Chapter 7 Daddy's Girl by L. T. Meade
The following letter reached Philip Ogilvie late that same evening: —
My Dear Ogilvie,
Your decision is naturally all that can be desired, and I only hope you may never live to regret it. I have, most unfortunately, given my ankle a bad sprain. I had a fall yesterday when out riding, and am obliged to lie up for a day or two. There is much that I should wish to talk over with you before you go to Queensland. Can you come down here to-morrow by the first train? I will not detain you an hour longer than I can help. All other arrangements are in the hands of my agents, Messrs. Spielmann & Co.
Yours sincerely,
Grayleigh.
Ogilvie read this letter quickly. He knit his brow as he did so. It annoyed him a good deal.
“I did not want to go there,” he thought. “I am doing this principally for the sake of the child. I can arrange all financial matters through Spielmann. Grayleigh wants this thing done; I alone can do it to his satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the public. He must pay me – what he pays will be Sibyl’s, the provision for her future. But I don’t want to see the child – until all this dirty work is over. If I come back things may be altered. God only knows what may have occurred. The mine may be all right, there may be deliverance, but I didn’t want to see her before I go. It is possible that I may not be able to keep my composure. There are a hundred things which make an interview between the child and me undesirable.”
He thought and thought, and at last rose from his chair and began to pace the room. He had not suffered from his heart since his interview with Dr. Rashleigh. He gave it but scant consideration now.
“If I have a fatal disease it behooves me to act as if I were absolutely sound,” he said to himself. And he had so acted after the first shock of Rashleigh’s verdict had passed off. But he did not like the thought of seeing Sibyl. Still, Grayleigh’s letter could not be lightly disregarded. If Grayleigh wished to see him and could not come to town, it was essential that he should go to him.
He rang his bell and sent off a telegram to the effect that he would arrive at Grayleigh Manor at an early hour on the following day.
This telegram Lord Grayleigh showed to Mrs. Ogilvie before she went to bed that night.
“He has consented to go, as of course you are well aware,” said Lord Grayleigh, “and he comes here to see me to-morrow. But I would not say anything about his departure for Queensland to your little daughter, until after his visit. He may have something to say in the matter. Let him, if he wishes it, be the one to break it to her.”
“But why should not the child know? How ridiculous you are!”
“That is exactly as her father pleases,” replied Lord Grayleigh. “I have a kind of intuition that he may want to tell her himself. Anyhow, I trust you will oblige me in the matter.”
Mrs. Ogilvie pouted. She was not enjoying herself as much at Grayleigh Manor as she had expected, and, somehow or other, she felt that she was in disgrace. This was by no means an agreeable sensation. She wondered why she was not in higher spirits. To visit Australia nowadays was a mere nothing. Her husband would be back again, a rich man, in six months at the farthest. During those six months she herself might have a good time. There were several country houses where she might visit. Her visiting list was already nearly full. She would take Sibyl with her, although Sibyl sometimes was the reverse of comforting; but it looked effective to see the handsome mother and the beautiful child together, and Sibyl, when she did not go too far, said very pathetic and pretty things about her. Oh yes, she and her little daughter would have a good time, while the husband and father was earning money for them in Australia: while the husband and father was raking in gold, they might really enjoy themselves.
As she thought of this, Mrs. Ogilvie felt so light-hearted that she could have skipped. Those debts which had weighed so on what she was pleased to call her conscience, would be liquidated once and for all, and in the future she would have plenty of money. It was the be-all of existence to her feeble soul. She would have it in abundance in the time which lay before her.
“Philip is a wise man. It was very silly of him to hesitate and make a fuss,” she thought; “but he has decided wisely, as I knew he would. I shall give him a kiss when I see him, and tell him that I am quite pleased with him.”
She went to bed, therefore, cheerful, and the next morning put on her very prettiest dress in order to meet her husband.
Ogilvie walked from the little station, which was only half a mile away. Mrs. Ogilvie, going slowly up the avenue, saw him coming to meet her. She stood under the shade of a great overhanging beech tree, and waited until he appeared.
“Well, Mildred, and how are you?” said her husband. He took her hand, and, bending forward, brushed the lightest of kisses against her cheek.
“Quite well,” she replied. “Is not the day pleasant? I am so glad about everything, Phil. But you don’t look quite the thing yourself. Have you taken cold or suffered from one of those nasty rheumatic attacks?”
“I am all right,” he answered shortly. “I have a very few moments to be here, as I want to catch the 12.30 back. Do you know if Lord Grayleigh is anywhere to be found?”
“I saw him half an hour ago. I think you will find him in the smoking-room. He is expecting you.”
“And” – Ogilvie glanced to right and left – “the child?”
“She is with the other children. Shall I send her to you?”
“Not yet.”
“It is so nice of you to go, Phil; it will do you no end of good. You will enjoy your voyage,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie, turning now and laying her hand on her husband’s arm.
Mr. Rochester, who was quite a young man himself, and was deeply occupied at this time with thoughts of love and marriage, happened to see the pair as they sauntered by together. He knew nothing, of course, of Ogilvie’s intended visit to Australia, nor was he in any sense of the word behind the scenes. On the contrary, he thought that Mrs. Ogilvie and her husband made a perfect picture of beautiful love between husband and wife.
“It is good of you,” pursued Mrs. Ogilvie, turning once more to her husband. “I am greatly obliged. I am more than obliged, I am relieved and – and satisfied. We shall have a happy life together when you come back. There are, of course, little matters we ought to talk over before we go.”
“Debts, you mean,” said Ogilvie, bluntly. “I opened your bills in your absence. They will be – ”
“Oh, Phil!” Mrs. Ogilvie’s face turned very white.
“I will speak about them before I leave,” he continued. “Now I must find Grayleigh.”
“Is it true that you are going on Saturday?”
“Quite true.”
“Had I not better return to town with you? There will be several things to put in order.”
“I can write to you, Mildred. Now that you are here you had better stay here. The change will be good for you. You need not return to the house in town before next week.”
“If you really don’t want me, I am certainly enjoying myself here.”
“I don’t want you,” he replied, but as he spoke his grey eyes looked wistful. He turned for an instant and glanced at her. He noted the sunny, lovely hair, the agile, youthful, rounded figure. Once he had loved her passionately.
“Sibyl will be delighted to see you,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie. “She has been, on the whole, behaving very nicely. Of course, making both friends and foes, as is her usual impetuous way.”
“That reminds me,” said Ogilvie. “I shall see Sibyl before I leave; but that reminds me.”
“Of what?”
“I do not wish her to be told.”
“Told what? What do you mean? My dear Phil, you are eccentric.”
“I have no time to dispute the point, Mildred. I wish to give one hasty direction, which is to be obeyed. Sibyl is not to be told that I am going to Australia.”
“What, never?”
“She must be told when I am gone, but not till then. I will write to her, and thus break the news. She is not to be told to-day, not until she gets home, you understand? I won’t go at all if you tell her.”
“Oh, of course, I understand,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, in a frightened way; “but why should not the child hear what really is good tidings?”
“I do not wish it. Now, have you anything further to say, for I must see Lord Grayleigh immediately.”
Mrs. Ogilvie clutched her husband’s arm.
“You will leave me plenty of money when you go, will you not?”
“You shall have a bank-book and an account, but you must be careful. My affairs are not in the most prosperous condition, and your bills are terribly heavy.”
“My bills! but I really – ”
“We will not dispute them. They shall be paid before I go.”
“Oh, my dear Philip, and you are not angry?”
“They shall be paid, Mildred. The liquidation of your debts is part of the reward for taking up this loathsome work.”
“Philip, how ridiculously morbid you are!”
The husband and wife walked slower and slower. Ogilvie saw Grayleigh standing on the steps.
“There is Lord Grayleigh,” he said. “I must go at once. Yes, the bills will be paid.” He laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder.
“There is nothing else, is there, Mildred?”
“No,” she began, then she hesitated.
“What more?”
“A trinket, it took my fancy – a diamond cross – you noticed it. I could not resist it.”
“How much?” said the man. His face was very stern and white, and there was a blue look round his lips.
“Two thousand pounds.”
“Let me have the bill to-morrow at latest. It shall be cleared. Now don’t keep me.”
He strode past her and went up to where Lord Grayleigh was waiting for him.
“This is good,” said the nobleman. “I am very sorry I could not come to town. Yes, my ankle is better, but I dare not use it. I am limping, as you see.”
“Shall we go into the house?” said Ogilvie; “I want to get this thing over. I have not a moment if I am to start on Saturday.”
“You must do what we want. The public are impatient. We must get your report as soon as possible. You will wire it to us, of course.”
“That depends.”
“Now listen, Ogilvie,” said Lord Grayleigh, as they both entered the study of the latter and Ogilvie sank into a chair, “you either do this thing properly or you decline it, you give it up.”
“Can I? I thought the die was cast.”
“The worldly man in me echoes that hope, but I could get Atherton to take your place even now.”
“Even now?” echoed Philip Ogilvie.
“Even now it may be possible to manage it, although I” – Lord Grayleigh had a flashing memory of Sibyl’s face and the look in her eyes, when she spoke of her perfect father. Then he glanced at the man who, silent and with suppressed suffering in his face, stood before him. The irresolution in Ogilvie’s face took something from its character, and seemed to lower the man’s whole nature. Lord Grayleigh shivered; then the uncomfortable sensation which the memory of Sibyl gave him passed away.
“I shall regret it extremely if you cannot do what I want,” he said, with emphasis.
Ogilvie had a quick sensation of momentary relief. His wife owed another two thousand pounds. It would be bankruptcy, ruin if he did not go. He stood up.
“The time for discussing the thing is over,” he said. “I will go – and – do as you wish. The only thing to put straight is the price down.”
“What do you mean by the price down?”
“I want money.”
“Of course, you shall have it.”
“I want more than my expenses, and something to cover the loss to my business which my absence may create.”
“How much more?” Lord Grayleigh looked at him anxiously.
“Ten thousand pounds in cash now, to be placed to my credit in my bank.”
“Ten thousand pounds in cash! That is a big order.”
“Not too big for what you require me to do. You make hundreds of thousands by me eventually; what is one ten thousand? It will relieve my mind and set a certain matter straight. The fact is – I will confide in you so far – my own pecuniary affairs are anything but flourishing. I have had some calls to meet. What little property I own is settled on my wife. You know that a man cannot interfere with his marriage settlements. I have one child. I want to make a special provision for her.”
“I know your child,” said Lord Grayleigh, in a very grave tone; “she is out of the common.”
A spasm of pain crossed the father’s face.
“She is,” he answered slowly. “I wish to make a provision for her. If I die (I may die, we are all mortal; I am going to a distant place; possibilities in favor of death are ten per cent. greater than if I remain at home) – if I die, this will be hers. It will comfort me, and make it absolutely impossible for me to go back. You understand that sometimes a miserable starved voice within me speaks. I allude to the voice of conscience. However much it clamors, I cannot listen to it when that sum of money lies in the bank to my credit, with my last will and testament leaving it eventually to my daughter.”
“I would not give your daughter such a portion, if I were you,” thought Lord Grayleigh, but he did not say the words aloud. He said instead, “What you wish shall be done.”
The two men talked a little longer together. Certain necessary arrangements were concluded, and Ogilvie bore in his pocket before he left a check for ten thousand pounds on Lord Grayleigh’s private account.
“This clinches matters,” he said, and he gave a significant glance at Grayleigh.
“You will see Spielmann for all the rest,” was Grayleigh’s answer; “and now, if you must catch the train – ”
“Yes, I must; good-by.”
Lord Grayleigh walked with him as far as the porch.
“Have you seen your wife?” he asked. “Can we not induce you to wait for the next train and stay to lunch?”
“No, thanks; it is impossible. Oh, I see you have sent for the dog-cart; I will drive to the station.”
Just then Sibyl, Gus and Freda appeared in view. Sibyl was extremely dirty. She had been climbing trees to good effect that morning, and there was a rent in front of her dress and even a very apparent hole in one of her stockings. She and Gus were arguing somewhat fiercely, and the cap she wore was pushed back, and her golden hair was all in a tangle. Suddenly she raised her eyes, caught sight of her father, and, with a shout something between a whoop and a cry, flung herself into his arms.
“Daddy, daddy!” she cried.
He clasped her tightly to his breast. He did not notice the shabby dress nor the torn stocking; he only saw the eager little face, the eyes brimful with love; he only felt the beating of the warm, warm heart.
“Why, dad, now I shall be happy. Where are you, Gus? Gus, this is father; Gus, come here!”
But at a nod from Lord Grayleigh both Gus and Freda had vanished round the corner.
“I will say good-by, if you must go, Ogilvie,” said Grayleigh. He took his hand, gave it a sympathetic squeeze, and went into the house.
“But must you go, father? Why, you have only just come,” said Sibyl.
“I must, my darling, I must catch the next train; there is not ten minutes. Jump on the dog-cart, and we will drive to the station together.”
“Oh, ’licious!” cried Sibyl, “more than ’licious; but what will mother say?”
“Never mind, the coachman will bring you back. Jump up, quick.”
In another instant Sibyl was seated between her father and the coachman. The spirited mare dashed forward, and they bowled down the avenue. Ogilvie’s arm was tight round Sibyl’s waist, he was hugging her to him, squeezing her almost painfully tight. She gasped a little, drew in her breath, and then resolved to bear it.
“There’s something troubling him, he likes having me near him,” thought the child. “I wouldn’t let him see that he’s squeezing me up a bit too tight for all the world.”
The mare seemed to fly over the ground. Ogilvie was glad.
“We shall have a minute or two at the station. I can speak to her then,” he thought. “I won’t tell her that I am going, but I can say something.” Then the station appeared in view, and the mare was pulled up with a jerk; Ogilvie jumped to his feet, and lifted Sibyl to the ground.
“Wait for the child,” he said to the servant, “and take her back carefully to the house.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man, touching his hat.
Ogilvie went into the little station, and Sibyl accompanied him.
“I have my ticket,” he said, “we have three minutes to spare, three whole precious minutes.”
“Three whole precious minutes,” repeated Sibyl. “What is it, father?”
“I am thinking of something,” he said.
“What?” asked the girl.
“For these three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, you and I are to all intents and purposes alone in the world.”
“Father! why, so we are,” she cried. “Mother’s not here, we are all alone. Nothing matters, does it, when we are alone together?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t look quite well, dear father.”
“I have been having some suffering lately, and am worried about things, those sort of things that don’t come to little girls.”
“Of course they don’t, father, but when I’m a woman I’ll have them. I’ll take them instead of you.”
“Now listen, my darling.”
“Father, before you speak … I know you are going to say something very, very solemn; I know you when you’re in your solemn moments; I like you best of all then. You seem like Jesus Christ then. Don’t you feel like Jesus Christ, father?”
“Never, Sib, never; but the time is going by, the train is signalled. My dearest, what is it?”
“Mayn’t I go back to town with you? I like the country, I like Gus and Freda and Mabel, but there is no place like your study in the evening, and there’s no place like my bedroom at night when you come into it. I’d like to go back with you, wouldn’t it be fun! Couldn’t you take me?”
“I could, of course,” said the man, and just for a moment he wavered. It would be nice to have her in the house, all by herself, for the next two or three days, but he put the thought from him as if it were a temptation.
“No, Sib,” he said, “you must go back to your mother; it would not be at all right to leave your mother alone.”
“Of course not,” she answered promptly, and she gave a sigh which was scarcely a sigh.
“It would have been nice all the same,” said Ogilvie. “Ah! there is my train; kiss me, darling.”
She flung her arms tightly round his neck.
“Sibyl, just promise before I leave you that you will be a good girl, that you will make goodness the first thing in life. If, for instance, we were never to meet again – of course we shall, thousands of times, but just suppose, for the sake of saying it, that we did not, I should like to know that my little girl put goodness first. There is nothing else worth the while in life. Cling on to it, Sibyl, cling tight hold to it. Never forget that I – ”
“Yes, father, I will cling to it. Yes, father!”
“That I wish it. You would do a great deal for me?”
“For you and Lord Jesus Christ,” she answered softly.
“Then I wish this, remember, and whatever happens, whatever you hear, remember you promised. Now here’s my train, stand back. Good-by, little woman, good-by.”
“I’ll see you again very, very soon, father?”
“Very soon,” answered the man. He jumped into the carriage, the train puffed out of the station. A porter came up to Sibyl and spoke to her.
“Anybody come to meet you, Miss?”
“No, thank you,” she answered with dignity; “I was seeing my father off to town; there’s my twap waiting outside.”
The man smiled, and the little girl went gravely out of the station.
Sibyl went back to Lord Grayleigh’s feeling perplexed. There was an expression about her father’s face which puzzled her.
“He ought to have me at home with him,” she thought. “I have seen him like this now and then, and he’s mostly not well. He’s beautiful when he talks as he did to-day, but he’s mostly not well when he does it. I ’spect he’s nearer Lord Jesus when he’s not well, that must be it. My most perfect father wants me to be good; I don’t want to be good a bit, but I must, to please him.”
Just then a somewhat shrill and petulant voice called the child.
“My dear Sibyl, where have you been? What are you doing on the dog-cart? How unladylike. Jump down this minute.”
The man pulled up the mare, and Sibyl jumped to the ground. She met her mother’s angry face with a smile which she tried hard to make sweet.
“I didn’t do anything naughty, really, Mummy,” she said. “Father took me to the station to say good-by. He’s off back to town, and he took me with him, and I came back on the twap.”
“Don’t say twap, sound your ‘r’ – trap.”
“Tw-rap,” struggled Sibyl over the difficult word.
“And now you are to go into the house and ask Nurse to put on your best dress. I am going to take you to a garden party, immediately after lunch. Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen Douglas are coming with us. Be quick.”
“Oh, ’licious,” said Sibyl. She rushed into the house, and up to the nursery. Nurse was there waiting to deck her in silk and lace and feathers. The little girl submitted to her toilet, and now took a vast interest in it.
“You must make me quite my prettiest self,” she said to the nurse; “you must do your very best, ’cos mother – ”
“What about your mother now, missy?”
“’Cos mother’s just a little – Oh, nothing,” said Sibyl, pulling herself up short.
“She likes me best when I’m pretty,” continued the child; “but father likes me always. Nursie, do you know that my ownest father came down here to-day, and that I dwove to the station to see him off? Did you know it?”
“No, Miss Sibyl, I can’t say I did.”
“He talked to me in a most pwivate way,” continued Sibyl. “He told me most ’portant things, and I promised him, Nursie – I promised him that I’d – Oh, no! I won’t tell you. Perhaps I won’t be able to keep my promise, and then you’d – Nothing, Nursie, nothing; don’t be ’quisitive. I can see in your face that you are all bursting with ’quisitiveness; but you aren’t to know. I am going to a party with my own mother after lunch, and Lady Helen is coming, and Mr. Rochester. I like them both very much indeed. Lady Helen told me stories last night. She put her arm round my waist, and she talked to me; and I told her some things, too, and she laughed.”
“What did you tell her, Miss Sibyl?”
“About my father and mother. She laughed quite funnily. I wish people wouldn’t; it shows how little they know. It’s ’cos they are so far from being perfect that they don’t understand perfect people. But there’s the lunch gong. Yes, I do look very nice. Good-by, Nursie.”
Sibyl ran downstairs. The children always appeared at this meal, and she took her accustomed place at the table. Very soon afterwards, she, her mother, Lady Helen, and Mr. Rochester, started for a place about ten miles off, where an afternoon reception was being given.
Sibyl felt inclined to be talkative, and Mrs. Ogilvie, partly because she had a sore feeling in her heart with regard to her husband’s departure, although she would not acknowledge it, was inclined to be snappish. She pulled the little girl up several times, and at last Sibyl subsided in her seat, and looked out straight before her. It was then that Lady Helen once more put her arm round her waist.
“Presently,” said Lady Helen, “when the guests are all engaged, you and I will slip out by ourselves, and I will show you one of the most beautiful views in all England. We climb a winding path, and we suddenly come out quite above all the trees, and we look around us; and when we get there, you’ll be able to see the blue sea in the distance, and the ships, one of which is going to take your – ”
But just then Mrs. Ogilvie gave Helen Douglas so severe a push with her foot, that she stopped, and got very red.
“What ship do you mean?” said Sibyl, surprised at the sudden break in the conversation, and now intensely interested, “the ship that is going to take my – my what?”
“Did you never hear the old saying, that you must wait until your ship comes home?” interrupted Mr. Rochester, smiling at the child, and looking at Lady Helen, who had not got over her start and confusion.
“But this ship was going out,” said Sibyl. “Never mind, I ’spect it’s a secret; there’s lots of ’em floating round to-day. I’ve got some ’portant ones of my own. Never mind, Lady Helen, don’t blush no more.” She patted Lady Helen in a patronizing way on her hand, and the whole party laughed; the tension was, for the time, removed.