Chapter XXI: The Storm

THUS rudely awakened, Felicia sprang to her feet in fright, not realising where she was. It took her several minutes to recall what had happened, and by that time a flash of lightning had momentarily lit up her surroundings, and her first instinct was to get out of the woods as soon as possible, for she had heard it was extremely dangerous to be under trees during a thunderstorm. She stumbled along, scratching her hands in brambles as she felt the way before her, whilst the lightning flashed and the thunder roared like artillery overhead, and the heavy rain soaked through the cotton frock she was wearing; and the farther she went the more bewildered she became, until at length it dawned upon her that, unaided, it was most improbable she would be able to find her way out of the wood at all. Then a sense of despair seized her, and she shouted loudly for help, but no one came to her assistance. Who would be likely to be out in such a storm? At last, almost faint with fright, she sank upon her knees on the already sodden ground, and covering her face with her trembling hands, asked the protection of her Father in Heaven. God was with her, she knew; but oh! it was enough to strike awe to the bravest heart to be alone in such a spot during that terrific storm.

"It is no good my trying to find my way home," Felicia thought; "but perhaps grandfather will send to look for me—he must have heard me leave the house. I will shout once more."

She did so, and again there was no response; nevertheless, her voice had been heard. Though she was unaware of the fact, she was quite near the high road, along which two men were passing—one, a tall, young gipsy, the other, no other than old Harry Budd.

"I thought I heard someone shouting for help," observed the latter during the silence which followed a heavy peal of thunder; "who could it be? Shall we go and see?"

"Best be careful, Harry," advised the gipsy; "we don't want to fall into a trap and be found in the preserves, and that Brown is a wily one."

The old man grunted assentingly, but he seemed reluctant to proceed, and stood still listening.

"It sounded to me like a child's voice," he said; "you don't think your little maid has wandered into the woods and lost herself, do you?"

Poacher and vagabond though he was, the young man was an affectionate father, and the thought that his little daughter might have missed her way, and was terrified by the storm, roused him to go and ascertain if such was really the case. Bidding his companion wait for him, he disappeared over the hedge, into the wood beyond, and after a few minutes cautious search, he came upon Felicia drenched to the skin, the most forlorn-looking object possible. She had given up hoping any one would find her whilst the storm lasted, and therefore great was her relief of mind when the gipsy touched her on the shoulder as she crouched against the trunk of a tree, and asked her in accents of intense amazement what she did there alone.

"I've lost my way," she said tremulously; "oh, take me home! Take me home!"

"Why, it's the little lady from the Priory!" he exclaimed. "Come with me, miss; 'tis dangerous under the trees. Come."

Felicia grasped his strong, brown hand thankfully, and thus he led her through the wood the way he had come, and lifted her over the hedge into the road where old Harry Budd stood waiting.

"Am I far from the Priory?" asked Felicia anxiously.

"Right t'other side of the wood," said the gipsy, "you're nigh the common."

"How did you come to be out at this hour, and in this weather, missie?" questioned the old man curiously. "I recognise your voice; you're Mr. Renford's little grand-daughter, who's living with him now."

"Yes. Oh, please show me the way home. Grandfather and Uncle Guy will be wondering what has become of me, and—oh dear, my legs do shake so dreadfully! I can hardly stand."

"Best take shelter with my wife and the little ones till the storm's over," suggested the gipsy kindly.

"No, no!" cried Felicia in great distress, alarmed beyond measure at the idea. "I must go home at once—at once! Oh, please, don't prevent me!"

She felt a strong desire to run away, lest the gipsy should carry her off to his caravan against her will; but her legs refused to move. There was a singing in her ears, and utterly overcome with the exhausting emotions she had endured during the past two hours, for the first time in her life the little girl fainted, and fell forward on her face in the road.

When Felicia came to herself again, she was in bed in her own room at the Priory, and her aunt and Mrs. Price were with her; but the latter moved away as soon as she opened her eyes.

"How did I come here?" asked Felicia in a weak-sounding voice, as Mrs. Pring kissed her and told her she was better.

"Your grandfather fetched you, Felicia. Don't excite yourself. You lost your way in the storm, and a gipsy found you and sheltered you in his caravan, leaving you in the care of his wife whilst he came here with the news of what had become of you. You had knocked your head somehow—there is a bruise on your forehead—and were unconscious, so you know nothing about the drive home in the carriage. Lie still now and rest."

"Is grandfather very angry?" questioned Felicia.

"Not angry, but disappointed in you."

"He does not think I went purposely to the common again? Oh, Aunt Mary, let me tell you about everything, then you will understand!"

"Very well—if it will make you happier."

"Oh, it will, it will!" And in faltering tones Felicia told how she had befriended the gipsy children, refraining, however, from mentioning that Doris knew anything about the matter.

Mrs. Pring's countenance brightened as she listened, and when Felicia had finished her tale she kissed her affectionately.

"But why did you not tell my father at the time?" she very naturally inquired; "that would have been the straightforward course to have taken." Then, as the little girl made no response, she suggested kindly: "I will tell him how it happened that you disobeyed him, shall I?"

"Oh, Aunt Mary, will you?"

"Certainly, my dear. You should have been frank with him, and you would not have found him unreasonable. It is not to be wondered at that he was very angry when he thought you had determinedly laid yourself out to disobey him. You were a very foolish little girl to run off to the woods last evening, but I suppose you acted thoughtlessly. You gave us all a very anxious time."

"Is it morning now?" Felicia asked.

"Yes—nearly daybreak,"

"And you have been up with me all night, Aunt Mary?"

"Yes, my dear; there has been no sleep for anyone in the house. But I want you to rest now, and then I shall get a nap on the sofa myself. Take this, and try to sleep."

Felicia drank the milk her aunt offered her, and five minutes later she was in a deep sleep. The next day she was kept in bed, but in the afternoon she was allowed to see her grandfather.

"Why did you mistrust me, child?" he asked reproachfully, after he had inquired how she was, and had been satisfied with her answer that she was quite well, and would be about again on the morrow. "What made you think I should blame you for your impulsive kindness to those gipsy children? I am glad to find there was a good cause for your disobedience, but you should have told me, my dear."

"Yes, I know I ought," she faltered; "but I was so afraid that—that you would send me away from the Priory. I did not want to go away to be parted from Uncle Guy, and—and—" she paused in confusion.

"I admit I did once think of sending you to boarding-school—though I do not know who can have told you so—but certainly not of late. Guy would miss you, and I, too, should find the Priory lonely now without our ditch flower."

"Oh, how I love to hear you say that!" Felicia exclaimed happily; "I don't believe, grandfather, I shall ever be afraid to tell you anything again."

The following day Felicia arose at her usual time, and directly after breakfast paid a visit to her uncle. He received her with a warmth of affection which surprised and touched her.

"It was dreadful to lie here helpless thinking of you out in the thunder and lightning and rain," he said with a slight shudder; "I suppose you did not notice the storm coming because you were under the trees. What? You were asleep I Oh, you babe in the wood But seriously, Felicia, you must promise to be more careful of yourself in future, or I shall never have a moment's peace of mind when I do not know where you are. I suppose you were terribly alarmed?"

"Indeed I was," she admitted, "though I tried not to be. I shouted and shouted and no one came, and at last I knelt down and prayed, and remembered that God was everywhere, and that no harm could come to me against His will. I kept repeating, 'Thy will be done—Thy will be done—' mother used to call that the perfect prayer, because it's asking God for what's best for us when we don't know what's best ourselves. The storm confused me so that I couldn't think properly, and I was quite dazed by the time the gipsy found me, and then I was horrified when he spoke of taking me to his caravan. I thought grandfather would imagine I had gone there of my own accord. Everything seemed going against me."

"You might have confided in us about your visit to the common, Felicia; I have heard all about it from father. You should have trusted us; I cannot think why you did not. But there, don't look so distressed. Why, I declare your eyes are full of tears."

Felicia made no response, and by-and-by he continued—

"The gipsies left the common at daybreak this morning, and the district will be well quit of them, for of course they do steal the game, though in other ways I don't believe they are as bad as they are represented, and certainly no worse than old Harry Budd, who, in spite of calling them 'a thieving set,' appears to have been hand-and-glove with them all along. By the way, if you had had Lion with you the night before last he would have brought you home in safety, but they tell me he had been chained up all the afternoon so that he should not follow father into the preserves—he disturbs the game—and no one thought of releasing him. Poor old Lion, he lost an opportunity of distinguishing himself. However, all's well that ends well, and our ditch flower is safe—thank God."

The last two words were spoken almost in a whisper, but the little girl heard them with a sensation of mingled happiness and surprise, for she realised that from her uncle's lips they were no mere idle phrase. She felt certain that he really did thank God.