Chapter 11 The Squire's Little Girl by L. T. Meade
A very malignant form of scarlet-fever had showed itself already in the village, and the Rector’s children were some of the first victims. To say that Miss Fleet was shocked when she received Mrs Hilchester’s note would but lightly explain the state of that good woman’s feelings. She was so horrified that she forgot to scold Phyllis for her act, as she termed it, of disobedience; on the contrary, she flew to the little girl and clasped her in her arms, and said in a broken whisper:
“We must pray for your little sick friends. Let us kneel down here at once and pray.”
“Yes,” answered Phyllis in some surprise.
Miss Fleet fell on her knees, and Phyllis clasped her governess’s hand and looked up into her face.
What Miss Fleet said aloud was quite comprehensible to Phyllis and soothed her very much. She asked God that the sick children might recover, and she spoke of them with affection and again called them Phyllis’s friends. But what she did not say aloud was perhaps the most earnest part of her prayer, for in that she asked God to forgive her for not being as kind and sympathetic to Phyllis and to the Rectory children as she might have been, and she implored of God most earnestly the precious, most precious life of the only child.
That day a telegram reached Squire Harringay in Edinburgh. It was from the governess this time, and its purport was so grave that he decided to return home that day. He turned to the friend with whom he was transacting business and said:
“I have just had rather a nasty shock. You know, of course, that I have only one child, my little Phyllis, the apple of my eye, as you may well understand. Well, some children, friends of hers, have contracted a very bad sort of scarlet-fever, and she has been exposed this morning to direct infection. I hope that God will be merciful, and that the child may have escaped. But I am best at home, Lawson, and will leave here by the next train.”
Early the next morning Phyllis was made happy by the arrival of her father. He could not pet her too much, nor look at her too often, nor make enough fuss about her. Phyllis wondered why every one was now so kind, and why the children of the Rectory were spoken of as her dear little friends, not only by Nurse and Miss Fleet, but by every one in the house.
“But they were scarcely my friends. I mean—I mean,” said Phyllis as she sat on her father’s knee that evening—“I mean that I love them most awfully, but Fleetie did not wish me to love them. She would not have called them my friends; she did not until they got ill.”
“When they recover you shall see plenty of them,” said Mr Harringay; “and now, my darling, let us talk of something else.”
But Phyllis was not happy unless she was allowed to talk of the Rectory children. She told her father everything—all about that picnic tea in the attics, and poor Rosie’s longing for the rocking-horse and the baby-house.
“Could not they be sent to her—couldn’t they, Father? She would be so glad to have them; even if she was ill and her throat was sore, she could look at the rocking-horse and perhaps play with the baby-house.”
“No, no,” said the Squire. “No, no; we will keep them until she is well. But I will tell you what, Phyllis; we will have that baby-house down to-morrow, and you shall furnish it in the nicest and most fashionable style. You and Miss Fleet shall go out in the afternoon and buy new furniture for the entire house.”
“Yes, what a lovely idea!” said Phyllis, and the thought cheered her up.
But nevertheless she was very sad during the next few days. Those who loved her watched her with anxiety.
The children at the Rectory were very ill, and little Rosie especially was the one nigh unto death. There came a day when the doctor feared that little Rosie might not recover. It was Rose who had kissed Phyllis so passionately; it was Rosie who, if any one, had given the little girl the dreaded infection. Mr Harringay had a curious feeling that Phyllis’s life hung on the life of Rosie. He spent the entire day going between the Hall and the Rectory to make inquiries.
“Very ill. Very bad. Quite unconscious. Scarcely any hope. May last till the morning; not sure.”
Such were the varied bulletins. Mr Harringay did not dare to tell Phyllis how bad her little friend was. Ralph and Susie were already out of danger; it was Rose whose life hung in the balance. Early the next morning the Squire got up and went across the fields to the Rectory. He could scarcely bring himself to raise his eyes to see if the blinds were all down or not. He walked straight up to the door. There the Rector himself greeted him.
“Well, well?” said the Squire. “Speak, my dear friend; I can scarcely explain what I feel for you.”
The Rector grasped his hand.
“Better news,” he said; “she has slept for the last three or four hours; indeed, she is sleeping still. Both the doctor and nurse think that she may awake out of danger.”
“Thank God!” said the Squire.
He went back home. Although he had not entered the house, he would not meet Phyllis until he had completely changed his dress. He came down to breakfast. If Phyllis had taken the infection she ought to show some symptoms that morning. But Phyllis’s little fresh face looked as bonny and bright as ever, and her eyes were as clear and her appetite as keen. In a remarkable way the Squire began to feel the load which had rested so heavily on his heart begin to lift.
“Phyllis,” he said, “Rosie has been very ill, but I think she will get better.”
“Will God make her quite well if we ask Him?” said Phyllis to her father.
“Do ask Him, my child; do,” said the Squire.
Phyllis rushed out of the room. She came back presently and sat down in a contented way to her breakfast. She ate with appetite.
“Are you not anxious, Phyllis?” asked her father.
“Not now,” she said in a cheerful tone.
“I spoke to God, you know, and it is all right.”
“Bless the child,” said the Squire.
Late that day the news came that Rosie was out of danger.
“Then Phyllis was right,” said the Squire. He caught his little daughter to his heart, and kissed her many, many times.
After all Phyllis did escape, and the three children at the Rectory got well. Ned did not sicken at all with the dreaded fever. When they were well enough the Squire himself insisted on sending them to the seaside. There they got strong and brown and bonny, and came back with as gay spirits and as fond of Phyllis as ever. It was a very happy day when the Rectory children and Phyllis met once more in the old attic. The Squire was in their midst this time, and there was no naughtiness anywhere about, and Phyllis had found playmates at last.
The End.