In the evening of Wednesday Phyllis was sitting with Ada in the nursery, when Reginald came up with the news that the party downstairs were going to practise country dances. Eleanor was to play, Claude was to dance with Lily, and Frank with Jane, and he himself wanted Phyllis for a partner.
'Oh!' sighed Ada, 'I wish I was there to dance with you, Redgie! What are the others doing?'
'Maurice is reading, and William went out as soon as dinner was over; make haste, Phyl.'
'Don't go,' said Ada, 'I shall be alone all to-morrow, and I want you.'
'Nonsense,' said Reginald, 'do you think she is to sit poking here all day, playing with those foolish London things of yours?'
'But I am ill, Redgie. I wish you would not be cross. Everybody is cross to me now, I think.'
'I will stay, Ada,' said Phyllis. 'You know, Redgie, I dance like a cow.'
'You dance better than nothing,' said Reginald, 'I must have you.'
'But you are not ill, Redgie,' said Phyllis.
He went down in displeasure, and was forced to consider Sir Maurice's picture as his partner, until presently the door opened, and Phyllis appeared. 'So you have thought better of it,' cried he.
'No,' said Phyllis, 'I cannot come to dance, but Ada wants you to leave off playing. She says the music makes her unhappy, for it makes her think about to-morrow.'
'Rather selfish, Miss Ada,' said Claude.
'Stay here, Phyllis, now you are come,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I will go and speak to Ada.'
Phyllis was now captured, and made to take her place opposite to Reginald; but more than once she sighed under the apprehension that Ada was receiving a lecture. This was the case; and very little did poor Ada comprehend the change that had taken place in the conduct of almost every one towards her; she did not perceive that she was particularly naughty, and yet she had suddenly become an object of blame, instead of a spoiled pet. Formerly her little slynesses had been unnoticed, and her overbearing ways towards Phyllis scarcely remarked, but now they were continually mentioned as grievous faults. Esther, her especial friend and comforter, was scarcely allowed to come into the same room with her; Hannah treated her with a kind of grave, silent respect, far from the familiarity which she liked; little Henry's nurse never would talk to her, and if it had not been for Phyllis, she would have been very miserable. On Phyllis, however, she repaid herself for all the mortifications that she received, while the sweet-tempered little girl took all her fretfulness and exactions as results of her illness, and went on pitying her, and striving to please her.
When Phyllis came up to wish her good-night, she was received with an exclamation at her lateness in a peevish tone: 'Yes, I am late,' said Phyllis, merrily, 'but we had not done dancing till tea-time, and then Eleanor was so kind as to say I might sit up to have some tea with them.'
'Ah! and you quite forgot how tiresome it is up here, with nobody to speak to,' said Ada. 'How cross they were not to stop the music when I said it made me miserable!'
'Claude said it was selfish to want to stop five people's pleasure for one,' said Phyllis.
'But I am so ill,' said Ada. 'If Claude was as uncomfortable as I am, he would know how to be sorry for me. And only think-Phyl, what are you doing? Do not you know I do not like the moonlight to come on me. It is like a great face laughing at me.'
'Well, I like the moon so much!' said Phyllis, creeping behind the curtain to look out, 'there is something so white and bright in it; when it comes on the bed-clothes, it makes me go to sleep, thinking about white robes, oh! and all sorts of nice things.'
'I can't bear the moon,' said Ada; 'do not you know, Maurice says that the moon makes the people go mad, and that is the reason it is called lunacy, after
'I asked Miss Weston about that,' said Phyllis, 'because of the Psalm, and she said it was because it was dangerous to go to sleep in the open air in hot countries. Ada, I wish you could see now. There is the great round moon in the middle of the sky, and the sky such a beautiful colour, and a few such great bright stars, and the trees so dark, and the white lilies standing up on the black pond, and the lawn all white with dew! what a fine day it will be to-morrow!'
'A fine day for you!' said Ada, 'but only think of poor me all alone by myself.'
'You will have baby,' said Phyllis.
'Baby-if he could talk it would be all very well. It is just like the cross people in books. Here I shall lie and cry all the time, while you are dancing about as merry as can be.'
'No, no, Ada, you will not do that,' said Phyllis, with tears in her eyes. 'There is baby with all his pretty ways, and you may teach him to say Aunt Ada, and I will bring you in numbers of flowers, and there is your new doll, and all the pretty things that came from London, and the new book of Fairy Tales, and all sorts-oh! no, do not cry, Ada.'
'But I shall, for I shall think of you dancing, and not caring for me.'
'I do care, Ada-why do you say that I do not? I cannot bear it, Ada, dear Ada.'
'You don't, or you would not go and leave me alone.'
'Then, Ada, I will not go,' said Phyllis; 'I could not bear to leave you crying here all alone.'
'Thank you, dear good Phyl, but I think you will not have much loss. You know you do not like dancing, and you cannot do it well, and they will be sure to laugh at you.'
'And I daresay Redgie and Marianne will tell us all about it,' said Phyllis, sighing. 'I should rather like to have seen it, but they will tell us.'
'Then do you promise to stay?-there's a dear,' said Ada.
'Yes,' said Phyllis. 'Cousin Robert is coming in, and that will be very nice, and I hope he will not look as he did the day the gunpowder went off-oh, dear!' She went back to the window to get rid of her tears unperceived. 'Ah,' cried she, 'there is some one in the garden!'
'A man!' screamed Ada-'a thief, a robber-call somebody!'
'No, no,' said Phyllis, laughing, 'it is only William; he has been out all the evening, and now papa has come out to speak to him, and they are walking up and down together. I wonder whether he has been sitting with Cousin Robert or at Broomhill! Well, good-night, Ada. Here comes Hannah.'
CHAPTER XXV: THE THIRTIETH OF JULY
'The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.'
The 30th of July was bright and clear, and Phyllis was up early, gathering flowers, which, with the help of Jane's nimble fingers, she made into elegant little bouquets for each of her sisters, and for Claude.
'How is this?' said Mr. Hawkesworth, pretending to look disconsolate, 'am I to sing 'Fair Phyllida flouts me,' or why is my button-hole left destitute?'
'Perhaps that is for you on the side-table,' said Lily.
'Oh! no,' said Phyllis, 'those are some Provence roses for Miss Weston and Marianne, because Miss Weston likes those, and they have none at Broomhill. Redgie is going to take care of them. I will get you a nosegay, Frank. I did not know you liked it.'
She started up. 'How prudent, Phyllis,' said Eleanor, 'not to have put on your muslin frock yet.'
'Oh! I am not going,' said Phyllis.
'Not going!' was the general outcry.
'No, poor Ada cries so about being left at home with only baby, that I cannot bear it, and so I promised to stay.'
Away went Phyllis, and Reginald exclaimed, 'Well, she shall not be served so. I will go and tell Ada so this instant.'
Off he rushed, and putting in his head at the nursery door, shouted, 'Ada, I am come to tell you that Phyl is not to be made your black-a-moor slave! She shall go, that is settled.'
Down he went with equal speed, without waiting for an answer, and arrived while Eleanor was saying that she thought Ada was provided with amusement with the baby, her playthings, and books, and that Mr. Devereux had promised to make her a visit.
'Anybody ought to stay at home rather than Phyllis,' said Lily; 'I think I had better stay.'
