Chapter XIII: One Saturday

EVERY Saturday was a holiday for Felicia and her cousins, and the former was not expected at the Vicarage, but nevertheless she generally found her way there, if Molly did not call for her at the Priory; and Mrs. Pring was satisfied that the plan, which she herself had originated, of educating her niece with her daughters was answering well. Sometimes Doris and Molly took tea with Felicia at the Priory, and then the latter could not help remarking that her cousins were rather in awe of Uncle Guy, and seemed happier when they were out of his presence; they were never at their best before him, Doris in particular always showing to a disadvantage by being quieter and more reserved than usual.

The day following the one on which Felicia had spoken her mind to her uncle was a Saturday, and at the breakfast-table her grandfather asked her if she would care to drive with him that afternoon to T—, the nearest market down. Felicia assented delightedly, and long before the appointed hour she was ready, so as not to keep Mr. Renford waiting. Seated by her grandfather's side on the front seat of the high dog-cart, drawn by Sultan, a big brown horse, she was whirled along through narrow lanes, across which the hazel bushes, laden with ripening nuts, nearly met overhead, up hills and down dales, until, after a long spin on the high road, the town was reached. They stopped at several shops, out of which the shopkeepers hurried to take Mr. Renford's orders, and by-and-by drew up before a confectioner's, where they alighted, and went inside to have tea in a large room upstairs, whilst Sultan was left in charge of the groom, who walked him up and down the street.

Felicia was very quiet as she sipped her tea and ate her thin bread and butter and cake, for she was recalling some afternoons in London when her mother had taken her to a restaurant to tea, and how greatly she had enjoyed those occasions. And now, instead of her mother's pretty face, with its loving smile, on the other side of the little, marble-topped table, was the sunburnt countenance of her grandfather, with its firm though not unkindly features, and clear, blue eyes.

"Make a good tea, Felicia," he said; "the drive ought to have made you hungry. Did you ever have a meal in a place like this before?"

"Oh, yes, grandfather, when I was at school, but not lately—never in Bristol."

"Ah! I thought it was no novel experience to you. I remember the first time I brought Doris and Molly here, they were so taken up with watching the people at the other tables that they scarcely ate anything. One could tell at a glance that they were country-bred; but you keep your eyes from wandering."

Mr. Renford looked pleased. It astonished him often that this grandchild of his, whose mother had been a "nobody," as he had always considered her, should have such good manners; never once had he had occasion to complain of word or action of hers during the six weeks she had lived beneath his roof, and she had long since ceased to be shy or awkward in his presence.

"Your aunt and uncle are going to dine with me to-night," he proceeded, "so we must reach home fairly early. I wanted Guy to join us, but—" He paused and shrugged his shoulders.

"I wish he would," Felicia said earnestly, a faint colour rising to her cheeks as she recalled the words she had spoken to her uncle on the preceding night; "Aunt Mary says he spends a great deal too much time alone."

"Yes, brooding over his affliction, poor fellow. Still, I do think he has been brighter since your arrival, child; he likes you to be with him. I often wonder what you find to talk to him about. Have you finished your tea? Yes. Then we will go."

The drive back to the Priory was even pleasanter than the one to T— had been, for it was much cooler now. They reached home in good time, and, having thanked her grandfather for the pleasure he had given her, Felicia ran upstairs, and sought her uncle to tell him what an enjoyable afternoon she had spent. But he was not to be found in his sitting-room, and Ann White, whom Felicia met in the corridor, informed her that Mr. Guy had gone downstairs.

"Gone downstairs!" echoed Felicia. "Oh, I am glad! Then he means to dine with grandfather to-night?"

"I believe so, miss."

The little girl went to her own room to change her dusty frock for another. Her scanty wardrobe had been replenished by Mrs. Price, according to her grandfather's orders, and she had no lack of clothes now. A feeling of bewilderment crept over her sometimes when she compared her present life to that she had lived with her mother in their attic home. Oh, if only she had her dear mother with her to share the comforts of the Priory, how contented she would be! The one drop of bitterness which spoilt her cup of happiness was the remembrance that her mother had suffered privations, and had died in poverty.

By-and-by Mrs. Price knocked at the door, and on being told to come in, entered, with a beaming countenance.

"Your grandfather desires you to dine with him to-night, miss," she said; "he sent me to tell you so. Your aunt and the Vicar are coming, you know."

"Oh!" cried Felicia nervously, "I have never dined of an evening before; I do hope I shall do nothing out of the way. I suppose Uncle Guy will be there?"

"Yes. The master was so pleased to find him downstairs. Come, miss, you mustn't dawdle, or you'll be late, for it's nearly seven o'clock, and—there, I hear your aunt's voice in the hall. Let me help you. I'll do your hair, shall I?"

Ten minutes later Felicia walked slowly downstairs and entered the drawing-room. It was a large room, facing the west, and was flooded with sunshine on this August evening, for the master of the house loved light and air, and kept the blinds pulled up. He stood by one of the open windows in conversation with his daughter, and he glanced towards Felicia with a smile as she came into the room.

"I thought you might as well dine with us to-night, child, as take your supper alone," he remarked kindly. "The drive has given her quite a colour, hasn't it, Mary?" he questioned, turning to his daughter.

"It has, indeed," Mrs. Pring replied, smiling at the little girl.

"She is looking very well," observed the Vicar, who stood side by side with his brother-in-law on the hearth-rug. He peered at Felicia in his near-sighted way as he spoke.

And then Uncle Guy added his comment—

"Our ditch flower is beginning to bloom," he said.

After all, Felicia did not find dining with her relations such a trying experience as she had anticipated; nevertheless, she was relieved when the meal was over. Mrs. Pring gave most of her attention to her brother, being genuinely delighted at his presence. He was in the best of humours, and it astonished Felicia to see how amusing he could be when he chose.

"If only Guy would think less of his affliction and take more interest in the world at large he would be so much better and happier," she overheard the Vicar whisper to her grandfather after dinner, when the brother and sister were carrying on a lively conversation. "I wish we could get him to the Vicarage sometimes."

Once during the evening Felicia had a conversation alone with Uncle Nathaniel, as she had learnt to call the Vicar. She had stepped out of the drawing-room window into the garden when he joined her.

"A beautiful night," he said, drawing a long breath to drink in the fragrance of the flowers. "Do you see that glow in the east? The moon is about to rise."

"Uncle Guy says it makes him melancholy to watch the sky," remarked Felicia; "I wonder why it should. I love to see the moon rise, and the stars come peeping out like eyes. On fine nights at home—I mean where we lived in Bristol—we used to watch for the moon to rise from behind the chimneys, and I used to say, 'Let us guess which chimney-pot the moon will come out of to-night,' for it really looked as though the moon did come out of the chimney." She laughed, then grew suddenly grave. "When mother died I thought I should never laugh again," she went on in a troubled tone, "but somehow, lately, I've found myself smiling over the little jokes she and I used to have together—it's not that I forget she's gone—oh, it's not that!"

"Why should you not smile, my dear child? Your mother is not lost to you altogether; you are only separated from her for the time. Be happy if you can, enjoy the good things God sends you, and accept them as blessings with a thankful heart."

"It is a comely fashion to be glad, Joy is the grace we say to God."

"I consider those lines are worth bearing in mind. Never think you ought not to be glad."

"But—but it seems as though it must be wrong to be happy when—when mother was so poor, and—"

"My dear little girl," the Vicar interposed, "do not be always thinking of what is past; think instead of your mother in the presence of her Saviour as one of those who have come out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. 'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more,' and trouble shall no more have power to touch them, for 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"

"Oh, you believe that, don't you?" said Felicia earnestly.

"Most certainly I do. It is the Christian's sure hope—"

"Because, do you know, I don't think Uncle Guy does believe it!" she broke in.

The Vicar started, and across his kind face there flitted an expression of anxiety and pain.

"What makes you think he does not?" he asked. "Has he been discussing the subject with you?"

"Oh, no. But he doesn't seem to believe that God cares anything about him, and when he speaks of his mother he never does so as though he hopes to see her again, and yet I know he loves her. Oh, no wonder he is so wretched, sometimes, poor Uncle Guy! What should I feel if I thought I should never meet my mother more? Oh, I believe my heart would break!"

"Felicia, listen to me," the Vicar said earnestly; "I see you have discovered your uncle has not that faith in His Father in Heaven which is the guiding light of every true Christian. Pray for him that what is dark to him now may be made plain to him. His lack of faith was a terrible grief to his poor mother; and it was her constant prayer that he might be brought into Christ's fold. As she lay dying she told me that she believed one day her prayers would be answered, and that your uncle's heart would find rest and happiness. Does he ever speak to you about religion?"

"Not often; but sometimes of an evening I have read the Bible to him." And she explained how that had come to pass.

The Vicar was evidently much surprised, and he heard all she told him with great interest.

"He says he likes listening to my voice, and he always lets me choose the parts I like best, so I read to him from the New Testament generally. He's rather interested in Saint Paul—he says he had a fine intellect, and he liked hearing how he talked to Agrippa," Felicia concluded thoughtfully.

The Vicar smiled but rather sadly.

"Weren't you surprised to find Uncle Guy downstairs to-night?" the little girl asked after a brief silence.

"Most agreeably surprised. What are you looking so mysterious about?"

But Felicia shook her head smilingly, and declined to say. She had no intention of telling her companion of the conversation she had had with her uncle on the previous evening, though she had little doubt her impulsively spoken words had had something to do with causing him to throw off his inertness and bestir himself to-night; and she was certain of it when her bedtime came, for on saying "Good-night" to Uncle Guy, he detained her to whisper in a low tone so that only herself should hear—

"By the way, Felicia, I considered your lecture, and—you see the result."