The Squire's Little Girl

“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.