Chapter 9 Daddy's Girl by L. T. Meade
“Miss Winstead,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “this is all most unpleasant.”
“What do you mean?” asked the governess.
“Why, this whim of my husband’s. He has been away for over a week, and the child imagines that he is still in London, that he will return at any instant and spoil her, after his usual injudicious fashion.”
“Oh, I don’t quite think that Mr. Ogilvie spoils your little Sibyl,” said Miss Winstead; “he has peculiar ideas, that’s all.”
“We need not discuss that point,” said Mrs. Ogilvie in an irritated tone. “We are back later than I thought, and I have to dine out to-night. I want you, Miss Winstead, to break the tidings to the child that her father has gone to Queensland.”
“I?” said Miss Winstead; “I would really rather – ”
“I fear your likes or dislikes with regard to the matter cannot be considered. I cannot tell her, because I should not do it properly; and also, a more serious reason, I really have not the time. You can give Sibyl a treat, if you like, afterwards. Take her out for a walk in the Park after tea, she always likes that; and you can take her to a shop and buy her a new toy – any toy she fancies. Here’s a sovereign; you can go as far as that, you ought to get her something quite handsome for that; and you might ask the little Leicesters next door to come to tea to-morrow. There are a hundred ways in which the mind of a child can be diverted.”
“Not the mind of Sibyl with regard to her father,” interrupted Miss Winstead.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t make too much of it. You know how peculiar he is, and how peculiar she is. Just tell her that he has gone away for a couple of months – that he has gone on an expedition which means money, and that I am pleased about it, that he has done it for my sake and for her sake. Tell her he’ll be back before the summer is over. You can put it any way you like, only do it, Miss Winstead – do it!”
“When?” asked Miss Winstead. She turned very pale, and leant one hand on the table.
“Oh, when you please, only don’t worry me. You had better take her off my hands at once. Just tell her that I am tired and have a headache, and won’t see her until the morning; I really must lie down, and Hortense must bathe my forehead. If I don’t I shall look a perfect wreck to-night, and it is going to be a big dinner; I have been anxious for some time to go. And afterwards there is a reception at the Chinese Embassy; I am going there also. Please ask Watson, on your way through the hall, to have tea sent to my boudoir. And now you quite understand?”
“But, please, say exactly what I am to tell your little girl.”
“Don’t you know? Say that her father has gone – oh, by the way, there’s a letter for her. I really don’t know that she ought to have it. Her father is sure to have said something terribly injudicious, but perhaps you had better give it to her. You might give it to her when you are telling her, and tell her to read it by-and-by, and not to be silly, but to be sensible. That is my message to her. Now pray go, Miss Winstead. Are you better? Have you had a nice time while we were away?”
“I still suffer very badly with my head,” said Miss Winstead, “but the quiet has done me good. Yes, I will try and do my best. I saw Mr. Ogilvie the day he left; he did not look well, and seemed sorrowful. He asked me to be kind to Sibyl.”
“I sincerely trust you are kind to the child; if I thought you did not treat her with sympathy and understanding I should be obliged – ”
“Oh, you need not go on,” said Miss Winstead, coloring, and looking annoyed. “I know my duty. I am not a woman with very large sympathies, or perhaps very wide views, but I try to do my duty; I shall certainly do my utmost for your dear little daughter. There is something very lovable about her, although sometimes I fear I do not quite understand her.”
“No one seems to understand Sibyl, and yet everyone thinks her lovable,” said the mother. “Well, give her my love; tell her I will ride with her in the morning. She has had a present of a pony, quite a ridiculous present; Lord Grayleigh was determined to give it to her. He took an immense fancy to the child, and put the gift in such a way that it would not have been wise to refuse. Don’t forget, when you see Watson, to tell him to bring tea to my boudoir.”
Miss Winstead slowly left the room. She was a very quiet woman, about thirty-five years of age. She had a stolid manner, and, as she said herself, was a little narrow and a little old-fashioned, but she was troubled now. She did not like the task set her. As she went upstairs she muttered a solitary word.
“Coward!” she said, under her breath.
“I wish I was well out of this,” thought the governess. “The child is not an ordinary one, and the love she bears her father is not an ordinary love.”
Miss Winstead’s schoolroom looked its brightest and best. The days were growing quite long now, and flowers were plentiful. A large basket of flowers had been sent from Grayleigh Manor that morning, and Miss Winstead had secured some of the prettiest for her schoolroom. She had decorated the tea-table and the mantelpiece, but with a pain at her heart, for she was all the time wondering if Sibyl knew or did not know. She could not quite understand from Ogilvie’s manner whether she knew or not. He was very reserved about her just at the last, he evidently did not like to talk of her.
Miss Winstead entered the schoolroom. She sat down for a moment near the open window. The day was still in its prime. She looked at the clock. The under-housemaid, who had the charge of the schoolroom tea, now came in with the tray. She laid the cloth and spread the tea-things. There was a plate of little queen-cakes for Sibyl.
“Cook made these for Miss Sibyl,” she said. “Does she know yet, Miss Winstead, that the master has gone?”
“No,” said Miss Winstead; “and I have got to tell her, Anne, and it is a task I anything but like.”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a deal, Miss,” replied Anne, in a sympathetic voice.
Just then a light, childish step was heard in the passage, and Sibyl burst into the room.
“Here I am. Oh, I am so glad tea is ready. What’s the hour, please, Miss Winstead? How are you, Anne; is your toothache better?”
“I have not had any toothache to mention since you left, Miss Sibyl.”
“I am glad to hear that. You used to suffer awful pain, didn’t you? Did you go to Mr. Robbs, the dentist, and did he put your head between his knees and tug and tug to get the tooth out? That’s the way Nurse’s teeth were taken out when she was a little girl. She told me all about it. Did Mr. Robbs pull your tooth out that way, Anne?”
“No, Miss, the tooth is better and in my head, I’m thankful to say.”
“And how is cook? How are her sneezing fits?”
“All the servants are very well, I thank you, Miss.”
“Don’t make any more enquiries now, Sibyl, sit down and begin your tea,” said her governess.
Sibyl made an effort to suppress the words which were bubbling to her lips. Anne had reached the door, when she burst out with —
“I do just want to ask one more question. How is Watson, Anne, and how is his sweetheart? Has she been kinder to him lately?”
“Sibyl, I refuse to allow you to ask any further questions,” interrupted Miss Winstead. She was so nervous and perplexed at the task before her that she was glad even to be able to find fault with the child. It was really reprehensible of any child to take an interest in Watson’s sweetheart.
Anne, smiling however, and feeling also inclined to cry, left the room. She ran down to the servants’ hall.
“Of all the blessed angel children, Miss Sibyl beats ’em,” she cried. “Not one of us has she forgot; dear lamb, even to my tooth and your sneezing fits, cook; and Watson, most special did she inquire for Mary Porter, the girl you’re a-keeping company with. It’s wonderful what a tender heart she do have.”
“That she have truly,” said the cook, “and I’ll make her some more queen-cakes to-morrow, and ice them for her, that I will. It’s but to look at her to see how loving she is,” continued the good woman. “How she’ll live without the master beats me. The missus ain’t worthy of her.”
This remark was followed by a sort of groan which proceeded from each servant’s mouth. It was evident that Mrs. Ogilvie was not popular in the servants’ hall.
Sibyl meanwhile was enjoying her tea.
“It’s nearly five o’clock,” she said, “father is sure to be in at six, don’t you think so, Miss Winstead?”
“He often doesn’t come home till seven,” answered Miss Winstead in a guilty voice, her hand shaking as she raised the teapot.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Winnie dear,” said Sibyl – this was her pet name for the governess; “you have got a sort of palsy, you ought to see a doctor. I asked Nurse what palsy was, and she said ‘a shaking,’ and you are all shaking. How funny the teapot looks when your hand is bobbing so. Do, Winnie, let me pour out tea.”
“Not to-night. I was thinking that after tea you and I might go for a little walk.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, really, truly; I must wait in till father comes.”
“It is such a fine evening, that perhaps – ”
“No, no, I don’t want to go.”
“But your mother has given me money; you are to buy anything you please at the toy-shop.”
This was a very great temptation, for Sibyl adored toys.
“How much money?” she asked in a tentative voice.
“Well, a good deal, a whole sovereign.”
“Twenty shillings,” said Sibyl, “I could get a lovely doll’s house for that. But I think sometimes I am getting tired of my dolls. It’s so stupid of ’em not to talk, and never to cry, and not to feel pain or love. But, on the whole, I suppose I should like a new doll’s house, and there was a beauty at the toy-shop for twenty shillings. It was there at Christmas-time. I expect it’s a little dusty now, but I dare say Mr. Holman would let me have it cheap. I am very fond of Mr. Holman, aren’t you, Winnie? Don’t you love him very, very much? He has such kind, sorrowful eyes. Don’t you like him?”
“I don’t know that I do, Sibyl. Come, finish your tea, my dear.”
“Have you been trying to ’prove yourself very much while I was away?” said Sibyl, looking at her now in a puzzled way.
“Prove myself?”
“I can never say that whole word. Improve is what I mean. Have you been trying?”
“I always try, Sibyl.”
“Then I think Lord Jesus is helping you, for you are ’proved, you’re quite sympathisy. I like you when you’re sympathisy. Yes, I have finished my tea, and, if you wish it, I’ll go out just as far as Mr. Holman’s to buy the doll’s house. He is poor, and he’ll be real glad to sell it. He has often told me how little money he makes by the toys, and how they lose their freshness and get dusty, and children toss ’em. Some children are so careless. Yes, I’ll go with you, and then we’ll come straight home. Father will be back certain to-night at six. He’ll know that I’ll be wanting him.”
“Sibyl, I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
There was a tremulous note in Miss Winstead’s voice which arrested the gay, careless chatter. The child looked at her governess. That deep, comprehensive, strange look visited her eyes. Miss Winstead got up hastily and walked to the window, then she returned to her seat.
“What is it?” said Sibyl, still seated at the tea-table, but turning round and watching her governess.
“It is something that will pain you, dear.”
“Oh!” said Sibyl, “go on, please. Out with it! plump it out! as Gus would say. Be quick. I don’t like to be kept in ’spense.”
“I am afraid, Sibyl, that you will not see your father to-night.”
Sibyl jumped up just as if someone had shot her. She stood quite still for a moment, and a shiver went through her little frame; then she went up to Miss Winstead.
“I can bear it,” she said; “go on. Shall I see father to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next.”
“Go on; I am bearing it,” said Sibyl.
She stood absolutely upright, white as a sheet, her eyes queerly dilated, but her lips firm.
“It’s a great shock, but I am bearing it,” she said again. “When will I see him?”
Miss Winstead turned now and looked at her.
“Child,” she said, “don’t look like that.”
“I’m looking no special way; I’m only bearing up. Is father dead?”
“No; no, my dear. No, my poor little darling. Oh, you ought to have been told; but he did not wish it. It was his wish that you should have a happy time in the country. He has gone to Queensland; he will be back in a few months.”
“A few months,” said Sibyl. “He’s not dead?” She sat down listlessly on the window seat. She heaved a great sigh.
“It’s the little shots that hurt most,” she said after a pause. “I wouldn’t have felt it, if you had said he was dead.”
“Come out, Sibyl, you know now he won’t be back by six.”
“Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
She turned and walked very gravely out of the room.
“I’d rather she cried and screamed; I’d rather she rushed at me and tried to hurt me; I’d rather she did anything than take it like that,” thought the governess.
Sibyl went straight into the nursery.
“Nursie,” she said, “my father has gone. He is in Queensland; he did not wish me to be told, but I have been told now. He is coming back in a few months. A few months is like for ever, isn’t it, nursie? I am going out with Miss Winstead for a walk.”
“Oh, my darling,” said nursie, “this has hurt you horribly.”
“Don’t,” said Sibyl, “don’t be sympathisy.” She pushed nurse’s detaining hand away.
“It’s the little shots that tell,” she repeated. “I wouldn’t have felt anything if it had been a big, big bang; if he had been dead, I mean, but I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to let anybody think that I care anything at all. Give me my hat and gloves and jacket, please, nurse.”
She went to Miss Winstead, put her hand in hers, and the two went downstairs. When they got into the street Sibyl looked full at her, and asked her one question.
“Was it mother said you was to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Then mother did tell me a – ” Sibyl left off abruptly, her poor little face quivered. The suffering in her eyes was so keen that Miss Winstead did not dare to meet them. They went for a walk in the park, and Sibyl talked in her most proper style, but she did not say any of the nice, queer, interesting things she was, as a rule, noted for. Instead, she told Miss Winstead dry, uninteresting little facts, with regard to her visit to the country.
“I hear you have got a pony,” said Miss Winstead.
“I don’t want to talk about my pony, please,” interrupted Sibyl. “Let me tell you just what were the most perfect views near the place we were in.”
“But why may we not talk about your pony?”
“I don’t want to ride my pony now.”
Miss Winstead was alarmed about the child.
“You have walked quite far enough to-night,” she said, “you look very white.”
“I’m not a scrap tired, I never felt better in my life. Do let us go to the toy-shop.”
“A good idea,” said the governess, much cheered to find Sibyl, in her opinion, human after all. “We will certainly go there and will choose a beautiful toy.”
“Well, this is the turning, come along,” said Sibyl.
“But why should we go to Holman’s, there is a splendid toy-shop in this street.”
“I’d much rather go to Mr. Holman’s.”
Miss Winstead did not expostulate any further. Presently they reached the shabby little shop. Mr. Holman, the owner of the shop, was a special friend of the child’s. He had once or twice, charmed by her sympathetic way, confided some of his griefs to her. He found it, he told her, extremely difficult to make the toy-shop pay; and Sibyl, in consequence, considered it her bounden duty to spend every half-penny she could spare at this special shop. She entered now, went straight up to the counter and held out her hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Holman,” she said; “I hope I find you quite well.”
“Thank you, Missy; I am in the enjoyment of good health,” replied the shopman, flushing with pleasure and grasping the little hand.
“I am glad of that,” answered Sibyl. “I have come, Mr. Holman, to buy a big thing, it will do your shop a lot of good. I am going to spend twenty shillings in your shop. What would you like me to buy?”
“You thought a doll’s house,” interrupted Miss Winstead, who stood behind the child.
“Oh, it don’t matter about that,” said Sibyl, looking gravely back at her; “I mean it don’t matter now. Mr. Holman, what’s the most dusty of your toys, what’s the most scratched, what’s the toy that none of the other children would like?”
“I have a whole heap of ’em,” said Holman, shaking his head sadly.
“That he have, poor dear,” here interrupted Mrs. Holman. “How do you do, Missy, we are both glad to see you back again; we have had a dull season, very dull, and the children, they didn’t buy half the toys they ought to at Christmas time. It’s because our shop is in a back street.”
“Oh, but it’s a very nice street,” said Sibyl; “it’s retired, isn’t it? Well, I’ll buy twenty shillings’ worth of the most dusty of the toys, and please send them home to-morrow. Please, Miss Winstead, put the money down.”
Miss Winstead laid a sovereign on the counter.
“Good-by, Mr. Holman; good-by, Mrs. Holman,” said Sibyl. She shook hands solemnly with the old pair, and then went out of the shop.
“What ails her?” said Holman. “She looks as if something had died inside her. I don’t like her looks a bit.”
Mrs. Ogilvie enjoyed herself very much that evening. Her friends were glad to see her back. They were full of just the pleasant sympathy which she liked best to receive. She must be lonely without her husband. When would he return? When she said in a few months’ time, they congratulated her, and asked her how she had enjoyed herself at Grayleigh Manor. In short, there was that sort of fuss made about her which most appealed to her fancy. She forgot all about Sibyl. She looked at other women of her acquaintance, and thought that when her husband came home she would wear just as dazzling gems and just as beautiful dresses, and she, too, might talk about her country place, and invite her friends down to this rural retreat at Whitsuntide, and make up a nice house-party in the autumn, and again in the winter. Oh, yes, the world with its fascinations was stealing more and more into her heart, and she had no room for the best of all. She forgot her lonely child during these hours.
Mrs. Ogilvie returned from a fashionable reception between twelve and one in the morning. Hortense was up and tired. She could scarcely conceal her yawns as she unstitched the diamonds which she had sewn on her mistress’s dress earlier in the evening, and put away the different jewels. At last, however, her duties were over, and she went away to her room.
Mrs. Ogilvie got into bed, and closing her eyes, prepared to doze off into delicious slumber. She was pleasantly tired, and no more. As she sank into repose, the house in the country and the guests who would fill it mingled with her dreams. Suddenly she heard a clear voice in her ears. It awoke her with a sort of shock. She raised herself on her elbow, and saw her little daughter standing in her white nightdress by the bedside.
“Mother,” said Sibyl.
“What are you doing there, Sibyl? Go back to bed directly.”
“Please, mother, I can’t sleep. I have got a sort of up-and-down and round-and-round feeling. I don’t know what it is, but it’s worse when I put my head on my pillow. I ’spect I’m lonesome, mother. Mother, I really, truly, am going to be sensible, and I know all about father; but may I get into your bed just at the other side. I will lie as still as a mouse; may I, mother?”
“Oh dear, how you tremble,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “how more than annoying this is! You certainly are not a sensible child at the present moment. If you felt so strange and nervous, why didn’t you ask Nurse or Miss Winstead to sleep in the room with you?”
“But, mother, that wouldn’t have done me any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“They wouldn’t be you. I’ll be quite happy if I can get into bed alongside of you, mother.”
“Of course you may, child, but please don’t disturb me. I am very tired, and want to sleep.”
Sibyl ran round to the other side of the bed, slipped in, and lay as quiet as a mouse.
Mrs. Ogilvie curled up comfortably, arranged her pillows, and closed her eyes. She was very sleepy, but what was the matter with her? She could not lose herself in unconsciousness. Was the perfectly still little figure by her side exercising some queer power over her, drawing something not often stirred within her heart to the surface? She turned at last and looked at the child. Sibyl was lying on her back with her eyes wide open.
“Why don’t you shut your eyes and go to sleep?” asked her mother.
“I can’t, on account of the round-and-roundness feeling,” replied Sibyl.
“What a funny little thing you are. Here, give me your hand.”
Mrs. Ogilvie stretched out her own warm hand and took one of Sibyl’s. Sibyl’s little hand was cold.
“May I come quite close to you, mother?” asked Sibyl.
“Yes, darling.”
The next instant she was lying in her mother’s arms. Her mother clasped her close to her breast and kissed her many times.
“Oh, now that’s better,” said the child with a sob. It was the first attempt at a sob which had come from her lips. She nestled cosily within her mother’s clasp.
“I am much better,” she said; “I didn’t understand, but I understand now. I got his letter.”
“Must we talk about it to-night, Sibyl?” asked her mother.
“Not much; there’s not much to say, is there? He said I was to be good and to obey you. I was to be good all the time. It’s very hard, but I ’spect I’ll do it; I ’spect Lord Jesus will help me. Mother, why has father gone to Queensland? It’s such a long, long way off.”
“For a most excellent reason,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “You really are showing a great deal of sense, Sibyl. I never knew you more sensible about anything. I was afraid you would cry and make scenes and be naughty, and make yourself quite ill; that would have been a most silly, affected sort of thing to do. Your father has gone away just on a visit – we will call it that. He will be back before the summer is over, and when he comes back he will bring us – ”
“What?” asked the child. “What has he gone for?”
“My dear child, he has gone on most important business. He will bring us back a great deal of money, Sibyl. You are too young yet to understand about money.”
“No, I am not,” said Sibyl. “I know that when people have not much money they are sorrowful. Poor Mr. Holman is.”
“Who in the world is Mr. Holman?”
“He sells the toys in the back street near our house. I am very much obliged to you, mother, for that sovereign. Mr. Holman is going to send me some dusty toys to-morrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t ’splain, Mr. Holman understands. But, mother, I thought we had plenty of money.”
“Plenty of money,” echoed Mrs. Ogilvie; “that shows what a very silly little child you are. We have nothing like enough. When your father comes back we’ll be rich.”
“Rich?” said Sibyl, “rich?” She did not say another word for a long time. Her mother really thought she had dropped asleep. In about half an hour, however, Sibyl spoke.
“Is it nice, being rich?” she asked.
“Of course it is.”
“But what does it do?”
“Do? It does everything. It gives you all your pretty frocks.”
“But I am more comfy in my common frocks.”
“Well, it gives you your nice food.”
“I don’t care nothing about food.”
“It gives you your comfortable home, your pony, and – ”
“Lord Grayleigh gave me my pony.”
“Child, I cannot explain. It makes all the difference between comfort and discomfort, between sorrow and happiness.”
“Do you think so?” said Sibyl. “And father has gone away to give me a nice house, and pretty clothes, and all the other things between being comfy and discomfy; and you want to be rich very much, do you, mother?”
“Very much indeed; I like the good things of life.”
“I’ll try and understand,” said Sibyl. She turned wearily on her pillow, and the next instant sleep had visited the perplexed little brain.