Chapter 15 Daddy's Girl by L. T. Meade
On a certain morning in the middle of July the Gaika with Ogilvie on board entered the Brisbane River. He had risen early, as was his custom, and was now standing on deck. The lascars were still busy washing the deck. He went past them, and leaning over the taffrail watched the banks of low-lying mangroves which grew on either side of the river. The sun had just risen, and transformed the scene. Ogilvie raised his hat, and pushed the hair from his brow. His face had considerably altered, it looked worn and old. His physical health had not improved, notwithstanding the supposed benefit of a long sea voyage.
A man whose friendship he had made on board, and whose name was Harding, came up just then, and spoke to him.
“Well, Ogilvie,” he cried, “we part very soon, but I trust we may meet again. I shall be returning to England in about three months from now. When do you propose to go back?”
“I cannot quite tell,” answered Ogilvie. “It depends on how soon my work is over; the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned.”
“You don’t look too well,” said his friend. “Can I get anything for you, fetch your letters, or anything of that sort?”
“I do not expect letters,” was Ogilvie’s answer; “there may be one or two cables. I shall find out at the hotel.”
Harding said something further. Ogilvie replied in an abstracted manner. He was thinking of Sibyl. It seemed to him that the little figure was near him, and the little spirit strangely in touch with his own. Of all people in the world she was the one he cared least to give his thoughts to just at that moment.
“And yet I am doing it for her,” he muttered to himself. “I must go through with it; but while I am about it I want to forget her. My work lies before me – that dastardly work which is to stain my character and blemish my honor; but there is no going back now. Sibyl was unprovided for, and I have an affection of the heart which may end my days at any moment. For her sake I had no other course open to me. Now I shall not allow my conscience to speak again.”
He made an effort to pull himself together, and as the big liner gradually neared the quay, he spoke in cheerful tones to his fellow-passengers. Just as he passed down the gangway, and landed on the quay, he heard a voice exclaim suddenly —
“Mr. Ogilvie, I believe?”
He turned, and saw a small, dapper-looking man, in white drill and a cabbage-tree hat, standing by his side.
“That is my name,” replied Ogilvie; “and yours?”
“I am Messrs. Spielmann’s agent, and my name is Rycroft. I had instructions to meet you, and guessed who you were from the description given to me. I hope you had a good voyage.”
“Pretty well,” answered Ogilvie; “but I must get my luggage together. Where are you staying?”
“At the Waharoo Hotel. I took the liberty to book you a room. Shall we go up soon and discuss business; we have no time to lose?”
“As you please,” said Ogilvie. “Will you wait here? I will return soon.”
Within half an hour the two men were driving in the direction of the hotel. Rycroft had engaged a bedroom and private sitting-room for Ogilvie. He ordered lunch, and, after they had eaten, suggested that they should plunge at once into business.
“That is quite to my desire,” said Ogilvie. “I want to get what is necessary through, in order to return home as soon as possible. It was inconvenient my leaving England just now, but Lord Grayleigh made it a condition that I should not delay an hour in examining the mine.”
“If he wishes to take up this claim, he is right,” answered Rycroft, in a grave voice. “I may as well say at once, Mr. Ogilvie, that your coming out is the greatest possible relief to us all. The syndicate ought to do well, and your name on the report is a guarantee of success. My proposal is that we should discuss matters a little to-day, and start early to-morrow by the Townville to Rockhampton. We can then go by rail to Grant’s Creek Station, which is only eight miles from the mine. There we can do our business, and finally return here to draw up the report.”
“And how long will all this take?” asked Ogilvie.
“If we are lucky, we ought to be back here within a month.”
“You have been over the mine, of course, yourself, Mr. Rycroft?”
“Yes; I only returned to Brisbane a week ago.”
“And what is your personal opinion?”
“There is, beyond doubt, alluvial gold. It is a bit refractory, but the washings panned out from five to six ounces to the ton.”
“So I was told in England; but, about the vein underneath? Alluvial is not dependable as a continuance. It is the vein we want to strike. Have you bored?”
“Yes, one shaft.”
“Any result?”
“That is what your opinion is needed to decide,” said his companion. As Rycroft spoke, the corners of his mouth hardened, and he looked fixedly at Ogilvie. He knew perfectly well why Ogilvie had come from England to assay the mine, and this last question took him somewhat by surprise.
Ogilvie was silent. After a moment he jumped up impatiently.
“I may as well inquire for any letters or cables that are waiting for me,” he said.
Rycroft lit his pipe and went out. He had never seen Philip Ogilvie before, and was surprised at his general appearance, and also at his manner.
“Why did they send him out?” he muttered. “Sensitive, and with a conscience: not the sort of man to care to do dirty work; but perhaps Grayleigh was right. If I am not much mistaken, he will do it all the same.”
“I shall make my own pile out of this,” he thought. He returned to the hotel later on, and the two men spent the evening in anxious consultation. The next day they started for Rockhampton, and late in the afternoon of the fourth day reached their destination.
The mine lay in a valley which had once been the bed of some prehistoric river, but was now reduced to a tiny creek. On either side towered the twin Lombard peaks, from which the mine was to take its name. For a mile on either side of the creek the country was fairly open, being dotted with clumps of briggalow throwing their dark shadows across the plain.
Beyond them, where the slope became steep, the dense scrub began. This clothed the two lofty peaks to their summits. The spot was a beautiful one, and up to the present had been scarcely desecrated by the hand of man.
“Here we are,” said Rycroft, “here lies the gold.” He pointed to the bed of the creek. “Here is our overseer’s hut, and he has engaged men for our purpose. This is our hut, Ogilvie. I hope you don’t mind sharing it with me.”
“Not in the least,” replied Ogilvie. “We shall not begin operations until the morning, shall we? I should like to walk up the creek.”
Rycroft made a cheerful answer, and Ogilvie started off alone. He scarcely knew why he wished to take this solitary walk, for he knew well that the die was cast. When he had accepted Lord Grayleigh’s check for ten thousand pounds he had burnt his boats, and there was no going back.
“Time enough for repentance in another world,” he muttered under his breath. “All I have to do at present is to stifle thought. It ought not to be difficult to go forward,” he muttered, with a bitter smile, “the downhill slope is never difficult.”
The work of boring was to commence on the following morning, and the camp was made close to the water hole beneath some tall gum trees. Rycroft, who was well used to camping, prepared supper for the two. The foreman’s camp was about a hundred yards distant.
As Ogilvie lay down to sleep that night he had a brief, sharp attack of the agony which had caused him alarm a couple of months ago. It reminded him in forcible language that his own time on earth was in all probability brief; but, far from feeling distressed on this account, he hugged the knowledge to his heart that he had provided for Sibyl, and that she at least would never want. During the night which followed, however, he could not sleep. Spectre after spectre of his past life rose up before him in the gloom. He saw now that ever since his marriage the way had been paved for this final act of crime. The extravagances which his wife had committed, and which he himself had not put down with a firm hand, had led to further extravagances on his part. They had lived from the first beyond their means. Money difficulties had always dogged his footsteps, and now the only way out was by a deed of sin which might ruin thousands.
“But the child – the child!” he thought; something very like a sob rose to his lips. Toward morning, however, he forced his thoughts into other channels, drew his blanket tightly round him, and fell into a long, deep sleep.
When he awoke the foreman and his men were already busy. They began to bore through the alluvial deposit in several directions, and Ogilvie and Rycroft spent their entire time in directing these operations. It would be over a fortnight’s work at least before Ogilvie could come to any absolute decision as to the true value of the mine. Day after day went quickly by, and the more often he inspected the ore submitted to him the more certain was Ogilvie that the supposed rich veins were a myth. He said little as he performed his daily task, and Rycroft watched his face with anxiety.
Rycroft was a hard-headed man, troubled by no qualms of conscience, anxious to enrich himself, and rather pleased than otherwise at the thought of fooling thousands of speculators in many parts of the world. The only thing that caused him fear was the possibility that when the instant came, Ogilvie would not take the final leap.
“Nevertheless, I believe he will,” was Rycroft’s final comment; “men of his sort go down deeper and fall more desperately than harder-headed fellows like myself. When a man has a conscience his fall is worse, if he does fall, than if he had none. But why does a man like Ogilvie undertake this sort of work? He must have a motive hidden from any of us. Oh, he’ll tumble safe enough when the moment comes, but if he doesn’t break his heart in that fall, I am much mistaken in my man.”
Four shafts had been cut and levels driven in many directions with disappointing results. It was soon all too plain that the ores were practically valueless, though the commencement of each lode looked fairly promising.
After a little over a fortnight’s hard work it was decided that it was useless to proceed.
“There is nothing more to be done, Mr. Ogilvie,” said Rycroft, as the two men sat over their supper together. “For six months the alluvial will yield about six ounces to the ton. After that” – he paused and looked full at the grim, silent face of the man opposite him.
“After that?” said Ogilvie. He compressed his lips the moment he uttered the words.
Rycroft jerked his thumb significantly over his left shoulder by way of answer.
“You mean that we must see this butchery of the innocents through,” said Ogilvie.
“I see no help for it,” replied Rycroft. “We will start back to Brisbane to-morrow, and when we get there draw up the report; I had better attend to that part of the business, of course under your superintendence. We must both sign it. But first had we not better cable to Grayleigh? He must have expected to hear from us before now. He can lay our cable before the directors, and then things can be put in train; the report can follow by the first mail.”
“I shall take the report back with me,” said Ogilvie.
“Better not,” answered his companion, “best trust Her Majesty’s mails. It might so happen that you would lose it.” As Rycroft spoke a crafty look came into his eyes.
“Let us pack our traps,” said Ogilvie, rising.
“The sooner we get out of this the better.”
The next morning early they left the solitude, the neighborhood of the lofty peaks and the desecrated earth beneath. They reached Brisbane in about four days, and put up once more at the Waharoo Hotel. There the real business for which all this preparation had been made commenced. Rycroft was a past master in drawing up reports of mines, and Ogilvie now helped him with a will. He found a strange pleasure in doing his work as carefully as possible. He no longer suffered from qualms of conscience. The mine would work really well for six months. During that time the promoters would make their fortunes. Afterward – the deluge. But that mattered very little to Ogilvie in his present state of mind.
“If I suffer as I have done lately from this troublesome heart of mine I shall have gone to my account before six months,” thought the man; “the child will be provided for, and no one will ever know.”
The report was a plausible and highly colored one.
It was lengthy in detail, and prophesied a brilliant future for Lombard Deeps. Ogilvie and Rycroft, both assayers of knowledge and experience, declared that they had carefully examined the lodes, that they had struck four veins of rich ore yielding, after crushing, an average of six ounces to the ton, and that the extent and richness of the ore was practically unlimited.
They spent several days over this document, and at last it was finished.
“I shall take the next mail home,” said Ogilvie, standing up after he had read his own words for the twentieth time.
“Sign first,” replied Rycroft. He pushed the paper across to Ogilvie.
“Yes, I shall go to-morrow morning,” continued Ogilvie. “The Sahara sails to-morrow at noon?”
“I believe so; but sign, won’t you?”
Ogilvie took up his pen; he held it suspended as he looked again at his companion.
“I shall take a berth on board at once,” he said.
“All right, old chap, but sign first.”
Ogilvie was about to put his signature to the bottom of the document, when suddenly, without the least warning, a strange giddiness, followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It passed off, leaving him very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a dazed way.
“What is wrong,” asked Rycroft; “are you ill?”
“I suffer from this sort of thing now and then,” replied Ogilvie, bringing out his words in short gasps. “Brandy, please.”
Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a glass of brandy, and brought it to Ogilvie.
“You look ghastly,” he said; “drink.”
Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the color returned to his face.
“Now sign,” said Rycroft again.
“Where is the pen?” asked Ogilvie.
He was all too anxious now to take the fatal plunge. His signature, firm and bold, was put to the document. He pushed it from him and stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie’s.
“Now our work is done,” cried Rycroft, “and Her Majesty’s mail does the rest. By the way, I cabled a brilliant report an hour back. Grayleigh seemed anxious. There have been ominous reports in some of the London papers.”
“This will set matters right,” said Ogilvie. “Put it in an envelope. If I sail to-morrow, I may as well take it myself.”
“Her Majesty’s mail would be best,” answered Rycroft. “You can see Grayleigh almost as soon as he gets the report. Remember, I am responsible for it as well as you, and it would be best for it to go in the ordinary way.” As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, took the document and folded it up.
Just at this moment there came a tap at the door. Rycroft cried, “Come in,” and a messenger entered with a cablegram.
“For Mr. Ogilvie,” he said.
“From Grayleigh, of course,” said Rycroft, “how impatient he gets! Wait outside,” he continued to the messenger.
The man withdrew, and Ogilvie slowly opened the telegram. Rycroft watched him as he read. He read slowly, and with no apparent change of feature. The message was short, but when his eyes had travelled to the end, he read from the beginning right through again. Then, without the slightest warning, and without even uttering a groan, the flimsy paper fluttered from his hand, he tumbled forward, and lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.
Rycroft ran to him. He took a certain interest in Ogilvie, but above all things on earth at that moment he wanted to get the document which contained the false report safely into the post. Before he attempted to restore the stricken man, he took up the cablegram and read the contents. It ran as follows: —
“Sibyl has had bad fall from pony. Case hopeless. Come home at once.”
“So Sibyl, whoever Sibyl may be, is at the bottom of Ogilvie’s fall,” thought Rycroft. “Poor chap! he has got a fearful shock. Best make all safe. I must see things through.”
Without an instant’s hesitation Rycroft took the already signed document, thrust it into an envelope, directed it in full and stamped it. Then he went to the telegraph messenger who was still waiting outside.
“No answer to the cable, but take this at once to the post-office and register it,” he said; “here is money – you can keep the change.”
The man departed on his errand, carrying the signed document.
Rycroft now bent over Ogilvie. There was a slightly blue tinge round his lips, but the rest of his face was white and drawn.
“Looks like death,” muttered Rycroft. He unfastened Ogilvie’s collar and thrust his hand beneath his shirt. He felt the faint, very faint beat of the heart.
“Still living,” he murmured, with a sigh of relief. He applied the usual restoratives. In a few moments Ogilvie opened his eyes.
“What has happened?” he said, looking round him in a dazed way. “Oh, I remember, I had a message from London.”
“Yes, old fellow, don’t speak for a moment.”
“I must get back at once; the child – ”
“All right, you shall go in the Sahara to-morrow.”
“But the document,” said Ogilvie, “it – isn’t needed; I want it back.”
“Don’t trouble about it now.”
Ogilvie staggered to his feet.
“You don’t understand. I did it because – because of one who will not need it. I want it back.”
“Too late,” said Rycroft, then. “That document is already in the post. Come, you must pull yourself together for the sake of Sibyl, whoever she is.”