Chapter Seven.When happy times are wrong and come to an end, one generally goes through some bad moments. This was the case on the special occasion which I am describing. Loud was the fun in the big attic, merry the laughter.The rattling of dolls’ cups and saucers, the popping of lemonade bottles, and the shrieks of mirth over each volley of wit had come to their height, when there came a loud knocking at the attic door. The knocking was immediately followed by the angry turning of the handle, and then by the excited voice of Miss Fleet.“Open the door immediately, you bad, bad children!” she exclaimed.“Oh Phyllis, can we hide anywhere?” said Susie.“No, no, Susie,” answered Phyllis; “we are found out, and we have got to pay for it. Well, I have enjoyed myself; haven’t you?”“If you don’t open the door immediately,” said Miss Fleet’s voice again, “I shall have it burst open.”“Yes, children, open the door directly,” said a sterner, older, graver tone; and then Ralph drew himself up, and Edward prepared for severe punishment, for it was the Rector’s voice which now was heard.“Give me the key, Phyl,” said Ralph, turning to the little girl. “I will say it was almost altogether my fault.”“You will do nothing of the kind, for it is not true,” said Phyllis.She turned very white, and her lips trembled. She did not like the bad moment which lay before her, but on no account was she going to excuse herself. So she marched—“just as if she were a queen, the darling,” said Susie, describing it afterwards—to the door and unlocked it, and flung it open, and stood with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her frock in disorder, facing the indignant but almost speechless Miss Fleet and the tall, burly figure of the Rector.“Well?” said Miss Fleet. “Well, and what have you to say for yourself?”“I know I have, been very naughty,” said Phyllis; “I know it quite well, and,”—her eyes danced—“and I’mnotsorry; no, I have had such a good time that I’m not sorry. As to the children of the Rectory, they are not a bit, not one scrap to blame. It was all my doing. I wrote a letter to Ralph when you forbade them all to come, for it was shabby of you; and, as you would not allow us to have tea properly downstairs, we had it here. That is all.”The Rector pushed past Phyllis and walked into the room.“Come, children,” he said. “Phyllis Harringay has made a very frank confession, and has tried to excuse you all; but I don’t excuse you, for you must have known that you did wrong to come here.”“Of course we did, Father,” said Ralph; “but at the same time,” he added, “when a girl writes to you, you know, and asks you to help her out of a mess, what is a fellow to do?”The Rector could not help smiling. “And oh, please, please, Mr Hilchester,” said Phyllis, “do ask Miss Fleet to forgive me! Do, do ask her!”“It will be quite useless,” said Miss Fleet. “I am determined that you shall be well punished.—I am obliged to you, Mr Hilchester, for coming to help me. I was really in such despair that I had to get some assistance.—Come, my dear.”She took Phyllis’s hand and dragged her from the room. Phyllis struggled; but Miss Fleet was a strong woman, and Phyllis had no chance. She left the four Rectory children behind her in the attic with all the delightful débris of the delightful feast, and went downstairs, down and down, into the proper part of the house, into the dull rooms and the dull routine of her life, knowing that she was naughty, and knowing that Miss Fleet had a perfect right to punish her.Miss Fleet took her straight into the schoolroom.“Here you stay,” she said, “for the present. I will talk to you when you are calmer. You stay here until I let you out. I am too angry to speak to you at all just now.”Miss Fleet turned as she spoke, shut the door behind her, locked it, and went away with the key in her pocket.“Well!” said Phyllis.She said this word aloud. She had been angry; she had been excited; she had gone through what seemed to her every sort of emotion during the last few hours, and now things had come to this.“If only Father were at home,” thought the Squire’s little girl, and then she sank down on an ottoman in the middle of the room and burst into tears.Her heart was very sore. She had not been a good girl, but, oh! she had enjoyed herself.“Why is it so nice to be naughty, and why is it that I can’t feel sorry?” she said to herself.She nursed with all her might and main hot anger against her governess, and for a long time succeeded. But the days were short, and by-and-by the light faded away at the windows, and there was only the firelight in the room. The fire was a good one; it had a guard in front of it. Phyllis went and poked it up; it blazed, and soon cheerful flashes of light fell all over the room. There was no lamp nor any other way of making a light. Phyllis crouched down near the fire and tried hard to think.“I wonder when I’llbeginto feel sorry,” she said to herself. “In all the story-books when the children are naughty they are desperately, madly sorry afterwards, but I’m not one bit sorry—at least not yet.”She nestled down comfortably on the hearthrug. Presently she took a pillow from one of the sofas and put it under her head, and then blinking into the fire and shutting and opening her eyes, she dropped off to sleep. When she awoke she found that the fire was nearly out; she was stiff and cold, too, from lying on the rug. She started up, and could not make out where she was.Presently, however, memory came back to her. How cruel of Miss Fleet to leave her like this! How wrong!—how more than wrong!“If Father were at home I would tell him he was to send Miss Fleet away,” said the little girl to herself. “She is a horrid, horrid woman; she makes me downright miserable. Oh, how dark it is! and there is no more coal in the coal-hod, and the fire will soon be out.”She stood up and shook herself, and then she took the poker and poked what fire was left into as good a blaze as she could manage; but it soon died away for want of new fuel, and the little girl, who was now very desolate and in very low spirits and very hungry, began thoroughly to feel her punishment.“I won’t stand it,” she said to herself. “It is awfully unfair. She has no right to do it.”Phyllis ran to the door, shook it, and began to cry out:“Open the door, please. Somebody come and open the door. I am here; Phyllis is here.”But nobody answered because nobody heard her. Suddenly she thought of the bell. She ran to it and rang it over and over again; but as Miss Fleet had given positive directions that no one was to approach poor Phyllis in her imprisonment, there was no reply. The fire was now very nearly out.“Well,” said Phyllis to herself, “at this rate she’ll kill me. I’ll be found frozen to death in the morning; and, oh, I am so hungry!”But just then, before her physical sufferings could get any worse, there came a slow step on the carpet outside. The door was unlocked, and Miss Fleet, bearing a lamp in her hand, entered.She laid the lamp on the centre table; she then went over and rang the bell. Phyllis stood facing her. Her face was tear-stained and very pale; her eyes flashed an angry light.“I can run past you,” she said, “and get out of this room.”“You can,” said Miss Fleet, just glancing at her and then bending down to adjust the flame of the lamp, “but you won’t.”A servant appeared at the door.“Fill this coal-hod, Henry, and bring it up immediately; and tell Cook to send Miss Phyllis’s dinner up. Be quick, please; the room is rather cold.”The man departed, having just dared to give a sympathetic glance at Phyllis before he left the room. He quickly returned with the coals. The fire was built up and blazed merrily. He then drew down the blinds and pulled the curtains across the windows, and a moment later reappeared again, bearing a little tray of delicious food.“I declare,” thought the child to herself, “I never knew before how nice a thing it is to eat. Iamready for my chop and fried potatoes. Oh! and I am glad I am having roast apples.”She sat down quite cheerfully to her meal; even Miss Fleet’s presence scarcely annoyed her, so hungry was she and so glad to eat.
When happy times are wrong and come to an end, one generally goes through some bad moments. This was the case on the special occasion which I am describing. Loud was the fun in the big attic, merry the laughter.
The rattling of dolls’ cups and saucers, the popping of lemonade bottles, and the shrieks of mirth over each volley of wit had come to their height, when there came a loud knocking at the attic door. The knocking was immediately followed by the angry turning of the handle, and then by the excited voice of Miss Fleet.
“Open the door immediately, you bad, bad children!” she exclaimed.
“Oh Phyllis, can we hide anywhere?” said Susie.
“No, no, Susie,” answered Phyllis; “we are found out, and we have got to pay for it. Well, I have enjoyed myself; haven’t you?”
“If you don’t open the door immediately,” said Miss Fleet’s voice again, “I shall have it burst open.”
“Yes, children, open the door directly,” said a sterner, older, graver tone; and then Ralph drew himself up, and Edward prepared for severe punishment, for it was the Rector’s voice which now was heard.
“Give me the key, Phyl,” said Ralph, turning to the little girl. “I will say it was almost altogether my fault.”
“You will do nothing of the kind, for it is not true,” said Phyllis.
She turned very white, and her lips trembled. She did not like the bad moment which lay before her, but on no account was she going to excuse herself. So she marched—“just as if she were a queen, the darling,” said Susie, describing it afterwards—to the door and unlocked it, and flung it open, and stood with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her frock in disorder, facing the indignant but almost speechless Miss Fleet and the tall, burly figure of the Rector.
“Well?” said Miss Fleet. “Well, and what have you to say for yourself?”
“I know I have, been very naughty,” said Phyllis; “I know it quite well, and,”—her eyes danced—“and I’mnotsorry; no, I have had such a good time that I’m not sorry. As to the children of the Rectory, they are not a bit, not one scrap to blame. It was all my doing. I wrote a letter to Ralph when you forbade them all to come, for it was shabby of you; and, as you would not allow us to have tea properly downstairs, we had it here. That is all.”
The Rector pushed past Phyllis and walked into the room.
“Come, children,” he said. “Phyllis Harringay has made a very frank confession, and has tried to excuse you all; but I don’t excuse you, for you must have known that you did wrong to come here.”
“Of course we did, Father,” said Ralph; “but at the same time,” he added, “when a girl writes to you, you know, and asks you to help her out of a mess, what is a fellow to do?”
The Rector could not help smiling. “And oh, please, please, Mr Hilchester,” said Phyllis, “do ask Miss Fleet to forgive me! Do, do ask her!”
“It will be quite useless,” said Miss Fleet. “I am determined that you shall be well punished.—I am obliged to you, Mr Hilchester, for coming to help me. I was really in such despair that I had to get some assistance.—Come, my dear.”
She took Phyllis’s hand and dragged her from the room. Phyllis struggled; but Miss Fleet was a strong woman, and Phyllis had no chance. She left the four Rectory children behind her in the attic with all the delightful débris of the delightful feast, and went downstairs, down and down, into the proper part of the house, into the dull rooms and the dull routine of her life, knowing that she was naughty, and knowing that Miss Fleet had a perfect right to punish her.
Miss Fleet took her straight into the schoolroom.
“Here you stay,” she said, “for the present. I will talk to you when you are calmer. You stay here until I let you out. I am too angry to speak to you at all just now.”
Miss Fleet turned as she spoke, shut the door behind her, locked it, and went away with the key in her pocket.
“Well!” said Phyllis.
She said this word aloud. She had been angry; she had been excited; she had gone through what seemed to her every sort of emotion during the last few hours, and now things had come to this.
“If only Father were at home,” thought the Squire’s little girl, and then she sank down on an ottoman in the middle of the room and burst into tears.
Her heart was very sore. She had not been a good girl, but, oh! she had enjoyed herself.
“Why is it so nice to be naughty, and why is it that I can’t feel sorry?” she said to herself.
She nursed with all her might and main hot anger against her governess, and for a long time succeeded. But the days were short, and by-and-by the light faded away at the windows, and there was only the firelight in the room. The fire was a good one; it had a guard in front of it. Phyllis went and poked it up; it blazed, and soon cheerful flashes of light fell all over the room. There was no lamp nor any other way of making a light. Phyllis crouched down near the fire and tried hard to think.
“I wonder when I’llbeginto feel sorry,” she said to herself. “In all the story-books when the children are naughty they are desperately, madly sorry afterwards, but I’m not one bit sorry—at least not yet.”
She nestled down comfortably on the hearthrug. Presently she took a pillow from one of the sofas and put it under her head, and then blinking into the fire and shutting and opening her eyes, she dropped off to sleep. When she awoke she found that the fire was nearly out; she was stiff and cold, too, from lying on the rug. She started up, and could not make out where she was.
Presently, however, memory came back to her. How cruel of Miss Fleet to leave her like this! How wrong!—how more than wrong!
“If Father were at home I would tell him he was to send Miss Fleet away,” said the little girl to herself. “She is a horrid, horrid woman; she makes me downright miserable. Oh, how dark it is! and there is no more coal in the coal-hod, and the fire will soon be out.”
She stood up and shook herself, and then she took the poker and poked what fire was left into as good a blaze as she could manage; but it soon died away for want of new fuel, and the little girl, who was now very desolate and in very low spirits and very hungry, began thoroughly to feel her punishment.
“I won’t stand it,” she said to herself. “It is awfully unfair. She has no right to do it.”
Phyllis ran to the door, shook it, and began to cry out:
“Open the door, please. Somebody come and open the door. I am here; Phyllis is here.”
But nobody answered because nobody heard her. Suddenly she thought of the bell. She ran to it and rang it over and over again; but as Miss Fleet had given positive directions that no one was to approach poor Phyllis in her imprisonment, there was no reply. The fire was now very nearly out.
“Well,” said Phyllis to herself, “at this rate she’ll kill me. I’ll be found frozen to death in the morning; and, oh, I am so hungry!”
But just then, before her physical sufferings could get any worse, there came a slow step on the carpet outside. The door was unlocked, and Miss Fleet, bearing a lamp in her hand, entered.
She laid the lamp on the centre table; she then went over and rang the bell. Phyllis stood facing her. Her face was tear-stained and very pale; her eyes flashed an angry light.
“I can run past you,” she said, “and get out of this room.”
“You can,” said Miss Fleet, just glancing at her and then bending down to adjust the flame of the lamp, “but you won’t.”
A servant appeared at the door.
“Fill this coal-hod, Henry, and bring it up immediately; and tell Cook to send Miss Phyllis’s dinner up. Be quick, please; the room is rather cold.”
The man departed, having just dared to give a sympathetic glance at Phyllis before he left the room. He quickly returned with the coals. The fire was built up and blazed merrily. He then drew down the blinds and pulled the curtains across the windows, and a moment later reappeared again, bearing a little tray of delicious food.
“I declare,” thought the child to herself, “I never knew before how nice a thing it is to eat. Iamready for my chop and fried potatoes. Oh! and I am glad I am having roast apples.”
She sat down quite cheerfully to her meal; even Miss Fleet’s presence scarcely annoyed her, so hungry was she and so glad to eat.
Chapter Eight.At last the meal came to an end. While Phyllis was eating it Miss Fleet sat near the fire.She read, or pretended to read, the evening newspaper which had just been sent to the Hall.Presently Phyllis got up, uttering a low sigh.“Have you said your grace?” said Miss Fleet.“Yes,” replied Phyllis. “I said it in a whisper. What else do you want me to do?”“Iwish you to listen to me—to be attentive and no longer impertinent. I’m tired of punishing you. You have been a very naughty girl, but I am willing to forgive you and to restore you to my favour, provided you do what I wish.”“What is that?” asked Phyllis in a guarded voice.“Come here, Phyllis.”Miss Fleet drew the little girl towards her. Her voice had softened; some of the severity had left it.Phyllis was the kind of child to be easily touched by kindness—no one could drive her, but affection and love could always guide her. Miss Fleet almost caressed the small hand which Phyllis stole into hers.“I hate not being friends with you,” she said. “You have been my constant care and my constant pleasure for the last three years. Why do you suddenly turn against me?”“I don’t,” said Phyllis. “I have always liked you—very well, that is; but you don’t understand me.”“I’m not going to argue with you, Phyllis. You are only a little girl of twelve years old. I am three times your age.”“Three times twelve are thirty-six,” said Phyllis under her breath. “She never let out her age to me before.”The fact that she knew Miss Fleet’s enormously great age gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction.“Yes,” she said aloud.“I must be kind to the poor thing; she is so very aged,” was her inward thought.“Yes, I quite like you when you talk softly,” she said. “Go on, please.”“I cannot argue with you; I can but give you my opinion. You behaved badly to-day—so badly, so disgracefully that I cannot bring myself to speak of it. You did this in your father’s absence—which made it, let me tell you, ten times worse; but I will forgive you and not tell your father if you make me a promise.”“What, Miss Fleet?”“Wait one moment. You don’t care to be always in this room, do you?”“I hate being in this room. I hate being punished. I hate—I hate—I hate you to be cold to me. Do be nice to me again, Fleetie, for I’m quite too awfully miserable just now;” and the little girl flung her arms round Miss Fleet’s neck and burst into bitter weeping.After all, Josephine Fleet did love her wayward little charge. She kissed her once or twice and patted her on her arm, and then she said:“Now for our conditions. I forgive and you promise.”“I promise!” said Phyllis.“Yes.”“And if I promise, you’ll never tell Father?”“I will never tell your father.”“And you will let me go into all the rooms and play, and ride my pony, and do everything just as I did before—just as I did before?”“Just as you did before.”“Then, of course, I’ll promise, darling Fleetie. There is no doubt about it. If you’ll let me do as I did before, I’ll promise. Is it to learn a lot of history? It is to do my horrid— Is it? Is it?”“It is none of these things, Phyllis. It is this. You must give me your solemn word, as a lady, that you will not speak or have any intercourse with the Rectory children until your father’s return.”“What!” said Phyllis.All the light went out of her small face and all the gladness from her eyes.“I didn’t think you’d be so mean, Fleetie,” she said, and she went right away to the other end of the room and stood with her back to her governess.Miss Fleet glanced with a queer sort of longing towards the little figure.The little figure at the other end of the room looked pathetic; it looked lonely. Miss Fleet remembered certain words of the Rector’s:“I cannot see why you should object to the children playing with each other. Squire Harringay did not object; on the contrary, he was glad.”“Yes, yes,” thought the governess; “and I would have allowed it in moderation, and doubtless it can be arranged in moderation when the Squire comes back. But Phyllis did wrong, and she must be punished in such a way as to make her feel it. I am forced to get this promise from her. I can take nothing else.”But all the time while Miss Fleet thought, she kept watching the little figure, and presently she saw the shoulders slightly heave, and she guessed that Phyllis was crying.“It is very hard; I hate myself,” thought the governess. “But I must, I must make her feel it.”It was just at that moment that Phyllis wheeled right round and came up to Miss Fleet and said quietly:“If I cannot see them, may I write to them to say why?”“I will write to them and give the reason,” said Miss Fleet.“May I not write my own self to Ralph, please, or to—to Susie?”“I will write to them,” said Miss Fleet gently.Phyllis stood quite silent for a moment. Once again her shoulders worked suspiciously, and Miss Fleet noticed that her little chest heaved, but she kept back her tears.“There’s Susie,” she said after a pause; “she would so like the baby-house, and the rocking-horse that I never ride on because I have no playmates, you know. May they be sent over to the Rectory? I promised that she should have them. Need I wait till Father comes back to keep my promise?”“You had no right to make the promise.”“But mayn’t they go? Please say yes.”“Not until your father returns.”Phyllis now stood, very calm and despairing, close to Miss Fleet.“You want me to love you, but you make it very hard for me to do so,” she said gently. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll promise for two whole days. If Father isn’t back at the end of two whole days, my promise is at an end. I don’t give you my word, as a lady, after two whole days. That is all. I will not make any promise after that, not for anybody.”
At last the meal came to an end. While Phyllis was eating it Miss Fleet sat near the fire.
She read, or pretended to read, the evening newspaper which had just been sent to the Hall.
Presently Phyllis got up, uttering a low sigh.
“Have you said your grace?” said Miss Fleet.
“Yes,” replied Phyllis. “I said it in a whisper. What else do you want me to do?”
“Iwish you to listen to me—to be attentive and no longer impertinent. I’m tired of punishing you. You have been a very naughty girl, but I am willing to forgive you and to restore you to my favour, provided you do what I wish.”
“What is that?” asked Phyllis in a guarded voice.
“Come here, Phyllis.”
Miss Fleet drew the little girl towards her. Her voice had softened; some of the severity had left it.
Phyllis was the kind of child to be easily touched by kindness—no one could drive her, but affection and love could always guide her. Miss Fleet almost caressed the small hand which Phyllis stole into hers.
“I hate not being friends with you,” she said. “You have been my constant care and my constant pleasure for the last three years. Why do you suddenly turn against me?”
“I don’t,” said Phyllis. “I have always liked you—very well, that is; but you don’t understand me.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Phyllis. You are only a little girl of twelve years old. I am three times your age.”
“Three times twelve are thirty-six,” said Phyllis under her breath. “She never let out her age to me before.”
The fact that she knew Miss Fleet’s enormously great age gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction.
“Yes,” she said aloud.
“I must be kind to the poor thing; she is so very aged,” was her inward thought.
“Yes, I quite like you when you talk softly,” she said. “Go on, please.”
“I cannot argue with you; I can but give you my opinion. You behaved badly to-day—so badly, so disgracefully that I cannot bring myself to speak of it. You did this in your father’s absence—which made it, let me tell you, ten times worse; but I will forgive you and not tell your father if you make me a promise.”
“What, Miss Fleet?”
“Wait one moment. You don’t care to be always in this room, do you?”
“I hate being in this room. I hate being punished. I hate—I hate—I hate you to be cold to me. Do be nice to me again, Fleetie, for I’m quite too awfully miserable just now;” and the little girl flung her arms round Miss Fleet’s neck and burst into bitter weeping.
After all, Josephine Fleet did love her wayward little charge. She kissed her once or twice and patted her on her arm, and then she said:
“Now for our conditions. I forgive and you promise.”
“I promise!” said Phyllis.
“Yes.”
“And if I promise, you’ll never tell Father?”
“I will never tell your father.”
“And you will let me go into all the rooms and play, and ride my pony, and do everything just as I did before—just as I did before?”
“Just as you did before.”
“Then, of course, I’ll promise, darling Fleetie. There is no doubt about it. If you’ll let me do as I did before, I’ll promise. Is it to learn a lot of history? It is to do my horrid— Is it? Is it?”
“It is none of these things, Phyllis. It is this. You must give me your solemn word, as a lady, that you will not speak or have any intercourse with the Rectory children until your father’s return.”
“What!” said Phyllis.
All the light went out of her small face and all the gladness from her eyes.
“I didn’t think you’d be so mean, Fleetie,” she said, and she went right away to the other end of the room and stood with her back to her governess.
Miss Fleet glanced with a queer sort of longing towards the little figure.
The little figure at the other end of the room looked pathetic; it looked lonely. Miss Fleet remembered certain words of the Rector’s:
“I cannot see why you should object to the children playing with each other. Squire Harringay did not object; on the contrary, he was glad.”
“Yes, yes,” thought the governess; “and I would have allowed it in moderation, and doubtless it can be arranged in moderation when the Squire comes back. But Phyllis did wrong, and she must be punished in such a way as to make her feel it. I am forced to get this promise from her. I can take nothing else.”
But all the time while Miss Fleet thought, she kept watching the little figure, and presently she saw the shoulders slightly heave, and she guessed that Phyllis was crying.
“It is very hard; I hate myself,” thought the governess. “But I must, I must make her feel it.”
It was just at that moment that Phyllis wheeled right round and came up to Miss Fleet and said quietly:
“If I cannot see them, may I write to them to say why?”
“I will write to them and give the reason,” said Miss Fleet.
“May I not write my own self to Ralph, please, or to—to Susie?”
“I will write to them,” said Miss Fleet gently.
Phyllis stood quite silent for a moment. Once again her shoulders worked suspiciously, and Miss Fleet noticed that her little chest heaved, but she kept back her tears.
“There’s Susie,” she said after a pause; “she would so like the baby-house, and the rocking-horse that I never ride on because I have no playmates, you know. May they be sent over to the Rectory? I promised that she should have them. Need I wait till Father comes back to keep my promise?”
“You had no right to make the promise.”
“But mayn’t they go? Please say yes.”
“Not until your father returns.”
Phyllis now stood, very calm and despairing, close to Miss Fleet.
“You want me to love you, but you make it very hard for me to do so,” she said gently. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll promise for two whole days. If Father isn’t back at the end of two whole days, my promise is at an end. I don’t give you my word, as a lady, after two whole days. That is all. I will not make any promise after that, not for anybody.”
Chapter Nine.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.”
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.”
Chapter Ten.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.”
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.”
“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.”
Chapter Eleven.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.
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.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11|