Chapter 10 The Squire's Little Girl by L. T. Meade
Nurse did not often take the bit between her teeth, as she expressed it, but the time had now come when, in her opinion, she ought to do so. Accordingly she made an excuse to go into the town soon after breakfast, and sent off a telegram on her own account to the Squire.
The little message was worded as follows:—
“Dear Master,—If you cannot come back in two days, please send for Miss Phyllis to town. Urgent.—Nurse.”
This rather startling telegram reached the Squire in London about the middle of the day. Now, it so happened that he had made arrangements not only not to return to the Hall in two days’ time, but, further, to go with a friend on special and urgent business to Scotland. They would both be travelling about a good deal, and to have Phyllis with them would be absolutely impossible; so the Squire contented himself with writing a long letter to Nurse, and giving her an address which would find him in case of need, and enclosing a five-pound note, which was to be spent on any special thing which Phyllis liked best to have. He also wrote to Miss Fleet, not, of course, alluding to Nurse’s telegram, but speaking with great affection about his child.
“You must be as good to her as ever you can,” he said. “I need scarcely say that I know you will be. I am sorry to be so long away from the dear child, but she will have her little friends, and doubtless their company will do much to sweeten her life.”
This letter Miss Fleet received the following morning. She read it deliberately. Phyllis watched her face all the while.
“Well,” said Phyllis, who had been as good as gold on the previous day, “when is Father coming back?”
“He does not say a word about coming back, Phyllis. Oh yes, though; he says in his postscript that we must expect him when we see him.”
“Then he will not be back to-morrow night?”
“Certainly not, dear. He is going to Scotland.”
Phyllis’s face turned very white. Miss Fleet looked full at her.
“My dear,” she said, “you have pleased me much by your conduct yesterday, and I trust until your father’s return you will be equally good; then I shall have a delightful report to render him.”
Phyllis made no remark. She would keep her word, certainly, as far as it went, but to-morrow she fully meant to see the children of the Rectory. This night would end the second day of her promise; she would consider herself free the next morning. With all her faults she was a very honest child. She looked full at Miss Fleet now.
“I won’t deceive you,” she said. “I made you a promise, and I will keep it; but, please, you can understand that my promise ends to-night. I mean that when this time to-morrow arrives, I won’t have made you any promise with regard to being good or bad.”
As Phyllis uttered these words the governess’s eyes rested on that portion of the Squire’s letter which expressed satisfaction at his little girl’s having companions to play with.
“If he knew,” thought Miss Fleet, “what thoroughly naughty children they are, he would certainly approve of my determination not to allow Phyllis to have anything to do with them. Yes, I must be guided by my own common-sense in the matter.”
Miss Fleet therefore now looked full up at the little girl, and said slowly and gently:
“All the same, I do not think you will make me unhappy while your father is away.”
Some one called the governess hastily; she ran out of the room. Phyllis continued her breakfast, feeling extremely discontented.
“Oh, I do wish Dad would come back!” she said to herself. “It is more than horrid to have him away. What am I to do? I know he would not mind my playing with the children.”
As these thoughts came to her, she saw her father’s letter lying upon Miss Fleet’s plate. Phyllis was a thoroughly honourable child, and she would not have read the letter for worlds, but just then, as if to tempt her to the uttermost, a puff of wind came in through the open window. The letter, written on thin paper, fluttered to the floor, and as Phyllis sprang to pick it up, her eyes fell on the very words she was not meant to see. She turned very white, and a look of resolution crossed her face.
“So Father approves. Then I am quite right, and I will disobey to-morrow,” she thought.
She put the letter back on Miss Fleet’s plate, and a moment later her governess came in.
“Fleetie,” said the little girl, “do you know what has happened since you left the room? This letter was blown off your plate by a gust of wind. I jumped up to put it back again, and I saw the words in which Father said that he was glad that I had playmates, so after that of course you will not object to my playing with the Rectory children?”
Miss Fleet’s face turned very red.
“Am I to believe this story or not, Phyllis?” she said. “Is it possible that you did not read the letter on purpose?”
“I have told you just the very exact truth,” replied Phyllis. “You can believe it or not, as you please.”
She then got up and marched out of the room.
“Dear, dear!” thought Miss Fleet, “how very difficult it is sometimes to know what is right!”
The rest of the day passed quietly, and Phyllis was still a model child. She did her different lessons to the absolute satisfaction of her governess, and the time slipped by quickly.
“We have had a happy day,” said Miss Fleet as she kissed the little girl just before her bed-hour. “I hope it is a forerunner of many others just as happy.” Phyllis looked full at her, but did not speak. Miss Fleet tried hard to read the thoughts which were behind those frank grey eyes. Presently the little girl left the room and went to bed.
The next morning she awoke very early. She had a curious sense of something delightful, and, at the same time, very disagreeable, which was happening. At first her memory would not serve her right, but then it rushed back, and she knew everything.
“I have been good for two days, and I have not promised to be good for another instant,” she said to herself. “I can do what I like to-day, and Father wants me to play with the Rectory children.”
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at a little clock on the mantelpiece. She wondered why Nurse had not come in to dress her as usual. The clock pointed to a quarter past seven. The first rays of the wintry light were streaming in at the window. Phyllis got softly up and washed herself after a fashion, got into her clothes, and before Nurse appeared on the scene was already out. She walked quickly in the direction of the Rectory; excitement filled her breast; she was intensely interested in what she was about to do. Should she by any chance meet Ralph! How glad she would be to spring to his side, and to say:
“It is all right now, Ralph. I have kept my promise, and we can play together quite happily this afternoon.”
But there was no Ralph about; nor was there any Susie or Rosie. She presently reached the Rectory gates, and walked up the avenue. She had started out without her breakfast, and she was very hungry, and it occurred to her that she might ask Mrs Hilchester to give her something to eat.
“Of course, I cannot stay long,” she thought. “I must be honourable whatever happens. I must be back with Miss Fleet in time for lessons. Then in the afternoon the children can come over to me, and we can have a real good time.” But all Phyllis’s gay resolves and all her plans for the afternoon were suddenly put a stop to by the appearance of a gentleman who was driving down the avenue. He stopped when he saw the little girl, and put his head out.
“Are you not Miss Harringay?” he said. “Yes; I thought so. Please, do not go up to the Rectory.”
“Why not?” said Phyllis.
“I have just been there, and two of the children are not well. Pray, go home as quickly as possible. May I give you a seat in my carriage? It is rather early for a little girl like yourself to be out.”
“No, thank you,” answered Phyllis, with dignity.
She felt angry with the doctor, who had often seen her on her pony, and had recognised her at once.
What business had he to interfere? And if the children were ill, it was all the more reason why she should go and find out about them.
So she waited until his carriage had turned an angle of the avenue, and then, putting wings to her feet, ran up in the direction of the house. The hall door was wide open. She rang the bell. No one attended to her summons. She heard voices in the distance—the quick voice of Mrs Hilchester as she bustled about. Then a child came down the stairs—a child with a rosy face, and with marks of tears round her eyes. The moment she saw Phyllis she rushed to meet her.
“Oh, Phyl! Phyl!” she exclaimed. “It is Ralph, and he is very ill. We do not know what he has got, we don’t; and the doctor does not know, but he thinks perhaps he has something bad; and Susie is ill too. Oh! her throat is so sore, and the doctor says—”
But what further Rosie would have uttered was fiercely interrupted. Mrs Hilchester came out and stood in the hall.
“Rosie,” she said, “how dare you! Who is this little girl?”
“I am Phyllis Harringay,” answered Phyllis stoutly. “And,” she added, “I am very sorry to hear that Ralph is ill. Please, may I come and sit with him, and tell him funny stories, and amuse him; and may I see Susie? I am so fond of them both, and of Rosie too. Oh, please, please let me!”
Mrs Hilchester fairly gasped.
“Two days ago,” she said, “you would not have come here. Two days ago you invited my children to go to you, and then sent a note telling them not to come. Two days ago your governess was here—a most offensive person—and now, now you come. Do you think we want you here? Go away at once—at once—and get your nurse to change your things, and— Here, I will write her a note. Go out, child, and stand in the open air. Oh, this is too distracting!” Mrs Hilchester disappeared into her little sitting-room. There she wrote a few lines, folded them up, sprayed them with a sanitas spray which stood near, and put them into an envelope. She gave the envelope to Phyllis.
“Take that back with you,” she said, “and do not come near the place for the present.”
“But I am so sorry,” said poor little Phyllis, and her bright eyes filled with tears.
“There, dear, there; I know you mean all right. But go now, for Heaven’s sake!—Rosie, my dear, come with me.”
Phyllis and Rosie looked longingly one at the other for the world of things they could talk about, for the world of sympathy each could have shown to the other; but for a reason unknown to either little girl, it was dangerous for them to meet. Phyllis walked very sadly back to her own home; her mother took Rosie into the parlour.
“You and Ned are going to your uncle Joe’s as soon as ever your father can take you,” she said. “If you are at all ill, or you have the slightest headache, you are to be sent back here; but there is just a possibility that you may escape. And now, my dear little girl, don’t go upstairs, and don’t talk to any one as you have just spoken to poor little Miss Harringay. You were very imprudent. Did I not tell you that you were not to speak to any other child?”
“But, oh, Mother! she looked so sweet, and she did promise the rocking-horse, and the baby-house, and—and I could not help myself, Mother, I could not really.”
“Well, don’t cry, child. Sit down and eat your breakfast. God help us all, I only trust you have escaped infection, and that she, poor little girl! has not received it from you.”
Mrs Hilchester left the room. Rosie sat down close to the fire; she did not like to own it to herself, but her head did ache just a tiny bit, and her throat felt dry, and it hurt her to swallow, and as to eating her breakfast, she could not even think of such a thing. Oh! it would be very dreary at Uncle Joe’s, even though Ned would be with her. She would think all the time of Susie’s burning eyes as she looked at her out of her little bed, and hear her cry for “water, water,” as she, Rosie, had administered it to her at intervals all night; and however hard she tried to shut her ears, she would hear Ralph’s groans in his sickroom close by. Oh, what was the use of going away? Of course, she was not ill, and it would be horrid at Uncle Joe’s; and suppose—suppose Phyllis got ill! But of course she would not. Why should she? If only she might go and stay with Phyllis at the Hall? If only she could find her way to the attic where the rocking-horse and the baby-house were! But, of course, Mother would not agree to that.
“Rosie, wake up,” said her mother; “you are half asleep, dear. Why do you not take your breakfast?”
“I am not hungry, Mother.”
“Does your head ache?”
“Yes, Mother, a little.”
“How is your throat?”
“It only hurts a very little. I am all right, Mother. Is that the cab at the door? Are we to go?”
“Wait a moment, my dear.”
Mrs Hilchester went into the hall. Her husband was waiting to take Ned and Rosie away with him.
“Well,” he said, “are the children ready? I really must be off; there is a wedding at twelve o’clock to-day, and it is some distance to my brother’s.”
“Rosie cannot go,” said poor Mrs Hilchester.
“What! is she bad too?”
“I fear it; I greatly fear it. We cannot send her away until we are sure.”
“Well, anyhow, Ned is all right. Jump into the cab, Ned, and let us be off.”