue sky
was the last perfection to add to the Chamber of Peace.
"Are they to pack their things and go back with you?" asked Jane
Faithful.
"No," said the Rector; "but the matter rests with Maureen herself. If
you will keep them until you get her decision I will send for them
should it be adverse, or send her to you for three months should it be
favourable. Don't question me, dear Jane. I am out of the world in this
room."
"I never question," replied Jane Faithful. "I knew well the room would
do it. Well, be as quick as you can. Let me have the child as soon as
possible. It is, believe me, for the saving of souls alive."
The Rector bowed his head and made no further response.
Soon afterwards he was driving away from Felicity and two ugly, raging
faces were looking at him out of the small window of Penitence. How
they ground their teeth, how they clenched their hands!
"We'll run away, Henny. We can't quite stand this," said Daisy.
"Of course," replied her sister; "but I tell you what it is, old Di,
I'm downright afraid of the woman."
"You mean old Faithful," said Daisy.
"Yes, but not only Faithful. The person who brought us in here last
night. And what an appalling room this is! All over texts of Scripture.
If the room was not so high up, I'd leap from the window, that I would;
but if I did, I'd break my neck, like poor mumsie."
"I'm thinking all the time of Maureen," said Daisy. "Her look, her
words. Oh, Henny, Henny, when Maureen looked at us and said so
solemnly, '_I--hate--you!_' well, I turned _sick_. I thought the world
had come to an end."
"I tell you what it is," said Henrietta. "I'm sick of that most
unremarkable little speech; and now, do be quick; let's put on our
clothes and go down to breakfast. We'll have a frolic here or my name
is not Henny. Hurrah, here comes Dawson.
"'Dawson, me honey,
Take care of your money,
It's all botheration from bottom to top!'"
Dawson entered the room very slowly. She did not smile at Henny's
words. She was carrying a bundle of clothes and a great jug of hot
water. She laid the water on the wash-hand stand and then collected
all the two girls' dirty travelling clothes.
"Ye'll have the goodness to put _these_ on," she said, "for this is the
uniform of the upper floor of the school. I'll be back in one quarter
of an hour to take you both to Discipline, where Miss Joan Pinchin is
waiting to start your education. Your breakfast will also be waiting
for you there, coffee and bread and butter. Now, not a word, young
misses, there's no good whatsoever in complaining at Felicity. What is
ordered _has_ to be."
She left the room. The girls stared at each other.
"We'd best be quick," said Daisy at last in a breathless sort of voice.
"I must say I am in a fright; aren't you?"
"Not quite yet," replied Henny, "but it is coming on. I never could
have dreamed of a place like this."
"If only we had left the horse alone," sobbed Daisy.
"It was your thought, remember that," said Henrietta. "Such awful
wickedness never occurred to me. Now, stop crying and dress. You will
have no eyes left."