Chapter 6 Daddy's Girl by L. T. Meade
On that same Tuesday Lord Grayleigh spent a rather anxious day. For many reasons it would never do for him to press Ogilvie, and yet if Ogilvie declined to go to Queensland matters might not go quite smoothly with the new Syndicate. He was the most trusted and eminent mine assayer in London, and had before now done useful work for Grayleigh, who was chairman of several other companies. Up to the present Grayleigh, a thoroughly worldly and hard-headed man of business, had made use of Ogilvie entirely to his own benefit and satisfaction. It was distinctly unpleasant to him, therefore, to find that just at the most crucial moment in his career, when everything depended on Ogilvie’s subservience to his chief’s wishes, he should turn restive.
“That sort of man with a conscience is intolerable,” thought Lord Grayleigh, and then he wondered what further lever he might bring to bear in order to get Ogilvie to consent to the Australian visit.
He was thinking these thoughts, pacing up and down alone in a retired part of the grounds, when he heard shrill screams of childish laughter, and the next moment Sibyl, in one of her white frocks, the flounces badly torn, her hat off and hair in wild disorder, rushed past. She was closely followed by Freda, Mabel and Gus being not far behind.
“Hullo!” said Lord Grayleigh; “come here, little woman, and account for yourself.”
Sibyl paused in her mad career. She longed to say, “I’m not going to account for myself to you,” but she remembered her mother’s injunction. She had been on her very best behavior all Sunday, Monday, and up to now on Tuesday, but her fit of goodness was coming to an end. She was in the mood to be obstreperous, naughty, and wilful; but the thought of her mother, who was so gently following in the path of the humble, restrained her.
“If mother, who is an angel, a perfect angel, can think herself naughty and yet wish me to be good, I ought to help her by being as good as I possibly can,” she thought.
So she stopped and looked at Lord Grayleigh with the wistful, puzzled expression which at once repelled and attracted him. His own daughters also drew up, panting.
“We were chasing Sib,” they said; “she challenged us. She said that, although she does live in town, she could beat us.”
“And it looked uncommonly like it when I saw you all,” was Grayleigh’s response. “Sibyl has long legs for her age.”
Sibyl looked down at the members in question, and put on a charming pout. Grayleigh laughed, and going up to her side, laid his hand on her shoulder.
“I saw your father yesterday. Shall I tell you about him?”
This, indeed, was a powerful bait. Sibyl’s soft lips trembled slightly. The wistful look in her eyes became appealing.
“Pathetic eyes, more pathetic than any dog’s,” thought Lord Grayleigh. He took her hand.
“You and I will walk by ourselves for a little,” he said. “Run away, children. Sibyl will join you in a few moments.”
Sibyl, as if mesmerized, now accompanied Lord Grayleigh. She disliked her present position immensely, and yet she wondered if it was given to her by Lord Jesus, as a special opportunity which she was on no account to neglect. Should she tell Lord Grayleigh what she really thought of him? But for her mother she would not have hesitated for a moment, but that mother had been very kind to her during the last two days, and Sibyl had enjoyed studying her character from a new point of view. Mother was polite to people, even though they were not quite perfect. Mother always looked sweet and tidy and ladylike, and beautifully dressed. Mother never romped, nor tore her clothes, nor climbed trees. It was an uninteresting life from Sibyl’s point of view, and yet, perhaps, it was the right life. Up to the present the child had never seriously thought of her own conduct at all. She accepted the fact with placidity that she herself was not good. It was rather interesting to be “not good,” and yet to live in the house with two perfectly angelic beings. It seemed to make their goodness all the whiter. At the present moment she longed earnestly to be “not good.”
Lord Grayleigh, holding her hand, advanced in the direction of a summer-house.
“We will sit here and talk, shall we?” he said.
“Yes, shall us?” replied Sibyl.
Lord Grayleigh smiled; he placed himself in a comfortable chair, and motioned Sibyl to take another. She drew a similar chair forward, placed it opposite to her host, and sat on it. It was a high chair, and her feet did not reach the ground.
“I ’spect I’m rather short for my age,” she said, looking down and speaking in a tone of apology.
“Why, how old are you?” he asked.
“Quite old,” she replied gravely; “I was eight at five minutes past seven Monday fortnight back.”
“You certainly have a vast weight of years on your head,” he replied, looking at her gravely.
She did not see the sarcasm, she was thinking of something else. Suddenly she looked him full in the face.
“You called me away from the other children ’cos you wanted to speak about father, didn’t you? Please tell me all about him. Is he quite well?”
“Of course he is.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“Yes, he asked me how you were.”
“And what did you say?”
“I replied, with truth, that I had twice had the pleasure of seeing you; once when you were very rude to me, once when you were equally polite.”
Sibyl’s eyes began to dance.
“What are you thinking of, eight-year-old?” asked Lord Grayleigh.
“Of you,” answered Sibyl with promptitude.
“Come, that’s very interesting; what about me? Now, be quite frank and tell me why you were rude to me the first time we met?”
“May I?” said Sibyl with great eagerness. “Do you really, truly mean it?”
“I certainly mean it.”
“You won’t tell – mother?”
“I won’t tell – mother,” said Lord Grayleigh, mimicking her manner.
Sibyl gave a long, deep sigh.
“I am glad,” she said with emphasis. “I don’t want my ownest mother to be hurt. She tries so hard, and she is so beautiful and perfect. It’s most ’portant that I should speak to you, and if you will promise – ”
“I have promised; whatever you say shall be secret. Now, out with it.”
“You won’t like it,” said Sibyl.
“You must leave me to judge of that.”
“I am going to be fwightfully rude.”
“Indeed! that is highly diverting.”
“I don’t know what diverting is, but it will hurt you.”
“I believe I can survive the pain.”
Sibyl looked full at him then.
“Are you laughing at me?” she said, and she jumped down from her high chair.
“I would not dream of doing so.”
The curious amused expression died out of Lord Grayleigh’s eyes. He somehow felt that he was confronting Sibyl’s father with all those unpleasant new scruples in full force.
“Speak away, little girl,” he said, “I promise not to laugh. I will listen to you with respect. You are an uncommon child, very like your father.”
“Thank you for saying that, but it isn’t true; for father’s perfect, and I’m not. I will tell you now why I was rude, and why I am going to be rude again, monstrous rude. It is because you told lies.”
“Indeed!” said Lord Grayleigh, pretending to be shocked. “Do you know that that is a shocking accusation? If a man, for instance, had said that sort of thing to another man a few years back, it would have been a case for swords.”
“I don’t understand what that means,” said Sibyl.
“For a duel; you have heard of a duel?”
“Oh, in history, of course,” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling, “and one man kills another man. They run swords through each other until one of them gets killed dead. I wish I was a man.”
“Do you really want to run a sword through me?”
Sibyl made no answer to this; she shut her lips firmly, her eyes ablaze.
“Come,” said Lord Grayleigh, “it is unfair to accuse a man and not to prove your accusation. What lies have I told?”
“About my father.”
“Hullo! I suppose I am stupid, but I fail to understand.”
“I will try and ’splain. I didn’t know that you was stupid, but you do tell lies.”
“Well, go on; you are putting it rather straight, you know.”
“I want to.”
“Fire away then.”
“You told someone – I don’t know the name – you told somebody that my father was unscroopolus.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Grayleigh. He colored, and looked uneasy. “I told somebody – that is diverting.”
“It’s not diverting,” said Sibyl, “it’s cruel, it’s mean, it’s wrong; it’s lies – black lies. Now you know.”
“But whom did I tell?”
“Somebody, and somebody told me – I’m not going to tell who told me.”
“Even suppose I did say anything of the sort, what do you know about that word?”
“I found it out. An unscroopolus person is a person who doesn’t act right. Do you know that my father never did wrong, never from the time he was borned? My father is quite perfect, God made him so.”
“Your father is a very nice fellow, Sibyl.”
“He is much better than nice, he is perfect; he never did anything wrong. He is perfect, same as Lord Jesus is perfect.”
The little girl looked straight out into the summer landscape. Her lips trembled, on each cheek there flushed a crimson rose.
Lord Grayleigh shuffled his feet. Had anyone in all the world told him that he would have listened quietly, and with a sense of respect, to such a story as he was now hearing, he would have roared with laughter. But he was not at all inclined to laugh now that he found himself face to face with Sibyl.
“And mother is perfect, too,” she said, turning and facing him.
Then he did laugh; he laughed aloud.
“Oh, no,” he said.
“So you don’t wonder that I hate you,” continued Sibyl, taking no notice of that last remark. “It’s ’cos you like to tell lies about good people. My father is perfect, and you called him unscroopolus. No wonder I hate you.”
“Listen now, little girl.” Lord Grayleigh took the hot, trembling hand, and drew the child to his side.
“Don’t shrink away, don’t turn from me,” he said; “I am not so bad as you make me out. If I did make use of such an expression, I have forgotten it. Men of the world say lots of things that little girls don’t understand. Little girls of eight years old, if they are to grow up nice and good, and self-respecting, must take the world on trust. So you must take me on trust, and believe that even if I did say what you accuse me of saying, I still have a great respect for your father. I think him a right down good fellow.”
“The best in all the world?” queried Sibyl.
“I am sure at least of one thing, that no little girl ever had a fonder father.”
“And you own up you told a lie? You do own up that father’s quite perfect?”
“Men like myself don’t care to own themselves in the wrong,” said Lord Grayleigh, “and the fact is – listen, you queer little mortal – I don’t like perfect people. It is true that I have never met any.”
“You have met my father and my mother.”
“Come, Sibyl, shall we make a compromise? I like you, I want you to like me. Forget that I said what I myself have forgotten, and believe that I have a very great respect for your father. Come, if he were here, he would ask you to be friendly with me.”
“Would he?” said the child. She looked wistful and interested. “There are lots of things I want to be ’splained to me,” she said. Then, after a moment – “I’ll think whether I’ll be friends with you, and I’ll let you know, may be to-morrow.”
As she said the last words she pushed aside his detaining hand, and ran out of the summer-house. He heard her eager, quick steps as she ran away, and a moment later there came her gay laughter back to him from the distance. She had joined the other children, and was happy in her games.
“Poor little maid!” he said to himself, and he sat on grave and silent. He did not like to confess it, but Sibyl’s words had affected him.
“The faith she has in that poor fellow is quite beautiful,” was his inward thought; “it seems a sin to break it. If he does go to Queensland it will be broken, and somewhat rudely. I could send Atherton. Atherton is not the man for our purpose. His report won’t affect the public as Ogilvie’s report would, but he has never yet been troubled by conscience, and Sibyl’s faith will be unshaken. It is worth considering. It is not every man who has got a little daughter like Sibyl.”
These thoughts came and worried him; presently he rose with a laugh.
“What am I,” he said to himself, “to have my way disturbed by the words of a mere child?” And just then he heard the soft rustle of a silk dress, and, looking up, he saw the pretty face of Mrs. Ogilvie.
“Come in and sit down,” he said, jumping up and offering her a chair. “It is cool and yet not draughty in here. I have just had the pleasure of a conversation with your little daughter.”
“Indeed! I do hope she has been conducting herself properly.”
“I must not repeat what she said; I can only assure you that she behaved charmingly.”
“I am so relieved; Sibyl so often does not behave charmingly, that you don’t wonder that I should ask you the question.”
“She has a very great respect for you,” said Lord Grayleigh; “it makes me think you a better woman to have a child regard you as she does.”
Mrs. Ogilvie fidgeted; she had seated herself on a low rustic chair, and she looked pretty and elegant in her white summer dress, and her hat softening the light in her beautiful eyes. She toyed with her white lace parasol, and looked, as Sibyl had looked a short time ago, across the lovely summer scene; but in her eyes there shone the world with all its temptations and all its lures, and Sibyl’s had made acquaintance with the stars, and the lofty peaks of high principle, and honor, and knew nothing of the real world.
Lord Grayleigh, in a kind of confused way which he did not himself understand, noticed the difference in the glance of the child and the woman.
“Your little girl has the highest opinion of you,” he repeated; “the very highest.”
“And I wish she would not talk or think such nonsense,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, in a burst of irritation. “You know well that I am not what Sibyl thinks me. I am an ordinary, everyday woman. I hope I am” – she smiled – “charming.”
“You are that, undoubtedly,” said the nobleman, slightly bowing his head.
“I hope I am what a man most likes in a woman, agreeable, charming, and fairly amiable; but I am no saint, and I don’t want to be. Sibyl’s attitude towards me is therefore most irritating, and I am doing my utmost – ”
“You are doing what?” said Lord Grayleigh. He rose, and stood by the summer-house door.
“To open her eyes.”
“I would not if I were you,” he said, gravely; “it is not often that a child has her faith. To shake it means a great deal.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“I don’t often read my Bible,” he continued, “but, of course, I did as a boy – most boys do. My mother was a good woman. I am thinking of something said in that Holy Book.”
“You are quite serious; I never knew you in this mood before.”
“I must tell it to you. ‘Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it were better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the depths of the sea.’”
“How unpleasant,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, after a pause, “and I rather fail to see the connection. Shall we change the subject?”
“With pleasure.”
“What arrangement did you make with Philip yesterday?”
“I made no absolute arrangement, but I think he will do according to your wishes.”
“Then he will assay the mine, act as the engineer to the company?”
“Precisely.”
“Has he promised?”
“Not yet, but my impression is that he will do it.”
“What does assaying the mine mean?”
Mrs. Ogilvie knitted her pretty dark brows, and looked as inquisitive and childish at that moment as Sibyl herself.
“To assay a mine means to find out accurately what it contains,” said Lord Grayleigh. Once again his eyes turned away from his questioner. He had very little respect for Mrs. Ogilvie’s conscience, but he did not want to meet anyone’s gaze at that instant.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, after a pause, “your husband has not definitely promised, and it is on the cards that he may refuse.”
“He will be a madman if he does,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, and she stamped her pretty foot impatiently.
“According to Sibyl’s light, he will be the reverse of that; but then, Sibyl, and your husband also, believe in such a thing as conscience.”
“Philip’s conscience!” said the wife, with a sneer; “what next?”
“It appears to me,” said Lord Grayleigh, “that he has an active one.”
“It has come to life very quickly, then. This is mere humbug.”
“Let me speak. To be frank with you, I respect your husband’s conscience; and, perhaps, if you respected it more – ”
“I really will not stay here to be lectured,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “It is to your advantage, doubtless, that Philip should do something for you; it must be to your advantage, for you are going to pay him well. Will he do it, or will he not? That is the question I want answered.”
“And I cannot answer it, for I do not know.”
“But you think he will?”
“That is my impression.”
“You can, at least, tell me what occurred.”
“I can give you an outline of what occurred. I made him an offer to go to Queensland.”
“To go where?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, looking slightly startled.
“As the mine happens to be in Queensland, how can he assay it in England?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yes, if he does anything, he must go to Queensland. He must see the mine or mines himself; his personal report is essential. He will be paid well, and will receive a large number of shares.”
“What do you mean by being paid well?”
“He will have his expenses, and something over.”
“Something over! that is a very elastic term.”
“In your husband’s case it will mean thousands.”
“Oh, I see; and then the shares?”
“The shares will practically make him a rich man.”
“Then of course he will consent. I will go at once, and send him a line.” She turned to leave the summer-house. Lord Grayleigh followed her. He laid his hand for an instant on her slim arm.
“If I were you,” he said, and there was an unwonted tremble in his voice as he spoke, “if I were you, upon my honor, I’d leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone now? Why should not the wife influence the husband for his own good?”
“Very well,” said Lord Grayleigh; “I only ventured to make a suggestion.”
She looked at him in a puzzled way, raised her brows, and said:
“I never found you so disagreeable before.” She then left the summer-house.
Lord Grayleigh stood still for a moment, then, with quick strides, he went in the direction of the shrubbery. Sibyl, hot, excited, breathless after her game, did not even see him. He called her and she stopped.
“May I speak to you?” he said. He had the courteous manner to her which he did not vouch-safe to many of his gay lady acquaintances.
She ran to his side at once.
“Don’t you want to send your father a letter by this post?”
“Yes, of course; is there time?”
“I will make time; go into the house and write to him.”
“But why?”
“He would like to hear from you.”
“Do you want me to say anything special?”
“Nothing special; write to him from your heart, that is all.” And then Lord Grayleigh turned away in the direction of his stables. He ordered the groom to saddle his favorite horse, and was soon careering across country. Sibyl’s letter to her father was short, badly spelt, and brimful of love. Mrs. Ogilvie’s was also short, and brimful of worldliness.
The two letters, each as wide as the poles apart in spirit and in intention, met in the post-box, and were each carried as rapidly as mail trains could take them to the metropolis.
On the next morning these letters lay beside Philip Ogilvie’s plate at breakfast. Sibyl’s was well blotted and sealed with her favorite violet seal. Mrs. Ogilvie’s was trim, neat, and without a blemish. Ogilvie read them both, first the mother’s, then the child’s. Sibyl’s was almost all kisses: hardly any words, just blots and kisses. Ogilvie did not press his lips to the kisses this time. He read the letter quickly, thrust it into his pocket, and once more turned his attention to what his wife had said. He smiled sarcastically as he read. The evening before he had written Lord Grayleigh accepting the proffered engagement. The die was cast.