Felicia Speaks Out
FELICIA had determined it should be a long while before she would visit
her uncle again without he sent for her, in which case she supposed,
on reflection, she would be obliged to do his bidding; but when, on
the evening after he had treated her so unjustly, she had finished
preparing her lessons for the next day, and had gone into the garden,
something prompted her to fix herself on a seat under an arbutus tree,
from which she could, if she liked, view the more modern wing of the
Priory and the windows of her uncle's apartments.
At first she studiously avoided glancing at the upper windows of the
house, and opening the story-book she had brought out-of-doors with
her—one Doris had lent her—she commenced to read; but she failed to
find it interesting. On ordinary occasions the tale would have chained
her attention, but this evening she could not concentrate her thoughts.
Other words than those on the printed page kept recurring to her
mind—words she had read in her Bible that morning: "And be ye kind one
to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for
Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
"Uncle Guy wasn't kind to me last night," she reflected; "of course, if
he sent for me I'd go to see him, I shan't otherwise."
She glanced up hastily, but the lace curtains were drawn before her
uncle's sitting-room window; she saw one move, however, and guessed
she was being watched from inside. If Uncle Guy would pull back the
curtain and beckon to her, or even give her a smile of encouragement,
she would go and talk to him for a little while; but though she stared
at the window for several minutes, there was no further sign that she
was observed.
"And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted—"
Felicia sighed as the words rang in her ears again. She had not had
much time to think of Uncle Guy during the day, for her mind had been
fully occupied with her lessons, and on her return to the Priory at
four o'clock she had sought Mrs. Price and consulted her about the
hamper her grandfather had said was to be sent to Mrs. M'Cosh. Mrs.
Price had promised the hamper should be despatched on the morrow, and
Felicia had accordingly written to her kind friend telling her what she
was to expect and when it would arrive, so that she had really had no
opportunity to dwell on Uncle Guy's harshness to her till now. And he
had been very harsh to her, she reminded herself, as her heart began
to soften towards him. He had spoken roughly, and his temper had been
unjustifiable. Still, he must be very lonely, she thought, and perhaps
unhappy, too. If he would only look out of the window for a moment, she
would be able to judge by the expression of his face if he wanted her
or not; she hesitated to go to him, fearing a repulse.
Once more she tried to read, but it was no good, she could not; so
at last she shut the book with an impatient sigh, and rising, walked
slowly across the lawn towards the house. At the front door Lion joined
her, and followed her upstairs. Her mind was made up now, she was going
to see Uncle Guy, whether he wished it or not.
"You must be on your best behaviour if you come with me," Felicia
informed her companion gravely; "I daresay Uncle Guy won't want either
of us, but we'll certainly find out."
Lion wagged his tail by way of response, and hurrying ahead, preceded
her down the corridor, pausing before the crimson-curtained door.
Felicia's hand trembled as she pulled back the curtain, and gave a
gentle tap.
"Who's there?" demanded her uncle's voice, in a by no means amiable
tone.
"It is I, Uncle Guy—Felicia," she responded timidly, "and Lion is here,
too."
"Well—come in."
The tone of his voice had decidedly changed; it spoke a kind of
pleased eagerness now. The little girl opened the door and stood on
the threshold of the room, her hand on the dog's collar. Her uncle was
seated on a chair by the window; he had evidently been looking out. His
face brightened into a smile as he turned it towards his visitors.
"So it is you, Felicia," he said; "I did not expect you. I thought you
would not come."
"I—I didn't mean to come. I—I thought very likely you might not want
me, and if you do not, I will go away again."
"Nonsense! Come in."
"And Lion, too? Both of us?" she questioned dubiously.
"Yes."
After shutting the door behind her, Felicia crossed to the window, the
dog still at her side.
"I have been watching you under the arbutus tree," observed her uncle,
"but you did not appear much interested in your book. Is it not an
entertaining one?"
"Not very—at least, I did not find it so. Doris lent it to me."
Felicia glanced at the small table, minus now the beautiful Venetian
vase. Her uncle followed the direction of her eyes, and he said
impulsively—
"It was good of you to come and see me to-night, child; I don't think I
could have done it in your place. I should have been more inclined to
stay away and leave my cantankerous uncle to himself."
"That's just what I did feel inclined to do," confessed Felicia
ingenuously.
"Then what made you come?" he asked in astonishment.
"I thought it would be unkind to stay away—if you wanted me."
"You had not forgotten that I had treated you unkindly last night?"
"No; and Lion has not forgotten how you treated him either. Look at
him, Uncle Guy."
He turned his attention to the dog. The sagacious animal was watching
him with a look of mingled doubt and sadness, which seemed to say, "I
am disappointed in you—you have not served me fairly," but he proved
magnanimous, and when Mr. Guy patted his head and spoke to him in a
gentle tone, his reproachful eyes softened, and his whole demeanour
showed that he was willing to overlook past injustice, if he could not
forget it.
"There, Lion, you and I are friends once more," Mr. Guy observed,
"though I fear you hold but a poor opinion of me, old dog. Come,
Felicia, you are not hard-hearted, you will forgive me for my
ill-temper, won't you? Yes, I knew you would; but I suppose you did
bear malice in your heart—eh?"
"I—I—yes," Felicia admitted; "it made me very unhappy, and even when I
was under the arbutus tree I never intended seeing you to-night without
you sent for me—but I couldn't stay away."
"How was that?"
"I kept on thinking of that verse in the Bible about being kind and
tender-hearted, and so—and so I had to come."
"What is the verse? Repeat it to me."
Felicia did so, in a low tone and rather hesitatingly, for she was
always a little shy and fearful that Uncle Guy would misunderstand her.
He made no comment, however, but, by-and-by, he asked her what she had
been talking about to his father on the previous night, he had heard
their voices in the garden; whereupon, her grave countenance broke into
smiles, and she informed him of the present which was to be sent to
Mrs. M'Cosh.
"I have written telling her to expect it," she explained. "Oh, won't
she be pleased? Dear Mrs. M'Cosh! I don't suppose I shall ever see her
again," she added regretfully.
"Why not? My father often goes to Bristol; you must persuade him to
take you with him one day to visit your old friends."
"Oh, do you think he would?" Felicia cried excitedly.
"Well, I hardly know; still, there would be no harm in asking him. I
believe, really, he would like you to forget your old life; but it does
not appear that he was unfavourably impressed by Mrs. M'Cosh. Father is
rather a good judge of character."
"Have you ever been to Bristol, Uncle Guy?" inquired Felicia.
"No, never. I suppose you had no opportunities for seeing the sights of
the place?"
"On Sundays, when mother was pretty well, we used to go to the
Cathedral, or to St. Mary Redcliffe, or to one or another of the city
churches; and one afternoon last summer we went to Clifton and crossed
the Suspension Bridge to the Leigh woods. Oh, that was splendid! We did
have such a good time! We went home by the hot wells—"
Felicia broke off, suddenly remembering that never as long as she lived
would she share a pleasure again with the dear companion of those days.
Her uncle noticed her emotion, but he made no comment upon it; instead,
he turned his attention from her, and rising, moved about the room as
though in search of something. By-and-by Felicia, having furtively
wiped her eyes, glanced towards him and saw he was turning over a heap
of books on a side table at the end of the room.
"What are you looking for, Uncle Guy?" she asked. "Can I help you
search for it?"
"No, thank you. Here it is. It is only an old photograph album
I thought I should like to show you, in which there are several
likenesses of your father taken when he was a boy."
Uncle and niece seated themselves on the sofa side by side whilst they
looked through the pages of the album. Felicia was delighted with the
photographs of her father, and also those of her grandparents; but she
was disappointed that there was not even one of her uncle, and said so.
"Did you never have your likeness taken, Uncle Guy?" she inquired.
"Good gracious, no, child! Who would want the picture of an ugly fellow
like me—a hunchback?"
She caught the ring of mingled pain and bitterness in his tone, and
remained silent for a minute, uncertain what answer to make. That he
was very sensitive on the point of his deformity she was aware, for her
cousins had told her he shrank from meeting strangers on that account,
but he had never mentioned it to her before.
"Why do you speak of yourself like that, Uncle Guy?" she said at length
reproachfully. "Did anyone ever love you the less because—because of
that? Didn't your mother love you? I know she did, for Mrs. Price told
me you were always her favourite child. And grandfather—why, if he
didn't love you, he wouldn't trouble because you keep yourself shut up
here; and he does trouble about it, Uncle Guy, and so does Aunt Mary.
Molly was telling me only this morning that you used to go to the
Vicarage when your mother was alive, and you never go now—and they're
all so fond of you, too! I think it's very unkind of you not to try to
make them all happier. Don't you think grandfather must be dreadfully
lonely, sometimes? I do—and oh, I do feel sorry for him!"
"And aren't you sorry for me?"
"Yes, indeed, I am, when you're ill and suffering."
"You think me selfish, I perceive."
"I—I don't think you're very—kind," she confessed; "perhaps I ought not
to say so, but—"
"Oh, I like to hear the truth, even if it is unflattering. Say on!"
"Now you're angry, I'm afraid," she said deprecatingly.
"No," he answered, and there was a slight smile on his lips, though the
expression of his face was grave; "I will reflect, at leisure, on the
lecture you have seen fit to give me, Felicia; it is a subject which
requires some consideration."