Chapter XI: Uncle Guy's Temper

FELICIA'S life now became one of routine. Every morning she breakfasted with her grandfather; then, Sundays excepted, went to the Vicarage, where she remained with her cousins, sharing their studies, and returning to the Priory at four o'clock. She frequently took tea with her uncle in his sitting-room, at his desire, after which she prepared her lessons for the following day, retiring to rest subsequent to an early supper. Mr. Renford dined alone in the large dining-room, and generally spent the evening by himself, though occasionally he sat an hour with his son, or paid a visit to his daughter. He was naturally of a sociable disposition, and must have often grown very weary of his own society.

"They are beginning to cut the corn in that big field at the back of the Vicarage," Felicia informed her uncle one August evening as she stood at his sitting-room window looking into the garden, gay with dahlias and other showy autumn flowers. "It's such a pity you never go out, Uncle Guy, for everything's so lovely. You haven't been downstairs once since I came."

"And probably I never may again," he responded moodily.

"Oh, don't say that! Why shouldn't you come downstairs and go into the garden? It's not as though you were lame or couldn't walk."

"Has my father been telling you to say this to me?" he demanded.

"Oh, no!"

"Because he's been lecturing me on the point himself. He might as well leave me in peace instead of advising me 'to rouse myself and try to take an interest in life,' as he put it. If his back ached as mine does sometimes, he'd have more sympathy with me, perhaps."

The querulous tone in which this was said was full of bitterness, and Felicia thought it wiser to make no reply. She knew her grandfather was far from being unsympathetic—indeed, he always made his son his first consideration—and she thought her uncle had no right to speak of him complainingly. Evidently the invalid was in one of his most dissatisfied moods. The little girl had been warned by Mrs. Price that there was no pleasing Mr. Guy to-day, and she would certainly have kept away from him if he had not sent a message to her to the effect that he desired her company as soon as she had finished her lessons. And now she was here, he did not appear to want her. She had offered to read to him, as she had done on several previous occasions—sometimes from the Bible—but he had declined to listen to her. The truth was, he had worked himself into a state of nervous irritability on account of a conversation he had had with his father, during which Mr. Renford had urged him to come downstairs and dine that night, and he had declined to do so.

"It's all very well for those in good health to say I should bestir myself," he proceeded; "I'm tired of being preached at. It's always the same old lore, first from my sister, then from her husband, and even Doris and Molly keep up the refrain, 'You ought to come out in the sunshine!' Ought I? I think I should be allowed to do as I like. There's Lion at the door, Felicia, you may as well let him in first as last, for he'll keep on scrape-scrape-scrape till you do."

The little girl admitted the dog, and returned to her former post at the window, whilst Lion approached the sofa, and wagging his tail with the utmost amiability, commenced to lick the invalid's hand. To Felicia's astonishment her uncle repulsed the dog, hitting him across the head with the magazine he was holding at the moment. Startled at this unexpected reception of his caress, Lion sprang awkwardly aside and knocked over a small table which held several books and a handsome Venetian vase which Mrs. Pring had presented to her brother on his last birthday. The poor dog, puzzled at the treatment he had received from one who was usually kind to him, and shocked at the mischief he had wrought, retreated into a corner of the room, whilst Felicia set the table on its legs and picked up the scattered books, but the beautiful vase was smashed.

"Oh, what a pity!" the little girl exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle Guy, your vase is broken into several pieces! Oh, how sorry I am!"

She paused, too frightened to continue, for her uncle's face was actually distorted with passion, and his eyes blazed with rage.

"Get out of my sight!" he cried roughly, "you and the dog, too! You have done mischief enough for one day. Go away, I say!"

"But, uncle, it was not my fault, I could not help it. You told me to let Lion in," she reminded him.

"I know that, but he would not have come scraping at the door if you had not been here. He follows you like your shadow. Oh, what a day this has been! Am I never to be allowed any peace? Go away! Do you hear? Go away, and take Lion with you."

Frightened and indignant, Felicia hastened to do his bidding. She spoke to Lion, who came to her immediately, and with her hand on his collar she led him out of the room. In the corridor she encountered Price, and told him what had happened. The old man appeared sorry, and sought to soothe her ruffled feelings.

"You mustn't take notice of anything Mr. Guy may say or do," he said gravely; "he isn't himself when he's in a passion, and he'll be sorry enough to-morrow that he so forgot himself to-day. The fact is, he's had his own way all his life, miss, and his mother spoilt him. You must make allowances for him, as we all do."

Felicia felt very little inclined to make allowances for her uncle at present, seeing that it had been simply to please him she had visited him at all that night. She would much rather have spent her leisure hour in the garden than in listening to the invalid's grumblings; but it was not too late now to have a breath of fresh air before supper, and, followed by Lion, she hastened downstairs and out of the front door.

It was growing dusk, for the August evenings were shortening, but she thought she would have time to go as far as the lake ere it became dark, and she started in that direction, her cheeks aflame with indignation, her heart full of resentful feelings against Uncle Guy. Who, seeing him to-night, would think he could be so nice and kind? It should be a long while, she determined, before she would consent to keep him company again; and if he wanted someone to read to him—well, she would not be that someone, that was all.

"It was shameful of him to hit Lion like that," she mused, "and cruel too! How could he have done it? What a temper he was in, to be sure! And I'm in a temper now, but then I've a right to be angry, and he had none."

Her eyes were so full of tears that she could scarcely see where she was going, and her heart was aching badly, for she had grown very fond of Uncle Guy; and then, who should she meet but her grandfather taking his after dinner stroll, and of course he noticed her emotion, and asked her what was amiss. In faltering accents she explained to him what had occurred.

"Poor Lion! Poor old fellow!" he exclaimed, with a sigh, as he caressed his favourite. "I am sorry you have been in mischief, old boy. He couldn't help it—eh? No, I understand. It is rather late for you to be out, Felicia; you had better return with me."

"Yes, grandfather," she responded obediently.

"Cheer up, my dear. You have looked so much brighter lately, and I have been very pleased to see it. I want you to be happy—you should try to live up to your name. Your uncle is not himself to-day; you must not grieve because he was cross—"

"He was so—so unjust!" Felicia interposed; "it wasn't fair of him to turn on me like that when he had sent for me. Next time he sends for me I won't go."

"I think you will, my dear; I am sure you will not bear malice in your heart," Mr. Renford said quietly, with a ring of sadness in his voice; "I've done that before now, myself, and I've lived to regret it. Do you see that tree?" he asked with a change of tone, indicating a high elm in the distance. "I remember your father climbing it once when he was a small boy, and being unable to come down again; I had to climb up and fetch him."

Felicia looked at the tree with great interest, and ventured to put a few questions about her father's childhood, all of which Mr. Renford evidently took pleasure in answering. It was evident he had been deeply attached to his elder son. By-and-by Felicia asked him, rather timidly, if he had any objection to her writing to Mrs. M'Cosh.

"She was very kind to me," the little girl said earnestly, "and though I didn't promise to write, I feel sure she would like to hear from me, and I should like to tell her how I am getting on, and about Aunt Mary and my cousins, and—and—everyone."

"Write to her by all means," he responded heartily; "I do not wish you to appear ungrateful, and you might get Mrs. Price to pack a hamper with a nice chicken, and some butter, and eggs, and cream—and send her as a little present. People in town always welcome a hamper from the country. It is to be sent in your name, remember that."

"Oh, grandfather, thank you! How good of you! Mrs. M'Cosh will be delighted."

The tone of Felicia's voice spoke her pleasure. She caught Mr. Renford's hand and squeezed it gratefully; then, with an abrupt revulsion of feeling, she burst into tears.

"What is it?" her grandfather asked in astonishment. "Why are you crying, my dear?"

"It—it is very foolish of me," sobbed Felicia, "but I was thinking—oh, don't be angry!—how I wished mother was living, and—and I was sending a hamper to her. It's dreadful to remember I can never do anything for her more, and—and there was so little I could do for her when she was alive."

"But that little you did, child," Mr. Renford reminded her in a tone which showed he was inexpressibly touched. "Mrs. M'Cosh told me you were the greatest comfort your mother had. I wish she had not hidden herself from me, and I wish—but it's useless regretting the past. I may have been a hard man—God forgive me if I have—but I was certainly never so heartless as your mother thought. Maybe I misjudged her, and certainly she misjudged me. But come, my dear, the dew is falling and we must go indoors. Come, Lion."

The dog followed them obediently into the house. His tail hung between his legs, and his manner was depressed as though he was conscious—as no doubt was the case—that he had been unjustly served; and there was a very wistful expression in his eyes which appealed to Felicia's tender heart. The greater part of her indignation against her uncle was on poor Lion's account.