The Storm
THUS rudely awakened, Felicia sprang to her feet in fright, not
realising where she was. It took her several minutes to recall what had
happened, and by that time a flash of lightning had momentarily lit up
her surroundings, and her first instinct was to get out of the woods as
soon as possible, for she had heard it was extremely dangerous to be
under trees during a thunderstorm. She stumbled along, scratching her
hands in brambles as she felt the way before her, whilst the lightning
flashed and the thunder roared like artillery overhead, and the heavy
rain soaked through the cotton frock she was wearing; and the farther
she went the more bewildered she became, until at length it dawned upon
her that, unaided, it was most improbable she would be able to find her
way out of the wood at all. Then a sense of despair seized her, and she
shouted loudly for help, but no one came to her assistance. Who would
be likely to be out in such a storm? At last, almost faint with fright,
she sank upon her knees on the already sodden ground, and covering her
face with her trembling hands, asked the protection of her Father in
Heaven. God was with her, she knew; but oh! it was enough to strike awe
to the bravest heart to be alone in such a spot during that terrific
storm.
"It is no good my trying to find my way home," Felicia thought; "but
perhaps grandfather will send to look for me—he must have heard me
leave the house. I will shout once more."
She did so, and again there was no response; nevertheless, her voice
had been heard. Though she was unaware of the fact, she was quite near
the high road, along which two men were passing—one, a tall, young
gipsy, the other, no other than old Harry Budd.
"I thought I heard someone shouting for help," observed the latter
during the silence which followed a heavy peal of thunder; "who could
it be? Shall we go and see?"
"Best be careful, Harry," advised the gipsy; "we don't want to fall
into a trap and be found in the preserves, and that Brown is a wily
one."
The old man grunted assentingly, but he seemed reluctant to proceed,
and stood still listening.
"It sounded to me like a child's voice," he said; "you don't think your
little maid has wandered into the woods and lost herself, do you?"
Poacher and vagabond though he was, the young man was an affectionate
father, and the thought that his little daughter might have missed her
way, and was terrified by the storm, roused him to go and ascertain
if such was really the case. Bidding his companion wait for him, he
disappeared over the hedge, into the wood beyond, and after a few
minutes cautious search, he came upon Felicia drenched to the skin,
the most forlorn-looking object possible. She had given up hoping any
one would find her whilst the storm lasted, and therefore great was
her relief of mind when the gipsy touched her on the shoulder as she
crouched against the trunk of a tree, and asked her in accents of
intense amazement what she did there alone.
"I've lost my way," she said tremulously; "oh, take me home! Take me
home!"
[Illustration: THE GIPSY TOUCHED HER ON THE SHOULDER AS SHE CROUCHED
AGAINST THE TRUNK OF A TREE.]
"Why, it's the little lady from the Priory!" he exclaimed. "Come with
me, miss; 'tis dangerous under the trees. Come."
Felicia grasped his strong, brown hand thankfully, and thus he led her
through the wood the way he had come, and lifted her over the hedge
into the road where old Harry Budd stood waiting.
"Am I far from the Priory?" asked Felicia anxiously.
"Right t'other side of the wood," said the gipsy, "you're nigh the
common."
"How did you come to be out at this hour, and in this weather, missie?"
questioned the old man curiously. "I recognise your voice; you're Mr.
Renford's little grand-daughter, who's living with him now."
"Yes. Oh, please show me the way home. Grandfather and Uncle Guy will
be wondering what has become of me, and—oh dear, my legs do shake so
dreadfully! I can hardly stand."
"Best take shelter with my wife and the little ones till the storm's
over," suggested the gipsy kindly.
"No, no!" cried Felicia in great distress, alarmed beyond measure at
the idea. "I must go home at once—at once! Oh, please, don't prevent
me!"
She felt a strong desire to run away, lest the gipsy should carry
her off to his caravan against her will; but her legs refused to
move. There was a singing in her ears, and utterly overcome with the
exhausting emotions she had endured during the past two hours, for the
first time in her life the little girl fainted, and fell forward on her
face in the road.
When Felicia came to herself again, she was in bed in her own room at
the Priory, and her aunt and Mrs. Price were with her; but the latter
moved away as soon as she opened her eyes.
"How did I come here?" asked Felicia in a weak-sounding voice, as Mrs.
Pring kissed her and told her she was better.
"Your grandfather fetched you, Felicia. Don't excite yourself. You
lost your way in the storm, and a gipsy found you and sheltered you in
his caravan, leaving you in the care of his wife whilst he came here
with the news of what had become of you. You had knocked your head
somehow—there is a bruise on your forehead—and were unconscious, so you
know nothing about the drive home in the carriage. Lie still now and
rest."
"Is grandfather very angry?" questioned Felicia.
"Not angry, but disappointed in you."
"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary,
let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"
"Very well—if it will make you happier."
"Oh, it will, it will!" And in faltering tones Felicia told how she had
befriended the gipsy children, refraining, however, from mentioning
that Doris knew anything about the matter.
Mrs. Pring's countenance brightened as she listened, and when Felicia
had finished her tale she kissed her affectionately.
"But why did you not tell my father at the time?" she very naturally
inquired; "that would have been the straightforward course to have
taken." Then, as the little girl made no response, she suggested
kindly: "I will tell him how it happened that you disobeyed him, shall
I?"
"Oh, Aunt Mary, will you?"
"Certainly, my dear. You should have been frank with him, and you would
not have found him unreasonable. It is not to be wondered at that he
was very angry when he thought you had determinedly laid yourself out
to disobey him. You were a very foolish little girl to run off to the
woods last evening, but I suppose you acted thoughtlessly. You gave us
all a very anxious time."
"Is it morning now?" Felicia asked.
"Yes—nearly daybreak,"
"And you have been up with me all night, Aunt Mary?"
"Yes, my dear; there has been no sleep for anyone in the house. But I
want you to rest now, and then I shall get a nap on the sofa myself.
Take this, and try to sleep."
Felicia drank the milk her aunt offered her, and five minutes later
she was in a deep sleep. The next day she was kept in bed, but in the
afternoon she was allowed to see her grandfather.
"Why did you mistrust me, child?" he asked reproachfully, after he had
inquired how she was, and had been satisfied with her answer that she
was quite well, and would be about again on the morrow. "What made
you think I should blame you for your impulsive kindness to those
gipsy children? I am glad to find there was a good cause for your
disobedience, but you should have told me, my dear."
"Yes, I know I ought," she faltered; "but I was so afraid that—that you
would send me away from the Priory. I did not want to go away to be
parted from Uncle Guy, and—and—" she paused in confusion.
"I admit I did once think of sending you to boarding-school—though I do
not know who can have told you so—but certainly not of late. Guy would
miss you, and I, too, should find the Priory lonely now without our
ditch flower."
"Oh, how I love to hear you say that!" Felicia exclaimed happily; "I
don't believe, grandfather, I shall ever be afraid to tell you anything
again."
The following day Felicia arose at her usual time, and directly after
breakfast paid a visit to her uncle. He received her with a warmth of
affection which surprised and touched her.
"It was dreadful to lie here helpless thinking of you out in the
thunder and lightning and rain," he said with a slight shudder; "I
suppose you did not notice the storm coming because you were under the
trees. What? You were asleep I Oh, you babe in the wood But seriously,
Felicia, you must promise to be more careful of yourself in future, or
I shall never have a moment's peace of mind when I do not know where
you are. I suppose you were terribly alarmed?"
"Indeed I was," she admitted, "though I tried not to be. I shouted
and shouted and no one came, and at last I knelt down and prayed, and
remembered that God was everywhere, and that no harm could come to
me against His will. I kept repeating, 'Thy will be done—Thy will be
done—' mother used to call that the perfect prayer, because it's asking
God for what's best for us when we don't know what's best ourselves.
The storm confused me so that I couldn't think properly, and I was
quite dazed by the time the gipsy found me, and then I was horrified
when he spoke of taking me to his caravan. I thought grandfather would
imagine I had gone there of my own accord. Everything seemed going
against me."
"You might have confided in us about your visit to the common, Felicia;
I have heard all about it from father. You should have trusted us; I
cannot think why you did not. But there, don't look so distressed. Why,
I declare your eyes are full of tears."
Felicia made no response, and by-and-by he continued—
"The gipsies left the common at daybreak this morning, and the district
will be well quit of them, for of course they do steal the game, though
in other ways I don't believe they are as bad as they are represented,
and certainly no worse than old Harry Budd, who, in spite of calling
them 'a thieving set,' appears to have been hand-and-glove with them
all along. By the way, if you had had Lion with you the night before
last he would have brought you home in safety, but they tell me he had
been chained up all the afternoon so that he should not follow father
into the preserves—he disturbs the game—and no one thought of releasing
him. Poor old Lion, he lost an opportunity of distinguishing himself.
However, all's well that ends well, and our ditch flower is safe—thank
God."
The last two words were spoken almost in a whisper, but the little girl
heard them with a sensation of mingled happiness and surprise, for she
realised that from her uncle's lips they were no mere idle phrase. She
felt certain that he really did thank God.