Felicia in Trouble
"CHILDREN, here comes your grandfather," said Mrs. Pring, a welcoming
smile lighting up her pleasant face, as, from her seat under a big
apple tree in the kitchen garden, where she and her little daughters
were passing the afternoon, she lifted her eyes from the tea-cups—set
on the small table at her side—into which she was pouring tea from a
pretty china teapot, and saw Mr. Renford's approaching figure.
"Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Molly. "He's just in time for a cup of
tea." She ran to meet her grandfather, and clinging affectionately to
his arm, led him under the shade of the apple tree, where she placed
him by her mother's side. "Why didn't you bring Felicia with you?" she
inquired.
"I had no intention of coming here when I left home; besides, Felicia
is spending the afternoon with Guy," he returned. "How very comfortable
this is!"
"Yes," agreed his daughter; "so we determined we would have tea
out-of-doors. We cannot expect this fine weather to continue much
longer, but I hope it will last whilst Miss Barton is away."
"Grandfather, do you know that Miss Barton is going to call on
Felicia's friend, Mrs. M'Cosh, whilst she is in Bristol?" asked Molly.
"No. Is that so?"
"Yes," assented Mrs. Pring. "It was Miss Barton's own idea, but I
furthered it. I—I hope you do not mind?" she questioned somewhat
falteringly, as she noticed the gravity of her father's face.
"No, I do not mind. I suppose it is only natural, under the
circumstances, that Felicia should be attached to the woman; but—well,
to put it plainly, has it ever occurred to you that Felicia has a
decided leaning towards the society of—of people of the lower classes?"
Mrs. Pring shook her head, looking exceedingly puzzled, whilst Doris
and Molly observed their grandfather with wondering eyes.
"I have reason to believe that such is the case, however," Mr. Renford
continued. Then, turning to Molly, he inquired, "Do you remember my
forbidding Felicia to go near the common on account of the gipsies
being there?"
"Yes, grandfather."
"She has disobeyed me, I find; not only has she been to the common, but
she has made friends with the gipsies—knowing them to be thieves, for
it has been no secret to her how they have robbed me of rabbits and
game."
"Oh, it can't be true!" Molly cried, whilst Doris kept silence and
listened to the conversation with a fast beating heart.
"There must be some mistake, father," Mrs. Pring was commencing, when
Mr. Renford interrupted her somewhat impatiently—
"My dear Mary, I know what I am talking about, and I do not think there
is any mistake. But I will explain and you will be able to judge for
yourself. I was crossing the common half-an-hour ago when a young gipsy
woman, with a baby in her arms, came out of a caravan and asked me
to buy a basket. I refused, and was walking on when she said, 'Sure,
gentleman, the pretty little lady, your grand-daughter, would like it,
and you shall have it cheap for her sake.' 'Why for her sake?' I asked,
rather amused at her wheedling tone. 'Because she's been friendly to
the poor gipsies,' was the answer I received, and then she went on to
speak of Felicia having carried the baby in her arms and talked so
kindly to her little daughter. 'What!' I exclaimed, 'do you mean to
tell me she has been here?' 'Yes, certainly,' the woman answered, and
I am sure she spoke in all sincerity. 'Did she not tell you, sir?' she
asked. 'No,' I replied. She looked quite distressed at that, and begged
me not to be angry, and she actually wanted to make me a present of
the basket she had offered to sell a few minutes previously. 'Take it
and give it to the sweet little lady,' she said, 'and never be angry
with her because she has a kind heart.' Of course, I would not have the
basket, but I gave the woman a shilling, and came on here to tell you
what she had said. What could have taken Felicia to the common except a
hankering for low society?"
"I don't believe it's true!" Molly cried hotly. "Felicia would not make
friends with people she knew to be dishonest; and I am certain she
would not disobey you like that, grandfather."
"Then you never saw her speak to the gipsies, Molly?" asked Mr. Renford.
"Never!"
Doris expected to be questioned next, but her grandfather, knowing she
was less friendly with Felicia than was her sister, did not do so, and
consequently she kept silence. It would have been easy to have set the
matter straight by explaining how her cousin had encountered the gipsy
children, and the cause of her subsequent visit to the common, but she
decided she would not. She saw no reason why she should interfere.
Felicia could explain for herself.
"Nevertheless, I am persuaded the gipsy woman spoke the truth," Mr.
Renford said decidedly; "I shall speak to Felicia on the subject as
soon as I get home. The thought that the child has wilfully disobeyed
me is an unpleasant one. I suppose I must make allowances for her,
however, for the circumstances of her life have been peculiar, but
she seemed so—so adaptable. It is hard to believe she would set me at
defiance like that."
"I don't believe she has!" Molly declared. "Ask her, grandfather, and
she will tell you."
"I have always considered her truthful," Mrs. Pring said uneasily; "of
course we have not known her a great while, but we have never detected
anything false or deceitful about her. Don't be certain there is not a
mistake, father."
"I will not, Mary," he assured her; "I suppose it would be too much to
expect that a ditch flower could altogether escape the mud," he added
with rather a sarcastic smile.
Mrs. Pring sighed. She felt greatly troubled and wished her husband was
there. But the Vicar had gone to visit a sick parishioner and did not
come home till long after his father-in-law had gone.
When Mr. Renford reached the Priory, an hour before his dinner-time,
he went immediately to his study, and sent for Felicia. Not dreaming
anything was amiss, the little girl, who had only left her uncle
a short while previously, came running downstairs and into her
grandfather's presence with a smiling face and a happy light in her
eyes. Without waiting to hear why he had summoned her, she began at
once—
"Oh, grandfather, such good news for you! I know you'll be glad! Uncle
Guy has consented to see the doctor you wish him to consult, and he
says you may send for him as soon as you like."
"Indeed I am glad to hear this," Mr. Renford replied, looking pleased
and surprised. "Is this your doing, Felicia?"
"I asked him to see the doctor for your sake, grandfather, and
by-and-by he consented to do so. Oh, how I wish something could be done
to make him better, though I am afraid he can never be quite well, can
he?"
Mr. Renford gravely scrutinised the pretty, anxious face which was
raised to his, and shook his head.
"I am afraid not," he answered. "Have you spent all the afternoon with
him, Felicia?"
"Yes, grandfather. I don't think I've tired him; he says I've done him
good."
"That's well." Mr. Renford laid his hands on her shoulders and looked
her straight in the eyes as he asked without any preamble: "Have you
had anything to do with the gipsies on the common?"
"I—I—" stammered the little girl, turning suddenly white, whilst a
scared expression settled on her face; "I—I ought to have told—"
"Answer me 'yes' or no,'" he said sternly; "don't try to prevaricate. I
repeat my question. Have you had anything to do with the gipsies on the
common?"
"Yes, grandfather, I—"
"Enough! You have disobeyed me." He pushed her from him angrily and
pointed to the door. "Go!" he commanded.
She moved away from him, her legs shaking, a choking sensation in her
throat.
"Wait a moment," he said as she reached the door. Then, as she paused,
he asked in a gentler tone: "Did you forget that I had told you not to
go near the common?"
"No, grandfather, I remembered; but—oh, do let me explain! I am not so
much to blame as you think. Oh, I ought to have told you, I know, but I
was afraid you—you—"
She stopped her broken confession, unable to proceed further, and burst
into tears, looking the picture of guilt and distress.
"I have been too indulgent to you," Mr. Renford said coldly, "and you
have presumed on my kindness to disobey me. You need a tighter rein, I
perceive, and you shall have it. I must—"
But Felicia waited to hear no more. Sobbing bitterly she left the study
and rushed across the hall, opened the front door, and fled into the
garden. Poor little girl, she had gone into her grandfather's presence
with such a happy heart, conscious that she was carrying him good news,
and now she was filled with misery and despair. He would send her away
from the Priory, of that she was certain. Oh, would she ever forget the
hard, cold expression of anger on his face? He would never trust her
again, but always regard her with suspicion. Oh, why had she not been
frank with him and told him all that had transpired between herself
and the gipsies? He might have blamed her then, but not so much as he
did now, for he would have understood the circumstances which had led
to her disobedience. His words so harshly spoken, "You have presumed
on my kindness to disobey me," kept sounding in her ears. Oh, what an
ungrateful girl she must be in his sight!
Felicia, forgetful that she wore no hat, when she reached the
gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, went straight on, and
never-slackened her pace till she found herself in the thick woods
where she and Molly had spent the morning. There, panting and
exhausted, she flung herself on the mossy ground at the foot of a
spreading beech tree, and tried to restrain her grief; but she sobbed
heart-brokenly long after her tears had ceased to flow. At length,
quite worn out, she lay still watching the golden leaves flutter from
the branches overhead. By-and-by her eyelids drooped, and just as the
rays of the September sun disappeared in the west, she fell into a deep
sleep, from which she was awakened an hour later by a heavy peal of
thunder and raindrops on her face.