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."