Chapter XIV: Doris is Jealous

IT was an oppressively hot August day—far too hot to go out into the sunshine for pleasure—and Miss Barton and her pupils were spending the hour before dinner, which they usually passed in the open air, in the schoolroom at the Vicarage. From the window was an extensive view of fields golden with ripening grain, and others where the corn was being cut, whilst in the big field adjoining the kitchen garden, at the back of the house, the sheaves stood in mows, ready to be carted away.

"There's not a breath of air stirring," remarked Molly, as she leaned head and shoulders out of the window; "I believe it's the hottest day we've had this year."

"I think it was quite as hot in June," responded Felicia; "at least, it was in Bristol. I remember—"

"What do you remember?" asked Doris curiously. She was leaning back in an easy-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. She had been watching Felicia with a thoughtful expression on her countenance and a sensation of jealousy in her heart, because her cousin had driven with her grandfather to T— on Saturday, and she would have liked to have gone herself. "Go on, Felicia," she said a trifle impatiently; "why do you stop?"

"I was only going to say that I remember my mother fainted with the heat one day in June; but then, of course, she was ill and felt it more on that account. Oh, it was dreadfully hot in—where we lived!"

"By the way, in what part of Bristol did you live?" asked Molly; "you have never told us. Mother took us to Bristol to see an exhibition of pictures in the spring; I wish we'd known you were living there then; we'd have called to see you."

"I'm glad you didn't!" Felicia exclaimed involuntarily. "That is," she added in some confusion, "I don't think you would have cared for the part where we lived, and it was right at the top of the house, in one room—"

She paused, struck by the expression of bewilderment on the faces of both of her cousins. Although she had never told them of her life in Bristol, she had imagined they must know about it; but she now saw that they had been ignorant concerning the full extent of the poverty she and her mother had endured.

"You lived in one room!" Molly cried in shocked tones. "Oh, Felicia, were you so poor as that? We knew your mother was obliged to do needlework, but we never knew before that you lived in one room. Oh, how awful!"

"It wasn't awful," Felicia said quickly; "though, of course, we didn't like it; and it was bitterly cold in winter, and dreadfully hot in the summer—because it was close to the roof."

"It must have been a great change for you when you came to the Priory," observed Doris reflectively.

"Oh, it was! Sometimes, even now, I have to pinch myself to make sure I am myself, for it seems so unreal to have plenty of everything—food, and clothes, and—"

"Do you mean to say you hadn't always enough to eat?" questioned Molly, her face full of amazement and concern.

"We were never without bread, but it was difficult to earn the money for that sometimes, and when mother was ill, I don't know what we should have done but for Mrs. M'Cosh."

"Mrs. M'Cosh? Who is she?" inquired Doris.

"A kind, good woman—a mason's wife—who lived in the same house with us. You know I stayed with a friend after mother died? That was Mrs. M'Cosh."

"Oh, how funny!" said Doris. "Fancy having a mason's wife for your friend! I wonder what grandfather would say to that?"

"He knows," Felicia replied, colouring, for there was derision in Doris's voice; "and he sent her a present on Saturday—a hamperful of nice things."

"The idea of his doing that! I am surprised," declared Doris.

"Why?" asked Molly; "of course, if this Mrs. M'Cosh was kind to Felicia, grandfather would feel grateful to her, wouldn't he, Miss Barton?"

"I should think so," the governess agreed, joining in the conversation for the first time.

"I should think not, judging from what I know of him," Doris persisted; "I should think he would want Felicia to have nothing more to do with her, if she is only a common woman. Why, he would have taken Felicia away from her own mother altogether—"

She paused, looking a little frightened, for she had said more than she had intended, and her eyes fell guiltily beneath Miss Barton's reproachful gaze. The fact was she was daily growing more and more jealous of Felicia, who she feared would have pleasures which would be denied to Molly and herself. She was jealous, not only because her grandfather had driven Felicia to T—, but because the little girl had dined with him afterwards. Neither she nor Molly had ever dined at the Priory in their lives. Then, too, she was jealous of Uncle Guy's showing a preference for Felicia's society; and because, in short, the cousin who she had really pitied, though, truth to tell, she had rather despised her by reason of her mother's lowly birth, appeared likely to become a general favourite.

"I don't believe grandfather would have taken her away from her mother really," said Molly; "that is, not against her mother's wish. Grandfather never means to be unkind, I'm sure. What's the matter with you, Doris? You're evidently very cross, and you don't know how ugly you look when you're in a bad temper."

"Hush, Molly!" chided Miss Barton; "don't try to tease your sister, my dear."

"Then Doris mustn't be nasty," Molly returned, glancing anxiously at Felicia who was looking much distressed. "I think if anyone had been kind to me I should be grateful—even if she was a mason's wife. But I daresay Doris wouldn't, for she's a bit of a snob at heart."

"Molly," flashed out Doris, "how dare you say so!"

"Molly, Molly, I will not have you speak of your sister in that way," Miss Barton said sternly.

"Well, it's true what I've said," Molly declared; "Doris wouldn't make a friend of anyone who doesn't live in a nice house, and—"

"Don't I visit the villagers sometimes with mother?" broke in Doris indignantly.

"Yes; but that's different—"

"Oh, children, children, don't wrangle!" interposed Miss Barton; "what is there for you to get so angry about? I am sorry though, Doris, to hear you speaking of someone as 'common' again, for it is an ill-bred mode of speech, as I have told you before. I am surprised at you. I think if you remembered that every time you bend your knees in prayer it is to worship Him who, when He lived on this earth, was regarded as only a common man, a carpenter's son, one who made His friends mostly amongst common people, such as fishermen and those of the labouring classes, you would speak with greater respect of working folks."

Doris hung her head in sudden shame, whilst Felicia's face cleared of the shadow which had overspread it, and Molly said gravely—

"Father says we ought not to judge people by their position in life, or by their money, because those are things that pass away."

"Yes, but goodness remains, and it crops up often where we least expect it," Miss Barton replied.

"Oh, yes!" agreed Felicia eagerly. "I am certain if you saw Mrs. M'Cosh—she is very plain, and has a big red face—and heard her gruff voice, you would think she was a grumpy old thing, and really she's one of the dearest, kindest souls in the world. I am sure if Doris knew her she would think so too."

"Do tell us some more about her," said Molly; "why have you never spoken of her before?"

"I—I did not quite like to speak to you about how very, very poor we used to be," admitted Felicia; "and I couldn't talk much of Mrs. M'Cosh without speaking of that."

A few minutes later the dinner-bell rang, and the conversation was not resumed afterwards. When Felicia returned to the Priory at four o'clock she was in a somewhat depressed condition of mind, which had been brought about by the knowledge, which had become more and more apparent to her during the day, that her elder cousin had a grievance against her. She could not imagine what it could be; but she was certain she had somehow offended Doris.

On entering the house she found a letter awaiting her, and on opening it saw it was from Mrs. M'Cosh. It ran as follows, in a laboured handwriting:—

"MY DEAR MISS FELICIA,"
"You cannot tell what a great pleasure
it was to master and me to receive your letter.
I was that glad I could have cried. It is so
good to know you are well cared for, and that
everyone is kind to you."

"Your grandfather is not in the least like
what I had pictured him, or like what your poor,
dear mother imagined him to be. I am sure he
will do his duty by you. I am sorry to hear your
uncle is such an invalid—maybe God means you to be
a comfort to him, my dear. Both master and I are
glad you have an aunt and cousins, and that you
like them so much. Fancy the lady who gave you
those lilies being your governess! It is wonderful."

"And now I must speak of the present you sent
us, which arrived quite safe. I never received such
a hamperful of good things in my life before.
The butter and cream were most delicious, and the
fowl was the best I ever tasted; and not one of the
eggs was smashed—master said they looked as though
they had been laid by country hens, but, of course,
that was only his joke. Thank you again and again,
and please thank Mr. Renford, for I know he must
have had something to do with sending us such a
handsome present."

"On Saturday evening master and I walked to the
cemetery, and master clipped the grass which is
growing nicely on your dear mother's grave. Oh, you
mustn't grieve for her more than you can help, for
she's gone to a world where she's better off than
the richest of us here, and I know she'd wish you
to be happy—happy and good."

"And now, my dear, I have no news to tell, for
master and I go on just the same as usual, so I will
bring my letter to a close. Please give my best
respects to Mr. Renford. Dear Miss Felicia, good-bye,
and remember—don't think me bold for saying it, seeing
how things have changed for you lately—you haven't
a truer well-wisher than your friend. MARIA M'COSH"

"She used to call me 'Felicia,' she calls me 'Miss Felicia' now," mused the little girl; "I suppose that's because things have changed for me lately, as she says. She seems to have been very pleased with her hamper; I'm so glad grandfather told me to send it. It was kind of Mr. M'Cosh to cut the grass on mother's grave. What is it Mrs. M'Cosh says, that mother's gone to a world where she's better off than the richest of us here? Oh, I'm sure of that! But I am glad she wrote it, and reminded me that mother would wish me to be happy—happy and good."