First Days at the Priory
AT Mrs. Price's suggestion, Felicia spent her first afternoon at the
Priory in going over the house. It was a rambling abode, for it had
been added to on several occasions. The wing in which were Mr. Guy's
rooms was comparatively modern, but much of the house was very old,
notably the big dining and drawing rooms, the windows of which opened
upon a smooth, well-kept lawn. In the flower-garden adjoining the house
were the ruins of a chapel, some of the massive walls of which still
stood firm, overgrown with moss and ivy.
It was Ann White who took Felicia over the house, and afterwards
escorted her for a short walk in the grounds. The latter discovered
that the water she had remarked from her bedroom window was a small,
artificial lake, on which a pair of swans and a lot of ducks were
disporting themselves on this fine, summer afternoon. The little
girl was much interested, but rather over-awed by all she saw, for
the Priory appeared a magnificent home in her eyes, quite a palatial
residence, in fact. It was difficult to realise that her father had
been born and brought up in this stately old house, or that the rooms,
over which a melancholy stillness seemed to hang, had ever resounded
with the echo of children's footsteps and children's laughter. Perhaps
some such thoughts were in Ann's mind, too, for as they crossed the
lawn on their way back to the house, she remarked—
"It will be pleasant to have a child about. I'm glad you've come, miss."
"Are you?" questioned Felicia, her pale face brightening.
"Yes," the girl nodded. "The place is strange to you now, and I daresay
it strikes you as big and lonely, but by-and-by you'll grow to love it.
I'm sure you will."
Felicia sighed, for she had grave doubts if such would be the case.
The house filled her with a sensation of nervousness which she had
never experienced elsewhere; she would rather have had the tiniest room
than the large, handsomely furnished apartment she had occupied on the
previous night.
Late in the evening Mr. Renford returned. He sent for Felicia at once,
and interviewed her in his study. He had spent the day in Bristol, he
explained, and had verified her statements.
"I have seen Mrs. M'Cosh, and have brought back all your possessions,"
he said. "In future, your home will be here, and I hope you will be a
good, obedient girl. I think you are a truthful one. To-morrow I will
introduce you to your aunt and cousins, and to your Uncle Guy—"
"Oh, I have seen him!" Felicia interposed quickly.
"Seen him?" he echoed. "Whom?"
"Uncle Guy. We—we had a long talk together, and I had dinner—lunch,
I mean—with him in his sitting-room. I—I did not know I had an uncle
before to-day."
"No? Then your mother told you nothing about your father's relations?"
She shook her head. "Did Mrs. M'Cosh send me no message?" she asked
wistfully.
"Let me see. Yes. She sent her best respects, and desired me to assure
you she would see your mother's grave was not neglected. By the way, I
settled with her for the expenses of your mother's funeral, so you are
no longer under any obligation to her on that account. She would take
nothing else from me."
Mr. Renford looked a little annoyed as he spoke; he would have liked
to have drawn a cheque for an amount which he would have considered
sufficiently large to pay Mrs. M'Cosh for all the trouble she had been
put to in connection with his grand-daughter, but he had not been
allowed to do that. Felicia was beginning to thank him for what he had
done, when he cut her short, and dismissed her.
Immediately she was out of his sight and the study door closed behind
her, she flew upstairs to her own room, where she spent the next
half-hour in unpacking her box, which she found awaiting her. She put
her clothes away in the wardrobe, wondering what the servants would
think of them, for they were patched and darned, and of the cheapest
quality. Then she shed some tears over her mother's Bible, which she
placed on the table by the bedside, meaning to use it herself for the
future, and sobbed bitterly at the sight of her mother's workbox,
containing the simple tools which had helped to earn their daily bread.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried in an agony of grief, "why did God let
you die? Oh, I never, never can be happy without you!"
She wept until her head ached, feeling utterly friendless and alone in
the world. Life seemed so dark and dreary, and she dreaded the future
with her grandfather and Uncle Guy. Thoroughly exhausted at last, she
flung herself by the side of the bed and prayed, and by-and-by comfort
came to her, as it surely comes to every soul that holds communion with
God.
The next morning she breakfasted with her grandfather. She was far from
being at her ease with him, for she was conscious he was observing
her closely, and that made her unusually shy and awkward. Her hands
trembled so much with nervousness that she spilt some drops of coffee
on the spotless table-cloth, and she was so overcome with confusion at
the sight of the ugly, brown stains, that the tears rose to her eyes,
and she had some difficulty in retaining her composure.
"Never mind, child," Mr. Renford said, noticing and pitying her
embarrassment, "that's nothing. Why, you're actually shaking! What a
nervous little creature you seem to be!"
She was very thankful when the meal was over. Afterwards her
grandfather sent her to fetch her hat, and informed her he was going to
take her for a walk. Accompanied by Lion they went down the carriage
drive, and ten minutes later found them at the front door of the
Vicarage, which was opened by the Vicar himself.
"I saw you coming from my study window," he explained. "Mary and
the children are in the kitchen garden gathering raspberries for
preserving. Come in and I'll send for them. This—" and he bent his gaze
on the little girl as he spoke—"is, I suppose, Felicia?"
"Yes," Mr. Renford answered; "she is very like her father in features,
you will see."
The Vicar took Felicia's hand and pressed it cordially. He had dark,
near-sighted eyes, grave and kindly in expression, and Felicia returned
his smile with one so frank and bright that her grandfather was
surprised at the difference it made to her face—hitherto she had seemed
on the verge of tears.
Mr. Pring led the way into the dining-room, and there they were
presently joined by his wife and little daughters. Felicia decided she
would like her aunt, who greeted her with a warmth and goodwill which
touched her sorrowful heart, and her cousins expressed themselves glad
to see her, too, especially Molly, who sat down by her side and entered
into conversation with her at once.
"Do you think you will like living at the Priory?" was the first
question Molly asked.
"I—I hardly know," was the doubtful response.
"It's a dear old place. I love it, and so does Doris. I expect
you'll be a bit lonely there at first, though, until you get to know
grandfather better. You are fond of animals, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I thought you must be, because grandfather told us how Lion took a
fancy to you at once, and animals never like those who are not fond of
them. I have lots of pets—rabbits, guinea-pigs, and white mice. Doris
doesn't care for pets, but I am sure you do."
Felicia soon grew at her ease with Molly, and forgot that her
grandfather's eyes were upon her. Though she did not talk much herself,
she evinced great interest in her cousin's remarks; and, being a
regular little chatterbox, Molly gave her a great deal of information
concerning herself and her family, so that she was quite sorry when her
grandfather said she must return with him to the Priory, and declined
to allow her to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage.
"You will have plenty of time with your cousins later on," Mr. Renford
said to Felicia as they were going home; "and I promised Guy you
should spend an hour or so with him this afternoon. Your uncle appears
interested in you, and I am sure if your society gives him any pleasure
I shall be very glad. Poor Guy! he misses his mother sadly."
"Oh, I know he must!" she cried earnestly, deepest sympathy in her
tone. "I am so very sorry for him. It must be terrible to be always
ill. Does he never leave the house?"
"Sometimes he may stroll out into the sunshine for a short while, but
he never goes outside our own grounds. He has not been downstairs for
weeks now. I wish I could rouse him. In his mother's lifetime he used
to join us at meals, but now he takes them in his own sitting-room."
There was an expression of sadness and regret on her grandfather's
countenance which appealed to the little girl's heart. She reflected
that he, too, must have been very lonely since her grandmother's death,
and she was sorry for him. Did she not herself know what it meant to
lose one's best-beloved by death? She would have liked to have put her
sympathy into words, but she was far too shy to make the attempt.
During the next few days she saw her uncle every afternoon. Sometimes
he kept her with him for a long while; sometimes he merely had a few
minutes' conversation with her. He appeared capricious, but so far she
had seen no exhibition of the temper which Ann had mentioned.
About a week after her arrival at the Priory, Felicia passed a very
happy day in the society of her relations at the Vicarage; and she
was delighted to hear of an arrangement which her aunt informed her
was likely to be made for her education, which was that she should be
taught with her cousins by their governess.
"In which case you will come here every morning, dine with us, and
return to the Priory at four o'clock," Mrs. Pring explained. "It is not
quite settled, because we have not yet consulted Miss Barton about it,
but I imagine she will raise no objection to our plan. She will be back
next week, for her mother, whom she went home to nurse, is much better
and able to do without her now. I see you like the idea of studying
with your cousins, my dear."
"Oh, yes," Felicia replied earnestly. "I—I went to the Board School in
Bristol before mother grew very ill. Mother said I must be educated and
she had no money to pay school fees for me. It was different before her
bad illness. Oh, if it had not been for that, I believe she would be
living still! Oh, Aunt Mary, you don't know how people suffer when they
are very, very poor!" And the tears fell whilst Mrs. Pring realised
that there were memories from her little niece's past which nothing
would ever blot out.