One Saturday
EVERY Saturday was a holiday for Felicia and her cousins, and the
former was not expected at the Vicarage, but nevertheless she generally
found her way there, if Molly did not call for her at the Priory;
and Mrs. Pring was satisfied that the plan, which she herself had
originated, of educating her niece with her daughters was answering
well. Sometimes Doris and Molly took tea with Felicia at the Priory,
and then the latter could not help remarking that her cousins were
rather in awe of Uncle Guy, and seemed happier when they were out
of his presence; they were never at their best before him, Doris in
particular always showing to a disadvantage by being quieter and more
reserved than usual.
The day following the one on which Felicia had spoken her mind to
her uncle was a Saturday, and at the breakfast-table her grandfather
asked her if she would care to drive with him that afternoon to T—,
the nearest market down. Felicia assented delightedly, and long before
the appointed hour she was ready, so as not to keep Mr. Renford
waiting. Seated by her grandfather's side on the front seat of the
high dog-cart, drawn by Sultan, a big brown horse, she was whirled
along through narrow lanes, across which the hazel bushes, laden with
ripening nuts, nearly met overhead, up hills and down dales, until,
after a long spin on the high road, the town was reached. They stopped
at several shops, out of which the shopkeepers hurried to take Mr.
Renford's orders, and by-and-by drew up before a confectioner's, where
they alighted, and went inside to have tea in a large room upstairs,
whilst Sultan was left in charge of the groom, who walked him up and
down the street.
Felicia was very quiet as she sipped her tea and ate her thin bread
and butter and cake, for she was recalling some afternoons in London
when her mother had taken her to a restaurant to tea, and how greatly
she had enjoyed those occasions. And now, instead of her mother's
pretty face, with its loving smile, on the other side of the little,
marble-topped table, was the sunburnt countenance of her grandfather,
with its firm though not unkindly features, and clear, blue eyes.
"Make a good tea, Felicia," he said; "the drive ought to have made you
hungry. Did you ever have a meal in a place like this before?"
"Oh, yes, grandfather, when I was at school, but not lately—never in
Bristol."
"Ah! I thought it was no novel experience to you. I remember the
first time I brought Doris and Molly here, they were so taken up
with watching the people at the other tables that they scarcely ate
anything. One could tell at a glance that they were country-bred; but
you keep your eyes from wandering."
Mr. Renford looked pleased. It astonished him often that this
grandchild of his, whose mother had been a "nobody," as he had always
considered her, should have such good manners; never once had he had
occasion to complain of word or action of hers during the six weeks she
had lived beneath his roof, and she had long since ceased to be shy or
awkward in his presence.
"Your aunt and uncle are going to dine with me to-night," he proceeded,
"so we must reach home fairly early. I wanted Guy to join us, but—" He
paused and shrugged his shoulders.
"I wish he would," Felicia said earnestly, a faint colour rising to her
cheeks as she recalled the words she had spoken to her uncle on the
preceding night; "Aunt Mary says he spends a great deal too much time
alone."
"Yes, brooding over his affliction, poor fellow. Still, I do think
he has been brighter since your arrival, child; he likes you to be
with him. I often wonder what you find to talk to him about. Have you
finished your tea? Yes. Then we will go."
The drive back to the Priory was even pleasanter than the one to T—
had been, for it was much cooler now. They reached home in good time,
and, having thanked her grandfather for the pleasure he had given
her, Felicia ran upstairs, and sought her uncle to tell him what an
enjoyable afternoon she had spent. But he was not to be found in his
sitting-room, and Ann White, whom Felicia met in the corridor, informed
her that Mr. Guy had gone downstairs.
"Gone downstairs!" echoed Felicia. "Oh, I am glad! Then he means to
dine with grandfather to-night?"
"I believe so, miss."
The little girl went to her own room to change her dusty frock for
another. Her scanty wardrobe had been replenished by Mrs. Price,
according to her grandfather's orders, and she had no lack of clothes
now. A feeling of bewilderment crept over her sometimes when she
compared her present life to that she had lived with her mother in
their attic home. Oh, if only she had her dear mother with her to share
the comforts of the Priory, how contented she would be! The one drop of
bitterness which spoilt her cup of happiness was the remembrance that
her mother had suffered privations, and had died in poverty.
By-and-by Mrs. Price knocked at the door, and on being told to come in,
entered, with a beaming countenance.
"Your grandfather desires you to dine with him to-night, miss," she
said; "he sent me to tell you so. Your aunt and the Vicar are coming,
you know."
"Oh!" cried Felicia nervously, "I have never dined of an evening
before; I do hope I shall do nothing out of the way. I suppose Uncle
Guy will be there?"
"Yes. The master was so pleased to find him downstairs. Come, miss,
you mustn't dawdle, or you'll be late, for it's nearly seven o'clock,
and—there, I hear your aunt's voice in the hall. Let me help you. I'll
do your hair, shall I?"
Ten minutes later Felicia walked slowly downstairs and entered the
drawing-room. It was a large room, facing the west, and was flooded
with sunshine on this August evening, for the master of the house loved
light and air, and kept the blinds pulled up. He stood by one of the
open windows in conversation with his daughter, and he glanced towards
Felicia with a smile as she came into the room.
"I thought you might as well dine with us to-night, child, as take your
supper alone," he remarked kindly. "The drive has given her quite a
colour, hasn't it, Mary?" he questioned, turning to his daughter.
"It has, indeed," Mrs. Pring replied, smiling at the little girl.
"She is looking very well," observed the Vicar, who stood side by side
with his brother-in-law on the hearth-rug. He peered at Felicia in his
near-sighted way as he spoke.
And then Uncle Guy added his comment—
"Our ditch flower is beginning to bloom," he said.
After all, Felicia did not find dining with her relations such a trying
experience as she had anticipated; nevertheless, she was relieved
when the meal was over. Mrs. Pring gave most of her attention to her
brother, being genuinely delighted at his presence. He was in the best
of humours, and it astonished Felicia to see how amusing he could be
when he chose.
"If only Guy would think less of his affliction and take more interest
in the world at large he would be so much better and happier," she
overheard the Vicar whisper to her grandfather after dinner, when the
brother and sister were carrying on a lively conversation. "I wish we
could get him to the Vicarage sometimes."
Once during the evening Felicia had a conversation alone with Uncle
Nathaniel, as she had learnt to call the Vicar. She had stepped out of
the drawing-room window into the garden when he joined her.
"A beautiful night," he said, drawing a long breath to drink in the
fragrance of the flowers. "Do you see that glow in the east? The moon
is about to rise."
"Uncle Guy says it makes him melancholy to watch the sky," remarked
Felicia; "I wonder why it should. I love to see the moon rise, and the
stars come peeping out like eyes. On fine nights at home—I mean where
we lived in Bristol—we used to watch for the moon to rise from behind
the chimneys, and I used to say, 'Let us guess which chimney-pot the
moon will come out of to-night,' for it really looked as though the
moon did come out of the chimney." She laughed, then grew suddenly
grave. "When mother died I thought I should never laugh again," she
went on in a troubled tone, "but somehow, lately, I've found myself
smiling over the little jokes she and I used to have together—it's not
that I forget she's gone—oh, it's not that!"
"Why should you not smile, my dear child? Your mother is not lost to
you altogether; you are only separated from her for the time. Be happy
if you can, enjoy the good things God sends you, and accept them as
blessings with a thankful heart."
"It is a comely fashion to be glad, Joy is the grace we say to God."
"I consider those lines are worth bearing in mind. Never think you
ought not to be glad."
"But—but it seems as though it must be wrong to be happy when—when
mother was so poor, and—"
"My dear little girl," the Vicar interposed, "do not be always thinking
of what is past; think instead of your mother in the presence of her
Saviour as one of those who have come out of great tribulation and have
washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. 'They
shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more,' and trouble shall no
more have power to touch them, for 'God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes.'"
"Oh, you believe that, don't you?" said Felicia earnestly.
"Most certainly I do. It is the Christian's sure hope—"
"Because, do you know, I don't think Uncle Guy does believe it!" she
broke in.
The Vicar started, and across his kind face there flitted an expression
of anxiety and pain.
"What makes you think he does not?" he asked. "Has he been discussing
the subject with you?"
"Oh, no. But he doesn't seem to believe that God cares anything about
him, and when he speaks of his mother he never does so as though he
hopes to see her again, and yet I know he loves her. Oh, no wonder
he is so wretched, sometimes, poor Uncle Guy! What should I feel if
I thought I should never meet my mother more? Oh, I believe my heart
would break!"
"Felicia, listen to me," the Vicar said earnestly; "I see you have
discovered your uncle has not that faith in His Father in Heaven which
is the guiding light of every true Christian. Pray for him that what
is dark to him now may be made plain to him. His lack of faith was a
terrible grief to his poor mother; and it was her constant prayer that
he might be brought into Christ's fold. As she lay dying she told me
that she believed one day her prayers would be answered, and that your
uncle's heart would find rest and happiness. Does he ever speak to you
about religion?"
"Not often; but sometimes of an evening I have read the Bible to him."
And she explained how that had come to pass.
The Vicar was evidently much surprised, and he heard all she told him
with great interest.
"He says he likes listening to my voice, and he always lets me choose
the parts I like best, so I read to him from the New Testament
generally. He's rather interested in Saint Paul—he says he had a fine
intellect, and he liked hearing how he talked to Agrippa," Felicia
concluded thoughtfully.
The Vicar smiled but rather sadly.
"Weren't you surprised to find Uncle Guy downstairs to-night?" the
little girl asked after a brief silence.
"Most agreeably surprised. What are you looking so mysterious about?"
But Felicia shook her head smilingly, and declined to say. She had no
intention of telling her companion of the conversation she had had
with her uncle on the previous evening, though she had little doubt
her impulsively spoken words had had something to do with causing
him to throw off his inertness and bestir himself to-night; and she
was certain of it when her bedtime came, for on saying "Good-night"
to Uncle Guy, he detained her to whisper in a low tone so that only
herself should hear—
"By the way, Felicia, I considered your lecture, and—you see the
result."