Uncle Guy
FELICIA never forgot the first night she spent at the Priory. After
supper, which had been served to her in the housekeeper's room, Mrs.
Price escorted her upstairs to a large bedroom, in the centre of which
stood a big four-post bed with heavy hangings. To the little girl's
excited imagination this bed looked like a hearse, and when she had
undressed and climbed into it—it was very high—and Mrs. Price had taken
her departure, she lay awake for hours, a prey to nervous terrors such
as had never troubled her before, so that it was nearly daybreak and
the birds were beginning to twitter before she, at last, fell into a
deep, dreamless sleep. It was late in the morning when she awoke to
find a bright-faced maid standing by her side, breakfast-tray in hand.
"Oh, have I overslept myself?" asked Felicia, springing up in bed and
gazing round the big, strange room with a startled look.
"It's past eleven o'clock, miss, but Mrs. Price would not have you
disturbed," responded the girl with a smile; "she said you were very
tired last night, and a long sleep would do you a lot of good. See,
here is your breakfast. Do you like coffee? Yes. That's right. And
here's some delicious bacon, and buttered toast. Now, do try to eat all
you can."
Felicia did try, and made an excellent breakfast, whilst the servant
talked to her.
"I'm Ann White," the girl explained, "and I've been under housemaid at
the Priory for more than a year. This is my first place, and I hope to
remain here. Mrs. Price—she's the housekeeper, you know—is my aunt, and
she's mistress here, now Mrs. Renford is gone. Why, she and her husband
have served in the Renford family for more than forty years."
"Is her husband the old man I saw at the door?" Felicia inquired.
"Yes, he's the butler, and it isn't his place to open the door—one of
us maids is supposed to do that—but he often does. He's a very kind old
man."
"I thought he looked kind."
"He looks just what he is. The master thinks very highly of him, and so
does Mr. Guy."
"Who is Mr. Guy?" asked Felicia.
"Dear me," cried Ann, "to think you don't know! Why, he's your uncle,
to be sure."
"I did not know I had an uncle," Felicia confessed with some
embarrassment; "does he live here?"
"Oh, yes! But often he keeps to his own rooms, for he's a great
invalid. Poor Mr. Guy! He's not much over thirty, and I suppose he
never knows what it is to feel really well. He's clever, they say, but
he's very peculiar—very; it's his temper makes him so, I suppose, and
he's terribly afflicted, so there's some excuse for him. I think I'd
better tell you, miss, that he's a hunchback."
"A hunchback!" Felicia echoed in accents of deepest pity. "Oh, how
very, very sad!"
"Isn't it? He was his mother's favourite child, they say; she was
devoted to him, and since her death he has grown more and more morose
and ill-tempered. Your grandmother was a very sweet lady, miss."
"I wish she was living now," sighed Felicia.
"Ah, yes! Everyone misses her, and Mr. Guy most of all, I expect. You
see, Mrs. Pring has her husband and children and all the parish to look
after, so to speak, and master has interests out-of-doors, but it's
different with Mr. Guy."
"Who is Mrs. Pring?" asked Felicia.
"Your aunt who married the Vicar," Ann replied, looking more and more
surprised as she discovered the extent of the little girl's ignorance
about her relations; "she has two daughters not much older than
yourself. Why, you're richer in relations than you thought."
"I am, indeed. Do tell me more about them."
Ann good-naturedly complied, and Felicia listened to all she had to
say, which was in praise of the family at the Vicarage, with great
attention. How she hoped she would be friends with her cousins!
When she had finished her breakfast and Ann had taken away the tray,
she arose and dressed. The housemaid had informed her that the master
of the house had gone to Bristol and would not be at home till the
evening. She wondered how she would be expected to pass the day. After
having said her prayers she sat down and read a chapter from the Bible
which she found on a table by the bedside, and then stood looking
dreamily out of the window, from which, beyond the flower-garden
stretching before the house, she caught the glimmer of water between
a group of trees, and was immediately reminded of that glimpse of
the river from the window of the attic she still thought of as home.
What wonder that the tears overflowed and streamed down her thin,
pale cheeks, and that her breast heaved with sobs. She had only to
shut her eyes and she could picture her mother's dark head bent over
the sewing machine; and in imagination she could still hear the
"whirr-whirr-whirr" which had so terribly tried her mother's nerves.
But a touch on her arm interrupted her reverie, and she looked up with
a start into the face of Mrs. Price.
"How do you feel this morning?" asked Mrs. Price kindly, observing the
little girl's sorrowful countenance with much concern.
"I am very well, thank you," Felicia responded hastily. "I—I have been
thinking of my mother, that is why I have been crying. I—I miss her so."
"Naturally, my dear. But, come, dry your eyes, for your Uncle Guy
wants to see you. He is a sad invalid, and we always try to humour his
wishes. You know he is—deformed."
"Yes; Ann told me."
"His nurse let him fall when he was an infant, and the result is that
he is a hunchback. He is greatly to be pitied. Will you come now?"
Felicia assented, and followed Mrs. Price out of the room and down a
long corridor, at the end of which hung a heavy crimson cloth curtain
before a closed door. As the two approached the door, it opened, and
Price came out, pushing aside the curtain which he held back to allow
Felicia to pass.
"Good morning, miss," said the old man with his kindly smile.
"Good morning," Felicia responded.
"Mr. Guy is ready to see you," he proceeded, and he forthwith ushered
her into the room, announcing, "Miss Felicia, if you please, Mr. Guy."
For a minute Felicia was too nervous and confused to go forward. She
stood just within the threshold of the room, her eyes fixed on the
thick velvet pile carpet beneath her feet; then she glanced up quickly,
and met the intent gaze of her uncle. He lay on a sofa close to the
open window, and the sunshine fell fully upon his face—a very handsome
face it was, with dark grey eyes and regular features, but it wore the
most unhappy and discontented expression possible.
"Come here," he said imperatively.
She obeyed, embarrassed by the keen scrutiny he was subjecting her to.
He took her hand in his, and for a few minutes uncle and niece regarded
each other in dead silence.
"My father gave me a faithful description of you," he remarked at
length; "you are a pale little blossom—an airy, fairy thing. Do you
know that I am your uncle? Yes. You are to call me 'Uncle Guy,' you
understand. I have two other nieces—Doris and Molly Pring—whose
acquaintance you will make by-and-by. But, now, tell me about yourself."
"About myself?" she said questioningly, surprised at this demand.
"Yes. Tell me all you told my father last night. I want to hear the
story from your lips—the story of your life. Sit down."
She took a chair by his side, and complied with his request, whilst
he turned his eyes away from her face and listened. She lingered over
her account of those better days when her mother had earned sufficient
money to supply their wants, and touched as lightly as possible on the
time subsequent to her attack of typhoid fever; and, as she talked,
she observed him closely, and noticed that his face bore traces of
suffering, and that there were dark rims beneath his eyes.
"And your friends—this Mr. and Mrs. M'Cosh—paid for your mother's
funeral," he said when she had concluded her tale, "and those are the
people who would like to adopt you?"
She assented.
He laughed; something in the idea seemed to amuse him. Then he grew
suddenly serious, and looked at her with grave attention as he observed
slowly—
"You have seen a great deal of the seamy side of life, but there are
easier times in store for you, I've little doubt. You'll have to forget
the past now."
"I don't want to forget it, I hope I never shall," Felicia responded
with a touch of indignation in her tone. "I want to remember it
always—always. We were not unhappy, mother and I, we had each other,
and now—and now—" She paused and caught her breath with a sob. "You
don't understand," she added confusedly.
"I think I do. I, too, know what it means to lose a mother. It is just
possible, is it not, that my mother may have been as much to me as
yours was to you?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" she answered, touched by the gentleness of his tone.
"That ought to be a link of sympathy between us, at any rate. Now, I'm
going to give you a word of advice. Don't talk of your mother to your
grandfather; but you may talk of her to me, when we are alone. She was
evidently an unusual woman, and I like people who are not ordinary. It
must have been somewhat of an ordeal for you to come here yesterday
alone?"
"Oh, it was! I longed to go back to Bristol without seeing my
grandfather; but I could not do that because of my promise to mother."
"The Priory ought to be your home. Do you know that though you are only
twelve years old, and I am over thirty, you have seen more of life than
I have or ever shall?" There was a touch of repine in his tone, and
his expression of discontent deepened. "My life has been spent mostly
in this sitting-room and the bedroom beyond, so you will not wonder—"
He broke off, paused a minute, then added: "You have interested me
greatly."
"Have I?" she cried, really surprised, but pleased to hear him say so.
"Yes; and I see so few people who really interest me, except the
Vicar—my brother-in-law. He's a good fellow, and I like him, but we do
not always hit it off together—my fault, no doubt. Who chose your name
for you? My brother?"
"No; I have heard mother say she chose it herself. It means 'happiness'
you know."
He smiled assent, then said with a sigh: "No one is happy in this
world."
"Oh, yes!" Felicia exclaimed quickly. "I am sure some people are, but
some don't know the way—"
"I didn't know happiness could be learnt," he said with a light laugh
as she broke off in the midst of her sentence, abashed by the satirical
expression of his face. She was very sensitive to ridicule and looked
quite confused. "I wish you would teach me the way to be happy, if
you know it," he continued in a bantering way; "it's a lesson I
unfortunately never learnt."
"Mother used to say that to be happy one must be good and unselfish,"
Felicia replied in a grave, low voice. "Oh!" she exclaimed with a
sudden change of tone, her face breaking into a smile, "did you hear
that scrape at the door? It's the dog. May I let him in?"
He assented, and she ran and admitted Lion, who evinced great joy at
the sight of her, and when she resumed her seat, took up his position
by her side, resting his great head upon her knee. By-and-by a servant
entered to lay the table for lunch, which Mr. Guy—he was always called
so in the household—insisted on his niece taking with him. Her heart
filled with pity when he left his sofa and crossed the room to the
table, and she realised for the first time how much he was deformed,
but she had the tact not to show it. On the whole, uncle and niece were
not unfavourably impressed with each other; and the former's mental
comment after the latter had left him was—
"The child has individuality, and there is nothing low or common about
her. I am inclined to like this 'ditch flower' as father so aptly
termed her—poor little thing!"