Chapter 9 The Squire's Little Girl by L. T. Meade
Phyllis was so tired after her day of exciting adventure that she slept quite soundly. She had no bad dreams in her sleep, and when she awoke in the morning and looked round her pretty, cosy room—with Nurse standing not far off ready to wait on her, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and her bath and all her other comforts close at hand—she raised herself on her elbow and gave a sigh of content.
“How nice you look, Nursey!” she said.
“How that pretty dress becomes you! What a darling, dear sort of face you have, Nursey; and how much I love you!”
But as she said the last words her happiness was changed into a sigh, for memory had returned.
“Oh Nursey!” she said, with a sort of groan, “I had forgotten just for a minute. Oh! I was such a miserable little girl yesterday, and Fleetie was so angry; but I have promised her, and for two whole days I will keep my promise. Do you think by any chance Father will be back at the end of two days?”
Now, Nurse had no very keen love for Miss Fleet. To begin with, she was jealous of her. Before Miss Fleet came on the scene she had Phyllis all to herself. It was she who superintended the little girl’s work and play; it was she who petted her and loved her and made her happy. With Miss Fleet’s advent these things changed; and although the good woman was far too sensible not to know that it was right that her dear little lady should have the best instruction in the world, yet there were times when she did not think that Miss Fleet quite understood Phyllis; the present occasion was one of these. If Phyllis had slept soundly all night—had slept the sleep of absolute exhaustion—Nurse had often awoke, and once even, drawn by a low, deep sigh from the little sleeper, had got out of bed, lit a candle, and scanned the small white face with no little anxiety.
“If this sort of thing goes on she will do for her, sweet little darling,” thought the nurse. “She wants to cram her dear little head with all sorts of useless knowledge, and never once, never for a minute to think that the lamb needs play and laughter and companions. Why, bless her! it did my heart good to hear her laughing yesterday, when she and those young romps found their way to the big attic. Well did I guess what they were after, the termagants, and small idea had I of telling madam where they were. I wonder now what I can do to cheer up my little pet!”
So when Phyllis the next morning had looked piteously at Nurse, and had asked if her father was at all likely to be back within two days, Nurse had put a large bath-towel over the can of hot water, had stirred up the fire, and then, going close to the little girl, had spoken.
“You tell me all about it, darling,” she said—“all, every single thing about it. The Squire did not a bit want to go to London, but it was business took him there. Why do you want him to be back so mortal bad in two days’ time?”
Phyllis’s face turned first red and then pale.
“Because I made a promise,” she said, then slowly, “and the promise hurts me awfully; but it was only for two days. If Father stays longer away I know I shall get very naughty again. Nursey, I mean to be naughty; I mean to be. I will have them back again, Nursey, and I will give them every sort of thing they want; and I will go and see them, and I will disobey her. Oh! it is horrid of me, but I have not kept back anything from her. She knows quite well what she has to expect; I have been fair to her, and she knows—it is for two days. It is what you call an—an amnesty—is not that a long word?—and it is just for two days.”
“Oh, but, my pet, you ought not to be naughty, you know,” said Nurse, who felt she must read a little moral lecture to her charge. “It is I, darling, who would like to give you companions and every other mortal thing you want; but there, my pet, the governess is set over you by the master, and I suppose you must obey her.”
“For two days, yes,” said Phyllis.
She did not say any more, but a very heavy sigh escaped her lips.
Nurse and she then plunged into the mysteries of her toilet, and at the usual breakfast-hour a very sprucely dressed, nice-looking little girl joined her governess in the schoolroom.
Meanwhile the children of the Rectory were having very varied opinions with regard to Phyllis. Rosie announced that she thought Phyllis quite the most captivating and beautiful little girl in the world; but Susie, who had been even more fascinated, announced gravely that she thought Phyllis, for all her fascinations, was in the wrong.
“It was delightful to steal up into the attic and have our stolen tea,” she said, “and to be promised those lovely, most, most fascinating playthings; but all the same what a state she had that governess of hers in! And—well, anyhow, Rosie, I would not do that sort of thing to my own mother. I would not be deceitful to her, and have friends when she did not approve.”
“As if that horrid Miss Fleet could be compared to our mother!” said Rosie somewhat hotly. “There, Sue, you are talking nonsense, and I am not inclined to listen.”
As to the boys, they declined absolutely to discuss Phyllis; Ralph felt that he was in a sort of fashion Phyllis’s chosen prince.
“We do not understand, and we cannot pretend to,” he said. “She will see us again when the right time comes; there is nothing I would not do for her, of course, but I cannot talk of it.”
Susie burst into a merry laugh, and Rose looked attentively at her brother. Ralph turned on his heel; he felt very like a knight of ancient romance, and Phyllis was the fair lady whom he was to rescue. He did not like to own it to himself, but he was very much hurt at the way things had gone, and very much puzzled with regard to Phyllis’s extraordinary behaviour; and he wondered how things were going to end. At school that morning he was not quite so attentive as usual, and went down a place in his form, and altogether did his lessons in that unsatisfactory way which is the usual result of being absent-minded. Instead of joining his brother and Susie and Rosie for their usual walk, he slipped away by himself, and of course he went in the direction of the Hall. He often peered through the trees to catch a glimpse of the dear little figure of Phyllis dressed in its pretty brown, with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. At last, to his great delight, he saw her walking by herself in the distance. She was walking slowly, and evidently was lost in thought. The sight of her was more than Ralph could withstand. He ran fast, and soon was standing breathless and excited by her side.
“Oh Phyllis!” he said. “Oh Phyllis!”
Phyllis turned at once when she saw him, and her rosy cheeks got white, and there came a very puzzled look into her eyes.
“Ralph,” she said, “I cannot explain anything. You must go away. No, I cannot give you any message. I have promised, and I must—yes, I must keep my word. Perhaps some day you will know, and I can tell you. No, I won’t say another word. Go away, please—please.”
There was something not only entreating but also commanding in Phyllis’s face, and Ralph knew at once that he must obey her. He turned, therefore, very disconsolately, walked about twenty yards, and then looked back.
“Have you anything to say?” he cried.
“No,” she answered; “and I won’t even speak if you ask me another question, for I have promised, and I must keep my word.”