The Squire's Little Girl

“Did you give the note?” asked the little girl, turning and speaking to him in an imperious way.

“Yes, Miss. I met the young gentleman all alone in the avenue, and I gave it him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He only said, ‘All right,’ Miss.”

“Thank you, David,” said Phyllis; “I am very much obliged to you.”

She ran across the yard and into a small fir plantation just beyond, and there she stood leaning over the railing. David could see her, and he smiled to himself.

“She is a spirited little miss,” he thought. “Didn’t Master Ralph show his white teeth just, when he read her note. His ‘All right’ meant all right, or I am much mistook. My word! the little miss will get into trouble if she ain’t careful; but I ain’t the one to split on her.”

So when the pony-trap came round to take Miss Fleet and her small charge to Dartfield, nowhere could Phyllis be found. The whole house was searched, and the servants were questioned, but no one had seen the child.

Miss Fleet, in alarm, gave up her expedition and instituted a more vigorous search, but try as she would, nowhere could she or Nurse get a glimpse of the child. David, who alone knew the direction in which Phyllis had gone, had taken care to absent himself, and no one else had the slightest clue by which her whereabouts could be discovered. Presently Miss Fleet, in great anger, started off to drive to the Rectory.

“This really is intolerable,” she thought. “I shall have to write to the Squire. Oh, of course, the naughty, naughty child has gone to those other wicked children. I shall have to give Mrs Hilchester a piece of my mind.”

Chapter Five

Ralph Hilchester had never felt better pleased in the whole course of his life than when he got Phyllis’s letter. That she should tell him that she was in trouble was more delightful to him than even a costly present would be – than even half-a-crown would be – and costly presents and half-crowns were rare treasures in the Rectory household.

His first determination was to tell his brother and sisters, but on second thoughts he resolved to keep to himself the delicious fact that Phyllis had written to him. He opened the blotted sheet of paper and looked at the words again:

“Come and save me; I am in the claws of a dragon.”

“I should think I just will,” thought Ralph; “it is exactly what I am made for. I always guessed there was something heroic about me. Fancy, in these prosaic days, having to deliver a princess from a dragon; I declare I feel exactly like Saint George of England.”

So Ralph held his head very high, and, with the precious letter reposing against his heart, entered the Rectory. There dismay and indignation met him on every side.

“Oh Ralph,” cried Rose, “what do you think? You know what a jolly afternoon we were all going to have!”

“Well?” said Ralph, his brown eyes dancing.

“Oh, you won’t look quite so happy when you know! The Squire’s little girl was nice enough yesterday, but she seems to have changed her mind. ‘Other matters to attend to’ – that is what that odious governess of hers said. Far too grand to notice us, of course.”

“I wish you would speak plain,” said Ralph. “I cannot get a scrap of sense out of that gabble of yours.”

“How rude you are!” said Susie. “You will be as gloomy as us when you know. Well, it is this: we are not to go to the Hall this afternoon. We are not to play with Phyllis. It was the governess who wrote – that odious woman; she signed herself ‘Josephine Fleet.’ She says that Phyllis had no right to invite us, and we are not to come. Pretty cheek, I call it. Well, if Phyllis does not want us, I’m sure we don’t want her.”

“But that is all very fine,” said Rosie; “I do want Phyllis. She promised me an old doll she had discarded, and she gave distinct hopes that we might have a baby-house of hers; and, anyhow, she is very jolly, and I did want to have a good time at the Hall. I call it horrid; I do indeed.”

“And so do I,” said Ned. “It is a precious big shame. But there, Ralph, we will go out rabbit-hunting this afternoon; I want to see if some of our snares have caught any.”

“You are horridly cruel about rabbits; you know you are,” said Rosie.

“Not at all; the sort of snare I have laid does not hurt any of them,” said Ned. “Come along, Ralph, won’t you?” But Ralph held back.

“Sorry I can’t,” he said; “other things to attend to.”

He spoke in a lofty tone, and the feel of the precious letter in his pocket made his heart throb.

The Hilchesters were not a patient family, and they fell upon Ralph tooth and nail. He was mean; he was shabby; he was hard-hearted; he did not care a bit for their disappointment; but nothing, nothing they could say altered the lad’s determination. They might amuse themselves: he had other fish to fry; he could not accompany any of them that afternoon. It was in vain to plead and catechise, and reproach and fight. Ralph stuck to his resolve. The early dinner at the Rectory was therefore a somewhat sorry affair, and Ralph was all too glad when it came to an end. He had now, if possible, to blind his very sharp sisters and brother. This was no easy matter. During dinner he made up his mind what he would do.

There were occasions when Ralph, all alone and unaccompanied, walked as far as Dartfield. Dartfield was five or six miles away. He announced gravely to the family that he was going on a long expedition, and then he went upstairs and brushed his hair, and washed his hands, and put on a clean collar.

“What can it mean?” said Rosie, who was watching him through the keyhole. “Ralph with clean hands! Something must be up!”

“Of course something is up,” whispered Susie. “Oh Rose! he hears us. He will be down upon us with a vengeance. Let’s fly!”

Just as Ralph opened the door they did fly, scrambling up to the attics, where they locked themselves in.

“They watched me, the monkeys. I must blind them,” thought Ralph.

So he started off quite in the opposite direction from the Hall, and gained the high-road. Ned now shouted to his sisters to come and help to search for rabbits, and the girls, in high discontent, saw nothing for it but to obey. But Ralph was generally the ringleader of all forms of fun and mischief, and his absence made the rest of the party doubly depressed.

Ralph ran a whole mile in the direction of Dartfield; then looking cautiously about him, he doubled back, got into the wood, skirted it, and presently came within measurable distance of the Hall. To his disgust, he heard his sisters’ and brother’s voices as they rambled about the wood.

Suppose by any chance Phyllis met them first; she scarcely knew one from the other of the Rectory children so far. If she saw them she would think they had come to save her, and would rush to them and tell them all about her trouble. Ralph would indeed then be out of it. He quickened his steps therefore, boldly entered the wood, which was on Squire Harringay’s property, and a moment later came face to face with the little girl.

She was leaning against the stile waiting for him. It had not occurred to her that he would come alone, but when she saw him, and noticed how tall and manly he looked, and how strong and well developed, her heart gave a bound of rapture. She ran to him, took both his hands, and laughed aloud in her glee.

“Here I am,” said Ralph. “Of course I mean to save you; you were right to trust me.”

“I thought I was,” said Phyllis; “I felt that somehow yesterday. But where are the others?”

“Oh! the others,” said Ralph. “I thought you wanted me alone.”

“It is ever so good of you to come, but I should like you all best,” answered the little girl. “But there, you have come, and I will tell you everything. Let us walk round by the back of the stables. If she sees us I am lost.”

“She in other words is the dragon,” said Ralph.

“Yes – Miss Fleet; and I quite, quite hate her now.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Ralph, and he tucked Phyllis’s hand through his arm, and they sauntered slowly in the direction of the field which led to the back of the stables.

Meanwhile Miss Fleet, in dismay and indignation, drove straight to the Rectory. Mrs Hilchester happened to be at home. She was in a room which was very plainly furnished. At a large centre table the Rector’s wife had spread bales of red flannel and coarse grey serge and unbleached calico, and was busy cutting out garments which were to be made up immediately for the poor of the parish. When she heard Miss Fleet’s step, she did not trouble even to look round.

“Is that you, my dear?” she said.

“And have you come to help me? But you are very late.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘my dear,’” answered the indignant governess, “but I have certainly never had the pleasure of speaking to you before, and I may as well emphatically say I have not come to help you.”

Mrs Hilchester dropped her large cutting-out scissors, and turned and faced her visitor.

“I am sorry,” she said abruptly; “I thought you were Mildred Jones; she promised to look in and do what she could. I have a heavy pile to get through before nightfall. As you are here, do you mind holding this unbleached calico while I divide it into yards?”

“Really,” – began Miss Fleet.

But indignant looks and even words were absolutely thrown away on the busy Rector’s wife.

“Catch,” she said, “and hold tight. If you have anything to say, you can say it while we are busy. No one who ever comes to the Rectory is allowed to waste time or to be idle. Thank you very much.”

It was impossible for Miss Fleet not to hold the unbleached calico, and it was difficult for her to be quite as indignant and as dignified as she had intended to be in such a position.

“Why, really, this is most extraordinary,” she said.

“Oh! pray, don’t let go, or I shall have all my trouble over again.”

Miss Fleet held tight to the calico, which got heavier and heavier as more and more yards were measured off.

“Now, for goodness’ sake lay it gently on the table. Thanks; that is a help. Now, my good friend, what is your business? If I can help you I shall be pleased to do so; at present I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Josephine Fleet.”

“Ah, you are little Phyllis Harringay’s governess. I received a somewhat extraordinary note from you before dinner.”

“I am puzzled to know why you should think it extraordinary. Phyllis asked your children to spend the afternoon with her. I did not find it convenient to have them. I wrote to you plainly on the subject. You seem to be a frank sort of person yourself; you cannot, therefore, object to frankness in others.”

“On the contrary, I admire it. Pray push that bale of red flannel across the table. Thank you.”

“Oh! I cannot help to measure the flannel into yards,” ejaculated the angry Miss Fleet.

“I don’t require you to. Have you come here because you have changed your mind and wish the children to go to the Hall? But I am afraid I cannot find them now; they have dispersed. I always turn them out of doors, whatever the weather, in the afternoon. Pray, do tell me what you want, and – don’t mind my being a little brusque – go – ”

“You really are,” began Miss Fleet, but she checked herself. “I have come here,” she continued, “to ask you a question. Phyllis is not to be found anywhere. Is she – Mrs Hilchester – is she at the Rectory?”

“The Squire’s little girl? Most certainly not. Do you suppose we would have her here against your will?”

“Well, I hope not. Where can she be?”

“My dear, good creature, how can I tell you? I have never set eyes on the child. Pass those scissors, please, and – yes, and that basket with the cottons. Thank you so much. Would you like to sew up a seam while we are discussing where the little girl can be? Ah, I see you are not willing to help. Well, well! good-afternoon.”

Chapter Six

There never was a more angry woman than Miss Fleet as she left the Rectory that afternoon.

Certainly, Mrs Hilchester had not been sympathetic. It is true she had followed her visitor into the hall, and had said by way of reassuring her:

“You need not be at all alarmed about your little girl – my children are often out hours and hours at a time, and I assure you that I never dream of fidgeting; they eventually come home, grubby perhaps, and with their clothes in disorder, but otherwise safe and sound. Naturally, in the country your little girl will do as others do. Sorry you cannot stay to help me with my cutting-out, but as you cannot, good-afternoon.”

Miss Fleet scarcely touched the hand which the Rector’s good lady vouchsafed. She got into the pony-cart and drove rapidly away.

“What next, indeed!” she said to herself; “to compare Phyllis, who has been cossetted and petted all her life, to those wild, bearish children. I am certainly extremely sorry we have come to live at the Hall. If only the Squire were at home I should give him a piece of my mind; as it is it will be my duty to punish Phyllis most severely when she does return. Poor Phyllis! I don’t wish to be hard on her, but still discipline at any cost must be sustained. Of course, she has returned long before now; but to have upset all my plans – a mere child like that!”

Miss Fleet had now returned to the Hall, and her first eager question was: “Is Miss Phyllis in? Has any one seen her, or does any one know anything about her?”

Alas! Miss Phyllis had not come back; no one had seen her – no one knew anything about her.

Miss Fleet now began to be really alarmed. She had not, as a rule, a vivid imagination, but certainly horrors now began to crowd before her mental vision. There was that deep pond just beyond the shrubbery. There were some late water-lilies still to be found on its surface. Suppose – oh! suppose Phyllis had gone to it and had tried to drag in the lilies, and had – Miss Fleet turned quite white.

Or suppose she had gone right outside the fir plantation, and had been seen and appropriated by the gipsies who were camping in the field just beyond. Altogether poor Miss Fleet had a sad afternoon, while Phyllis, the naughty and the reckless, enjoyed herself immensely. It sometimes does happen like that even in the lives of naughty children: they have their naughty time, and they thoroughly like it for the present.

Phyllis had been very angry, and had determined to take her own way; and now she was having it, and her laugh was loud and her merriment excessive. For she had not been long in the field at the back of the stables, and Ralph had not long been enjoying the sweet pleasure of her society all to himself, when three heads appeared above the hedge and three gay voices uttered a shout, and Susie, Rosie, and Ned dashed across the field.

“Oh! oh! oh!” said Susie, “now we know why he was smartening himself up.”

“Didn’t he scrub his hands just,” cried Rosie, “and didn’t we watch him through the keyhole!”

“Oh, shut up, shut up!” said Ralph. “Now that you have come I suppose you must stay; but it was to me Phyllis wrote. – Was it not to me you wrote, Phyllis?”

“Well, yes,” said Phyllis. “Yours was the first name that I thought of, but I wanted you all. It is all of you I like best. Now you have come we will have a gay time.”

“But where?” asked Rosie. “Are we to come to the house after all?”

“I wish we could,” said Phyllis. “I do earnestly wish we could. Perhaps – perhaps it would be safe.”

She stood for a minute holding her finger to her lips; then a bright light filled her grey eyes and smiles wreathed her lips.

“Could you go up one of the back ways, and take off your shoes, and slip upstairs and up and up?” she said in a tremulous whisper.

“Oh, couldn’t we just!” said Rosie, her eyes nearly dancing out of her head.

“Then I think we can manage,” said Phyllis. “All my toys are upstairs in the big, very big, big attic; and there is the baby-house that I said perhaps you could have; and there are the dolls’ cups and saucers; and if only we could smuggle something to eat!”

“Something to eat!” cried Ned. “I can run back to the Rectory and bring a lot of things – a whole basketful. No one will know; Mother is at her cutting-out for the poor, and trumpets would not turn her attention. I can get the things – I can and I will.”

“We must not let Miss Fleet know; she’ll never, never think of looking for us in the attic,” said Phyllis, “and it is so big and so very far away from all the other rooms that we won’t be found; the only danger is your being seen when you bring the basket.”

“I will go straight away this very minute,” said Ned, “and you had better wait until I return.”

“I know something still better than that,” said Phyllis. “Why go to the Rectory? Why don’t you go to the village and buy things there – nice unwholesome curranty and doughy things?”

“Oh, I say, scrumptious!” cried Rosie. “I’ll go with him. No one will see us. But, oh, I say, Phyllis, we have not got a single brass farthing amongst us!”

Ralph’s face turned very red; he felt awfully ashamed of Rosie.

“But I have,” said Phyllis; “I always carry my purse about.” She opened it. “There is a five-shilling piece,” she said.

“And may we spend it all?” said Rosie, looking with almost reverence on the solid piece of money.

“Oh, rather! only do get very unwholesome things.”

“I know the kind, trust me,” said Rosie, and she and Ned set to running as fast as they could.

While they were away Susie and Ralph and Phyllis walked up and down, and talked in quite lady-like and gentlemanlike styles, and Phyllis described how Miss Fleet had brought in the dull lesson-books, and how she had tried to crush her bit of fun; and the other two laughed, and told stories on their own account, and said how cross they had been when that horrid letter had arrived.

“Only I knew your real mind,” said Ralph, and he gave a protecting, admiring look at the little girl.

“I guessed you were very nice, Ralph,” she replied, and she laid her pretty hand on his arm.

Thus the time while Rosie and Ned were away buying the unwholesome things went quite quickly; and when they returned bearing large paper parcels and mysterious-looking bottles, they all stole softly into the house.

Phyllis knew exactly how to get in by way of the old unused part. She took the others round to the door over which ivy hung, and instructed Ralph how he was to unfasten the tiny window, and then squeeze in and unbar the door.

This he did with the despatch of quite an accomplished burglar, and when the door was opened the other four figures came solemnly in. They were quite solemn and breathless now in their excitement. When they got inside, their boots were carefully removed, and Phyllis led the way. They went up some narrow stairs. These stairs led to the old tower, and by the tower was another rambling staircase, which conducted them to the attics. So at last there they were safe and sound, as Phyllis explained.

“We must be quiet, but not too quiet,” she exclaimed, “for nobody ever comes to the tower, and nobody ever comes in by that entrance, and Miss Fleet may think for ever and ever before she can possibly imagine that I am having high tea with you four in the big back attic. Oh, perhaps we had better lock the door; but even that is scarcely necessary.”

But the door was locked, and then began a time of wild mirth. The food from the village shop was as decidedly unwholesome as the most venturesome little girl could desire. The cakes were nearly leaden in weight, were richly stored with currants, and were underdone; there were awful-looking lollipops of queer shapes and quaint designs, and there was ginger-beer of the worst quality, and lemonade which had never made acquaintance with lemons. But what mattered that? The food thus acquired was all the sweeter because of that wicked little flavour of wrong-doing about it; and Susie and Ned had also supplied great bags of nuts and some very green apples, so that these young folks thought it really was a feast worth being dreadfully naughty to obtain.

They made a table out of some old boxes, and the cakes were cut, and the lemonade went pop, and the dolls’ cups and saucers were brought into great requisition, and time went very merrily both for the naughty little girl and the Rectory children. After the meal came to an end Phyllis began to show the toys she no longer required – the rocking-horse, which her father had given her when she was four years old, and which she had ceased to ride, and the big, big, wonderful dolls’ house which Susie, aged ten, still found one of the most fascinating things in the world.

“You can have them all over at the Rectory,” said Phyllis, with the royal airs of a young queen. “You can send for them any day you like; and there is a box full of dolls over there, and a trunk of dolls’ clothes. I don’t want them – I don’t care for those sort of things without playmates. I tired of them long, long ago, but you can have them.”

“Oh, I say, Phyllis,” cried Susie, and she put both her arms round Phyllis’s neck, “can’t you come and play with all the darling, lovely toys with playmates over at the Rectory?”

“Yes, I could do that,” said Phyllis, looking wistful; “and I love you all,” she cried. “I have been an awfully happy girl to-day if it were not for Miss Fleet.”

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’m not sorry; 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.”