An Unexpected Holiday
WHEN Felicia arrived at the Vicarage on the following morning, her aunt
met her in the hall, and inquired for the latest news of the invalid.
"He is much better to-day," Felicia answered, with a ring of gladness
in her voice; "I saw him for a few minutes after breakfast, and he said
he had passed a most restful night without any pain, and he asked me to
tell you that if you can spare the time to sit an hour or so with him,
he will be delighted to have a chat with you."
"Oh, then he must be feeling much better!" Mrs. Pring exclaimed
joyfully. "What do you say to the prospect of a week's holiday?" she
continued, with a smile. "As a rule, Miss Barton goes home during
August and the first half of September, but this year, on account of
her mother's illness, she had to have her holiday earlier—it could not
have been much of a holiday for her, poor girl—so I have suggested that
she should take a week now, before the fine weather breaks up, and it
has been arranged for her to go home this afternoon. So you children
will have no lessons to-day, or for a week to come. Miss Barton is
preparing for her journey; but Doris and Molly are, I believe, in the
schoolroom. Run upstairs, my dear."
Felicia found her cousins in high spirits. They were engaged in packing
their lesson books away in a cupboard, to get them out of sight as well
as out of mind, as Molly explained. Both expressed pleasure on hearing
their uncle was so much better, and then fell to discussing how the
week's holiday was to be spent.
"I consider it is very hard lines we are not going to the sea-side this
year," Doris observed with a sigh of regret; "it was most unfortunate
that Miss Barton's mother should have been ill in June and upset our
plans. It would have been so much nicer to have had our six weeks'
holiday later on as usual. Father said something at breakfast about
mother taking us to Weston-super-Mare for a week, but she did not like
the thought of leaving home now Uncle Guy is ill. The doctor says he
has been worse than he has ever been before."
"He looks dreadfully bad," Felicia said, shaking her head sadly.
"Have you seen him?" Molly inquired in surprise.
"Yes, last night, and for a few minutes this morning. Your mother is
going to sit awhile with him by-and-by. He is quite out of pain now.
Oh, here comes Miss Barton!"
The governess entered the room, looking very bright and happy, and
immediately addressed herself to Felicia.
"I was wondering if you would like me to go to see your friend, Mrs.
M'Cosh, whilst I am in Bristol, my dear," she said kindly; "don't you
think she would like to hear how you are getting on?"
"Oh, I am sure she would!" Felicia cried. "How very good of you to
think of it, Miss Barton."
"Not at all. What shall I tell her about you?"
"That I am very happy at the Priory, and that grandfather is very, very
kind to me. And please say I shall never forget all she did for mother
and me, and that I think of her and dear Mr. M'Cosh every day of my
life."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, I should like you to tell her what a beautiful old house the
Priory is, and about Uncle Guy, and Uncle Nathaniel, and Aunt Mary,
and—"
"Really, Felicia, there is no necessity that Mrs. M'Cosh should know
all about us," Doris interposed impatiently in a displeased tone.
Felicia looked snubbed, and grew very red, whilst Miss Barton turned a
reproachful glance upon her eldest pupil, who pretended not to notice
it, and Molly spoke out in her usual impetuous way—
"Tell Mrs. M'Cosh all about me, Miss Barton, do, and be sure you say
Felicia and I are the greatest friends."
"I will tell Mrs. M'Cosh everything in connection with Felicia that I
think will interest her," Miss Barton said quietly; "and I should not
have suggested calling on her, Doris, if I had not already mentioned
the matter to your mother and heard that she approved of my doing so."
"I did not know that," Doris murmured in some confusion.
"No, my dear, how should you?" There was a brief pause, after which
Miss Barton remarked in a lighter tone: "I hope you will all have a
pleasant time in my absence, and make the most of this unexpected
holiday, as I intend to do."
"We shall go to the station to see you off," declared Molly.
This the young folks accordingly did, accompanied by the Vicar, and
when Miss Barton had gone, they all went for a most enjoyable ramble
through the woods, now turning golden, and across stubbly fields from
which the corn had lately been carried. Felicia, unaccustomed to
walking in the country, was very tired when, at length, she parted from
her uncle and her cousins at the entrance to the Priory grounds; but
she had spent a most pleasant afternoon, and she hummed a little tune
as she passed up the carriage drive.
The first person she encountered in the house was Mrs. Price, who
informed her that Mr. Guy was stronger than he had been in the morning,
and the doctor was very satisfied with his condition. The little
girl had her tea in the housekeeper's room, and was going upstairs
afterwards, when the sound of the study door opening caused her to
pause. Glancing over the balusters she saw her grandfather crossing
the hall with Price, and Brown, the gamekeeper. Price opened the front
door, and Mr. Renford and Brown went out together.
"Is anything amiss, Price?" Felicia asked, her curiosity prompting her
to put the question.
"Why, yes, miss," was the answer; "the gipsies have been up to
mischief, and there's a fine to-do."
"What have they been doing?"
"Setting snares for rabbits, and allowing dogs in the preserves,
disturbing the game. Brown's put out because the master won't let him
shoot a lurcher he's seen continually; it seems it belongs to a gipsy
called Reuben Smallridge, who owns one of the caravans on the common,
and to-day it's commenced carrying off the ducks from the lake; one
was missing this morning, and Brown says he's certain the lurcher has
had it. I declare it's too bad. Mr. Renford's going to see the village
policeman, to tell him to keep an eye on the doings of this man,
Smallridge—he's a youngish man, with a wife and two children."
Felicia wondered if Reuben Smallridge was the father of the two
children she had befriended—it seemed very likely—but she questioned
Price no further. A short while later she went to visit her uncle, and
found him expecting her.
"So you are to have a week's holiday, Mary has been telling me," he
said, as she drew a chair to his bedside and sat down to talk to him.
"Where have you been all the afternoon? Out in the sunshine, that I can
see by your complexion."
"I have been for a long walk with Uncle Nathaniel, and Doris, and
Molly. Have you wanted me, Uncle Guy? I'll stay with you all day
to-morrow."
"I shall not permit that, though I have no doubt you would make an
excellent nurse, you are so quiet in your movements, and yet I believe
you are naturally a merry little soul."
"I believe I am," Felicia admitted with a soft laugh; "mother was, too,
when she was well. Oh, you don't know what fun we used to have together
sometimes; we were never dull. Mother used to say people ought to try
to make the best of things and be happy, because if they did not it was
as though they had no faith in God. When she was a girl she used to be
very dissatisfied and unhappy, often—"
"Yes? Go on. Tell me some more about your mother. Why was she
dissatisfied and unhappy?"
"Well, you see, mother never knew who she really was, and that used to
trouble her."
"Did you ever hear the history of your mother's early days, Felicia?"
he asked curiously.
"Oh, yes! It is such an interesting story. I never used to tire of
listening to it."
"I wish you would tell it to me some day, will you?"
"Yes, indeed I will—to-morrow, if you like, Uncle Guy."
"Thank you; I should much like to hear it. I fear I shall not be strong
enough to get up to-morrow. It is wearisome lying here on my back, and
I get tired of reading, so if you will spare me an hour of your society
during the afternoon, I shall be very glad. Your aunt will be here in
the morning, and father's sure to spend awhile with me after breakfast.
By the way, what sort of friends are you and Doris now?"
"Uncle Guy, how did you know—who told you—" Felicia stammered, flushing
and looking confused. "We are not friends at all," she admitted
dejectedly.
"I imagined not."
"I—I believe Doris rather despises me," the little girl said in a
faltering voice, "and—and it makes me so angry to know it is because
of—of mother. Doris doesn't say so, but I know, and she looks down
on me because we lived in an attic—I am not ashamed of that, I hope
I never shall be. Mother said I was to remember that if she was a
'nobody,' and not very wise—that is what she said—she tried to teach me
to be a good girl and did the best she could. And she said God doesn't
ask more than that. Oh, it hurts me to think anyone should—should—"
Felicia's voice faltered, and she could not finish her sentence.
Glancing at her uncle's countenance, she saw it bore the traces of
strong emotion. She knew she ought not to excite him, and for his sake
she strove to restrain her tears.
"I'm very silly," she continued, as soon as she could speak, "and
I know I ought not to be so angry with Doris, because she doesn't
understand how dearly I loved mother; but you understand, you always
have." And the look she gave him was full of confidence and affection.
"Because I loved my own mother dearly," he replied, much touched; "and
yet I was often cross and unkind to her, and I can never think of her
without a feeling of remorse. I might have let her see how dear she
was to me, but I never did; I might have listened to her when she
would have talked to me of—of things she loved to speak about but I
would not. And now it is too late. Often I used to bring the tears to
her eyes; but she was always patient with me, and never reproached
me—never! I did not realise all she had been to me till she was gone,
and now there is not anything I would not give to be able to look in
her face for a moment."
"Oh, I know exactly how you feel, Uncle Guy. It's—it's agony. But you
mustn't think of your mother with tears in her eyes, because, you know,
God has wiped them away, and she's perfectly happy where she's gone."
"You are a rare little comforter, Felicia," he told her, a tender smile
driving the look of sorrow and regret from his face.
"Am I?" she asked earnestly. "You would not like me to be sent away
from the Priory, Uncle Guy?"
"No, child, certainly not. But who would think of sending you away? Not
my father. We cannot part with our ditch flower now."