"No, grandfather, I remembered; but—oh, do let me explain! I am not so much to blame as you think. Oh, I ought to have told you, I know, but I was afraid you—you—"
She stopped her broken confession, unable to proceed further, and burst into tears, looking the picture of guilt and distress.
"I have been too indulgent to you," Mr. Renford said coldly, "and you have presumed on my kindness to disobey me. You need a tighter rein, I perceive, and you shall have it. I must—"
But Felicia waited to hear no more. Sobbing bitterly she left the study and rushed across the hall, opened the front door, and fled into the garden. Poor little girl, she had gone into her grandfather's presence with such a happy heart, conscious that she was carrying him good news, and now she was filled with misery and despair. He would send her away from the Priory, of that she was certain. Oh, would she ever forget the hard, cold expression of anger on his face? He would never trust her again, but always regard her with suspicion. Oh, why had she not been frank with him and told him all that had transpired between herself and the gipsies? He might have blamed her then, but not so much as he did now, for he would have understood the circumstances which had led to her disobedience. His words so harshly spoken, "You have presumed on my kindness to disobey me," kept sounding in her ears. Oh, what an ungrateful girl she must be in his sight!
Felicia, forgetful that she wore no hat, when she reached the gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, went straight on, and never-slackened her pace till she found herself in the thick woods where she and Molly had spent the morning. There, panting and exhausted, she flung herself on the mossy ground at the foot of a spreading beech tree, and tried to restrain her grief; but she sobbed heart-brokenly long after her tears had ceased to flow. At length, quite worn out, she lay still watching the golden leaves flutter from the branches overhead. By-and-by her eyelids drooped, and just as the rays of the September sun disappeared in the west, she fell into a deep sleep, from which she was awakened an hour later by a heavy peal of thunder and raindrops on her face.
[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.