Chapter X: A Great Surprise

DORIS and Molly Pring found their cousin very reserved at first, and disinclined to exchange confidences with them, but after a little while she became more communicative. She refrained from mentioning her mother to them, however, and kept silence respecting the two years she had spent in Bristol, for it was easy to see Doris and Molly knew nothing of trouble, and she shrank sensitively from allowing them an insight into that time which had been so fraught with poverty and sickness.

Felicia soon discovered that there were no poor people in N—; that is to say, there were none who lacked the necessaries of life. The heads of the families in the village were mostly farm labourers, and men employed in the clay works which were situated half-a-mile distant, and if they did not get large wages they earned sufficient for their needs, and their wives and children were comfortably clothed and well-fed. Most of the cottage homes belonged to Mr. Renford, who was an excellent landlord, and kept his property in good repair, and if sickness visited any of his tenants he was always ready to lend them a helping hand. When Felicia came to understand how much her grandfather was liked and respected by all who were brought in contact with him, she grew more and more indignant with him on her mother's account. Why had he allowed her to die in that Bristol garret when he might have done so much to help her? She did not reflect that he had been in total ignorance of her mother's whereabouts, or that Mrs. Renford—fearful of being parted from her child—had purposely kept him in the dark concerning her circumstances. Felicia only saw that he was kind to outsiders, to people who had no real claim upon him, and the remembrance that he had shown himself hard and unsympathetic to her mother—his own son's wife—was very, very bitter.

The little girl had been at the Priory fully a fortnight, when one day Molly Pring brought the news that Miss Barton had returned, and had consented to take a third pupil under her charge; therefore Felicia would be expected at the Vicarage on the following morning.

"Mother told me to tell you to be sure to be in good time," said Molly, "for we begin lessons at the tick of ten o'clock. Why, how pleased you look! You're much more eager to get to work than I am; for my part, I wish it was holidays always. But we're very glad to get Miss Barton back, for we're all very fond of her. You'll like her, Felicia."

When Felicia appeared at the Vicarage at the hour appointed next morning, she was met at the door by her aunt, who immediately took her upstairs to the schoolroom, where her cousins and their governess were awaiting her. The instant Felicia was introduced to Miss Barton she knew she had seen her before. The swift, observant glance the governess cast upon her seemed quite familiar, as was the smile which lit up her pretty face, and Felicia uttered a glad cry of recognition, whilst her countenance glowed with pleasure.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance—" Miss Barton was beginning when she paused and looked puzzled. "Have we met before?" she proceeded doubtfully; "I don't think I remember you, my dear."

"But I remember you!" Felicia burst forth. "Oh, it is wonderful—wonderful! Of course you don't remember me, although it was only such a short time since we met, for you only saw me for a minute. You gave me some lilies—beautiful white lilies; I took them home to my mother, and she said they came like a message from God to remind her of His promises. Don't you remember me now? I was looking in the window of that big shop in Park Street, and you came out with a great bunch of lilies in your hand, and you never said a word—ah, you remember now!"

Miss Barton had but a slight recollection of the personal appearance of the child who had been the recipient of her impulsive gift, and she looked both surprised and puzzled, whilst Mrs. Pring and her little daughters regarded Felicia in amazement, wondering to see her so excited.

"I am afraid I don't really remember you," Miss Barton admitted frankly; "that is to say, I do not recognise you as the same little girl to whom I gave the flowers."

"Oh, but I am the same!" Felicia broke in eagerly. "Oh, it was good and kind of you! I wish you could have seen mother's face when she caught sight of the lilies, and what do you think she said afterwards?—'God bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is.' Oh, I never thought I should see you again! How very, very glad I am!"

Miss Barton smiled very kindly at the excited child, and said she was delighted—and she looked it—to hear that the flowers had given Mrs. Renford pleasure, whilst Mrs. Pring, grasping the situation at last, put her arms around her niece and gave her a loving kiss ere she left the schoolroom in search of her husband to tell him that Felicia and the governess had met before.

Felicia was happier to-day than she had been since her mother's death, and when, lessons over at four o'clock, she returned to the Priory, there was a little pleased smile on her lips, and a faint flush on her generally pale cheeks. Price informed her that the master was out, but that Mr. Guy wished to see her at once. She immediately went to her uncle's sitting-room, and found him lying on the sofa by the window as usual. A table at his side was littered with papers and magazines, but he pushed it away as his niece entered.

"Come here, Felicia," he said, "and tell me how you like your governess."

"Like her? Why, I love her!" she cried enthusiastically, "there isn't anything I wouldn't do for her!"

"Really? Why, it must have been a case of love at first sight. I had no idea you were such an impressionable little creature. How bright you look—and happy."

"I have been very happy to-day," admitted Felicia; "and I never thought I could be happy again."

He muttered something under his breath about the young having few lasting griefs, but Felicia heard the words, and her face clouded immediately. She took a chair near his sofa, the smile fading from her lips, the light dying out of her blue eyes. For a few minutes there was silence between them.

"You have not told me the cause of your happiness," he said at length.

"No," she answered in a reserved tone; "I don't think I can. I don't think I can speak of it to you."

"Why not?" he demanded sharply.

"Because—because it's to do with my mother, and perhaps you would not understand."

"If not, no harm would be done by your having told me, I suppose?"

"N—o—o," she allowed.

Then, in slightly faltering accents, she spoke to him of the gift of the white lilies, and tried to explain what it had meant to her mother, whilst he listened with an interest which increased when he heard that it had been Miss Barton who had performed the kindly act which had left such a deep, tender impression on his little niece's mind.

"What a strange coincidence!" he exclaimed. "And she did not recognise you, you say?"

"No. Oh, I was glad to see her again!"

"It seems a slight thing she did to be so grateful for."

"You don't understand, Uncle Guy; I thought you would not. It was not a slight thing to mother and me; it seemed as though God sent us the lilies to remind us of His promises."

"But, Felicia, how could that be?"

"It's in the Bible, you know."

"I don't know, child. I don't read the Bible—to do so would only make me melancholy. Your grandmother used to try to talk of religion to me, but I wouldn't have it; and the Vicar—but never mind that. I want to hear about your mother and the lilies. How could they remind her of God's promises?"

"Because Jesus spoke of them. He had been telling His disciples not to trouble about how they should live, because their Father in Heaven knew all they wanted, and He said: 'Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, they spin not: and yet I say unto you, That Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these;' and—oh, don't you—can't you understand, she remembered how wrong it was to worry and fret, and that Jesus said, 'Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom,' and she knew she ought not to fear. She told me how she had troubled, and—and I shall never see white lilies again without thinking of her, lying as I saw her last—" Felicia paused and caught her breath in a sob. Her uncle was observing her intently, with a keenly interested expression in his eyes.

"I did not know your mother was a religious woman," he remarked at length, "and you—are you religious too?"

She looked at him in great surprise, amazed at such a question.

"I—I try to be good," she answered, flushing; "I do try to be, but it's very hard sometimes, and—and it's so difficult to believe God knows best—but He does, I'm certain of it deep down in my heart."

"I suppose you read your Bible every day?" he questioned.

"Every day. Mother and I used to read a chapter aloud every morning and every night."

"Well, look here, suppose you read it to me occasionally. There's poetry in that verse you repeated to me just now: 'Consider the lilies how they grow'—and there's a tone in your voice I like—it rings true. Will you read to me, or would you look on it in the light of an infliction?"

"Oh, no, no! I would do anything to please you, Uncle Guy, I would indeed," she answered in all sincerity.

"Thank you. You seem a good-natured little soul, and I believe we shall be friends. You don't get on with my father, Felicia?" he questioned.

"I—I—" stammered Felicia—"I don't see much of him, Uncle Guy; he's very kind to me, but I'm rather afraid of him."

"You need not be. By the way, you 're not afraid of me?"

"Not in the least. I like you—I do indeed."

"Ah! you don't really know me yet. My father is much more worthy of your liking than I am, as you will learn some day. Poor father! he has had many disappointments in his life, and I'm one of them, though nothing would make him admit it. Now, go and take off your hat, and order tea to be brought here; we will have it together."

"To think that she should set up for being religious," he mused, after Felicia had left the room to do his bidding; "and she was so serious about it too. Evidently she is sincere. That was a strange story about the lilies; it touched me somehow. 'Consider the lilies how they grow.' Ah, yes! one can believe in the God of love when one looks on the perfection of beauty, but it's the poor, misshapen allowed to disfigure the world that makes one doubt His omnipotence. Ah, me! I must be careful to say nothing to cloud that child's innocent faith. It must be a great solace to be able to believe that God is good."