Chapter XIX: Felicia's Story

TRUE to her promise, the following afternoon Felicia repaired to her uncle's rooms. On entering the sitting-room, however, she paused undecidedly, for she heard her grandfather's voice in the bedroom beyond.

"I am grieved to hear you speak thus," Mr. Renford was saying, "but, at any rate, think it over, Guy, and let me have your decision by-and-by, will you?"

"I tell you, father, I have made up my mind and there will be no changing it," was the response, irritably spoken.

Felicia was turning to retrace her footsteps, fearful of intruding, when the bedroom door opened and her grandfather came into the sitting-room, looking much agitated.

"Don't run away, child," he said kindly; "your uncle is expecting you; he tells me you are going to sit with him this afternoon."

"Yes, grandfather."

"That's right." He regarded her undecidedly for a moment, then added in a lower tone: "I want him to see another doctor—a specialist I've been bearing a great deal of lately—but he says he will not. Try if you cannot persuade him to change his mind." And without another word he went out of the room.

Felicia listened to his retreating footsteps in the corridor, then, as the sound of them died away, she entered her uncle's bedroom, and approached the bed.

She saw at a glance that the invalid was disturbed and in anything but a good-humour. The lines of ill-temper on either side of his mouth seemed more marked than usual, and there was a deep frown between his brows. In answer to her solicitous inquiries as to his health, he answered her somewhat testily—

"Better? Oh, yes. If I wasn't I should be dead by this time, I verily believe. I couldn't have lived to bear that pain much longer. There, child, don't look so grieved. I'm not suffering now, you know. Sit down where I can see you. That's right. Father's been here, worrying me to consent to see another doctor, but what's the good when—"

"It might be some good, Uncle Guy," Felicia broke in eagerly; "you cannot tell it would not; and grandfather wishes it so much."

"No doctor can straighten my back, child," he reminded her with a ring of bitterness in his voice.

"N—o—o," she answered reluctantly; "I suppose not. But, perhaps this doctor, if he is very clever, could give you some medicine to make you suffer less. If you could be spared pain, think what happiness that would be to grandfather—to us all."

"I am certain no doctor can do anything for me, and so I have told my father, and he quite understands I cannot be worried by a stranger. But there is no necessity for you and I to go into the matter, Felicia. Let us speak of something else. Have you been to the Vicarage to-day?"

"No; but Molly called me to join her in a walk this morning. We took Lion with us and went into the woods. The nuts are ripening, and there are such a quantity of blackberries. Do you know, I never saw blackberries growing before this year? Molly could hardly believe it. We met such a funny old man in the woods—Harry Budd, Molly called him; she spoke to him. Do you know him, Uncle Guy?"

"Oh, yes! He was a notorious poacher in years gone by."

"Was he?" exclaimed Felicia. "I should never have guessed that by the way he talked. Something was said about the gipsies, and he called them 'a thieving set.' How could he do that when he has been a poacher himself?"

"It is difficult to understand. He is a sly old fellow, I believe—judging from what I have heard my father say of him. But you were going to tell me about your mother, Felicia."

"Yes," she responded. She regarded him earnestly for a moment, then glanced away. "Do you really want to hear about her, Uncle Guy?" she questioned.

"Certainly. Did I not say so last night?"

"Yes. It—it would have been easier for me to have told you last night," she admitted.

"Why?"

"Because you were so gentle and kind then, and now you look so cross; and—and I heard you speaking sharply to grandfather just now; I wish you wouldn't, Uncle Guy, it makes him very sad."

"Poor father!" he sighed, the expression of his countenance softening. "As I told you before, Felicia, I am a great disappointment to him. If I really thought this specialist he wishes me to consult could do me the least good I would certainly see him, but I know mine is a hopeless case."

"Do see him, if only to please grandfather," pleaded Felicia in a coaxing tone.

"But I so dislike strangers—"

He paused undecidedly. The little girl was wise enough not to press the matter further; instead, she said—

"Do you want to hear about mother from the beginning—I mean from the time she was a tiny baby?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Tell the tale as you like, child; you will not fail to interest me."

"Well, the first place mother remembered was a large underground kitchen in a London lodging-house, and the first person she remembered was a little, old lady called Miss de Musset, who was always cooking at a great stove. Mother used to call Miss de Musset 'aunt,' but she was not related to her really, though she never knew that till she was a big girl. Mother was a foundling; those she belonged to deserted her and left her on the backdoor step of Miss de Musset's house, a little baby of about three months old, wrapped up in an old faded shawl, and Miss de Musset took her in and sent for the police, who wanted to carry her off to the workhouse, because they said it was most improbable her parents would be found, and they never were, you know."

"So Miss de Musset adopted your mother?"

"Yes. Years afterwards she told mother she had a feeling that God meant her to do it, and I think very likely He did, don't you? Well," Felicia continued, as her uncle made no response, "mother grew up with Miss de Musset, who was wonderfully kind and did all she could for her. Miss de Musset was a real lady, though she kept a lodging-house. Her father had been a French teacher, but her grandfather had been a Huguenot gentleman in France—"

"Ah!" exclaimed the invalid, a gleam of comprehension crossing his face which had worn a slightly puzzled expression, "he was an émigré, no doubt, who had been driven from his native country on account of his religious and political opinions. I understand. Go on, Felicia."

"Miss de Musset had very few acquaintances, but there was an old gentleman who used to come and see her called Monsieur Du Bellay; he would bring a violin with him which he used to play in the kitchen whilst she was preparing her lodgers' dinners. When mother was quite a little girl he taught her the violin, and she used to practise in the kitchen, and they all used to be very merry together."

"I can picture the scene."

"Always on Sundays, Miss de Musset would take mother to church," the little girl proceeded, "and generally they attended a French Protestant church, which I don't suppose you ever heard of, Uncle Guy. Miss de Musset used to love the service there, because it was all in French, and mother said the congregation was always very reverent. Most of those who worshipped there were working people whose ancestors had suffered for the sake of their religion in France, because they had been Huguenots. Often Monsieur Du Bellay would go to the French Protestant church, too, and then he would go home to supper with Miss de Musset and mother. He earned his living by teaching music and singing, and it was he who trained mother's voice."

"Miss de Musset had become an old woman by the time mother had grown up, and mother was so glad to be able to earn money, because the lodging-house did not pay so well as it had. Then Miss de Musset died, and soon after that mother married father, who had been one of Miss de Musset's lodgers, as you know, Uncle Guy. At first she was very happy, but afterwards she thought she had done wrong in marrying, because grandfather was so angry; he would not let father bring mother here or have anything to do with her, and she was very unhappy, though she loved father dearly—so dearly that when he died she thought her heart would break. Then grandfather wanted to take me away from her—oh, I know now he wouldn't have done it against her will!—and she determined she would never give me up, but work for me, and—and she did. I have often heard her say that if she was ever troubled or depressed, she had only to think of a verse in the Twenty-seventh Psalm to be quite comforted—'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' It had been so true in her case, you know. God had found her a friend when she had been a poor little deserted baby, and she always had faith that He would do everything for the best."

"What became of the old Frenchman—Monsieur Du Bellay?"

"He is dead now. Oh, I remember him so well! He was very tall, with white hair, and such kind, dark eyes; he had rather a grave way of talking, and sometimes he looked very sad. I liked him so much, he was so kind. When he died he left mother all the money he had."

"It was not much, I conclude?"

"No, not quite twenty pounds after the expenses of his illness and funeral had been paid. Mother felt his death dreadfully, and so did I. I shall always remember the night he died. Mother took me to see him; he was sitting in an easy-chair by the fire in his bedroom, and I knelt down by his side, and he put both his hands on my head and said: 'The Lord bless thee and keep thee, little one'—and an hour after we had gone he died."

"You have had some sad partings in your life, Felicia," her uncle said gently.

Felicia nodded. There were tears in her blue eyes, but the expression of her face was not altogether a sorrowful one, for she was thinking of the land that is very far off, and whilst her uncle's mind dwelt on the sadness of earthly life, her faith had carried her beyond this world into the presence of the King in His beauty; for hers was the sure and certain hope of everlasting life.