Chapter IX: First Days at the Priory

AT Mrs. Price's suggestion, Felicia spent her first afternoon at the Priory in going over the house. It was a rambling abode, for it had been added to on several occasions. The wing in which were Mr. Guy's rooms was comparatively modern, but much of the house was very old, notably the big dining and drawing rooms, the windows of which opened upon a smooth, well-kept lawn. In the flower-garden adjoining the house were the ruins of a chapel, some of the massive walls of which still stood firm, overgrown with moss and ivy.

It was Ann White who took Felicia over the house, and afterwards escorted her for a short walk in the grounds. The latter discovered that the water she had remarked from her bedroom window was a small, artificial lake, on which a pair of swans and a lot of ducks were disporting themselves on this fine, summer afternoon. The little girl was much interested, but rather over-awed by all she saw, for the Priory appeared a magnificent home in her eyes, quite a palatial residence, in fact. It was difficult to realise that her father had been born and brought up in this stately old house, or that the rooms, over which a melancholy stillness seemed to hang, had ever resounded with the echo of children's footsteps and children's laughter. Perhaps some such thoughts were in Ann's mind, too, for as they crossed the lawn on their way back to the house, she remarked—

"It will be pleasant to have a child about. I'm glad you've come, miss."

"Are you?" questioned Felicia, her pale face brightening.

"Yes," the girl nodded. "The place is strange to you now, and I daresay it strikes you as big and lonely, but by-and-by you'll grow to love it. I'm sure you will."

Felicia sighed, for she had grave doubts if such would be the case. The house filled her with a sensation of nervousness which she had never experienced elsewhere; she would rather have had the tiniest room than the large, handsomely furnished apartment she had occupied on the previous night.

Late in the evening Mr. Renford returned. He sent for Felicia at once, and interviewed her in his study. He had spent the day in Bristol, he explained, and had verified her statements.

"I have seen Mrs. M'Cosh, and have brought back all your possessions," he said. "In future, your home will be here, and I hope you will be a good, obedient girl. I think you are a truthful one. To-morrow I will introduce you to your aunt and cousins, and to your Uncle Guy—"

"Oh, I have seen him!" Felicia interposed quickly.

"Seen him?" he echoed. "Whom?"

"Uncle Guy. We—we had a long talk together, and I had dinner—lunch, I mean—with him in his sitting-room. I—I did not know I had an uncle before to-day."

"No? Then your mother told you nothing about your father's relations?"

She shook her head. "Did Mrs. M'Cosh send me no message?" she asked wistfully.

"Let me see. Yes. She sent her best respects, and desired me to assure you she would see your mother's grave was not neglected. By the way, I settled with her for the expenses of your mother's funeral, so you are no longer under any obligation to her on that account. She would take nothing else from me."

Mr. Renford looked a little annoyed as he spoke; he would have liked to have drawn a cheque for an amount which he would have considered sufficiently large to pay Mrs. M'Cosh for all the trouble she had been put to in connection with his grand-daughter, but he had not been allowed to do that. Felicia was beginning to thank him for what he had done, when he cut her short, and dismissed her.

Immediately she was out of his sight and the study door closed behind her, she flew upstairs to her own room, where she spent the next half-hour in unpacking her box, which she found awaiting her. She put her clothes away in the wardrobe, wondering what the servants would think of them, for they were patched and darned, and of the cheapest quality. Then she shed some tears over her mother's Bible, which she placed on the table by the bedside, meaning to use it herself for the future, and sobbed bitterly at the sight of her mother's workbox, containing the simple tools which had helped to earn their daily bread.

"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried in an agony of grief, "why did God let you die? Oh, I never, never can be happy without you!"

She wept until her head ached, feeling utterly friendless and alone in the world. Life seemed so dark and dreary, and she dreaded the future with her grandfather and Uncle Guy. Thoroughly exhausted at last, she flung herself by the side of the bed and prayed, and by-and-by comfort came to her, as it surely comes to every soul that holds communion with God.

The next morning she breakfasted with her grandfather. She was far from being at her ease with him, for she was conscious he was observing her closely, and that made her unusually shy and awkward. Her hands trembled so much with nervousness that she spilt some drops of coffee on the spotless table-cloth, and she was so overcome with confusion at the sight of the ugly, brown stains, that the tears rose to her eyes, and she had some difficulty in retaining her composure.

"Never mind, child," Mr. Renford said, noticing and pitying her embarrassment, "that's nothing. Why, you're actually shaking! What a nervous little creature you seem to be!"

She was very thankful when the meal was over. Afterwards her grandfather sent her to fetch her hat, and informed her he was going to take her for a walk. Accompanied by Lion they went down the carriage drive, and ten minutes later found them at the front door of the Vicarage, which was opened by the Vicar himself.

"I saw you coming from my study window," he explained. "Mary and the children are in the kitchen garden gathering raspberries for preserving. Come in and I'll send for them. This—" and he bent his gaze on the little girl as he spoke—"is, I suppose, Felicia?"

"Yes," Mr. Renford answered; "she is very like her father in features, you will see."

The Vicar took Felicia's hand and pressed it cordially. He had dark, near-sighted eyes, grave and kindly in expression, and Felicia returned his smile with one so frank and bright that her grandfather was surprised at the difference it made to her face—hitherto she had seemed on the verge of tears.

Mr. Pring led the way into the dining-room, and there they were presently joined by his wife and little daughters. Felicia decided she would like her aunt, who greeted her with a warmth and goodwill which touched her sorrowful heart, and her cousins expressed themselves glad to see her, too, especially Molly, who sat down by her side and entered into conversation with her at once.

"Do you think you will like living at the Priory?" was the first question Molly asked.

"I—I hardly know," was the doubtful response.

"It's a dear old place. I love it, and so does Doris. I expect you'll be a bit lonely there at first, though, until you get to know grandfather better. You are fond of animals, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I thought you must be, because grandfather told us how Lion took a fancy to you at once, and animals never like those who are not fond of them. I have lots of pets—rabbits, guinea-pigs, and white mice. Doris doesn't care for pets, but I am sure you do."

Felicia soon grew at her ease with Molly, and forgot that her grandfather's eyes were upon her. Though she did not talk much herself, she evinced great interest in her cousin's remarks; and, being a regular little chatterbox, Molly gave her a great deal of information concerning herself and her family, so that she was quite sorry when her grandfather said she must return with him to the Priory, and declined to allow her to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage.

"You will have plenty of time with your cousins later on," Mr. Renford said to Felicia as they were going home; "and I promised Guy you should spend an hour or so with him this afternoon. Your uncle appears interested in you, and I am sure if your society gives him any pleasure I shall be very glad. Poor Guy! he misses his mother sadly."

"Oh, I know he must!" she cried earnestly, deepest sympathy in her tone. "I am so very sorry for him. It must be terrible to be always ill. Does he never leave the house?"

"Sometimes he may stroll out into the sunshine for a short while, but he never goes outside our own grounds. He has not been downstairs for weeks now. I wish I could rouse him. In his mother's lifetime he used to join us at meals, but now he takes them in his own sitting-room."

There was an expression of sadness and regret on her grandfather's countenance which appealed to the little girl's heart. She reflected that he, too, must have been very lonely since her grandmother's death, and she was sorry for him. Did she not herself know what it meant to lose one's best-beloved by death? She would have liked to have put her sympathy into words, but she was far too shy to make the attempt.

During the next few days she saw her uncle every afternoon. Sometimes he kept her with him for a long while; sometimes he merely had a few minutes' conversation with her. He appeared capricious, but so far she had seen no exhibition of the temper which Ann had mentioned.

About a week after her arrival at the Priory, Felicia passed a very happy day in the society of her relations at the Vicarage; and she was delighted to hear of an arrangement which her aunt informed her was likely to be made for her education, which was that she should be taught with her cousins by their governess.

"In which case you will come here every morning, dine with us, and return to the Priory at four o'clock," Mrs. Pring explained. "It is not quite settled, because we have not yet consulted Miss Barton about it, but I imagine she will raise no objection to our plan. She will be back next week, for her mother, whom she went home to nurse, is much better and able to do without her now. I see you like the idea of studying with your cousins, my dear."

"Oh, yes," Felicia replied earnestly. "I—I went to the Board School in Bristol before mother grew very ill. Mother said I must be educated and she had no money to pay school fees for me. It was different before her bad illness. Oh, if it had not been for that, I believe she would be living still! Oh, Aunt Mary, you don't know how people suffer when they are very, very poor!" And the tears fell whilst Mrs. Pring realised that there were memories from her little niece's past which nothing would ever blot out.