Chapter 18 Daddy's Girl by L. T. Meade
A few days before the bazaar Lady Helen Douglas arrived at Silverbel. She had returned from Scotland on purpose. A letter from Lord Grayleigh induced her to do so. He wrote to Lady Helen immediately after seeing Sibyl.
“I don’t like the child’s look,” he wrote; “I have not the least idea what the doctors have said of her, but when I spoke on the subject to her mother, she shirked it. There is not the least doubt that Mrs. Ogilvie can never see a quarter of an inch beyond her own selfish fancies. It strikes me very forcibly that the child is in a precarious state. I can never forgive myself, for she met with the accident on the pony I gave her. She likes you; go to her if you can.”
It so happened that by the very same post there had come an urgent appeal from Mrs. Ogilvie.
“If you cannot come to the bazaar,” she wrote to Lady Helen, “it will be a failure. Come you must. Your presence is essential, because you are pretty and well born, and you will also act as a lure to another person who can help me in various ways. I, of course, allude to our mutual friend, Jim Rochester.”
Now Lady Helen, even with the attraction of seeing Mr. Rochester so soon again, would not have put off a series of visits which she was about to make, had not Lord Grayleigh’s letter decided her. She therefore arrived at Silverbel on the 22d of September, and was quickly conducted to Sibyl’s room. She had not seen Sibyl for a couple of months. When last they had met, the child had been radiant with health and spirits. She was radiant still, but that quick impulsive life had been toned down to utter quiet. The lower part of the little body was paralyzed, the paralysis was creeping gradually up and up. It was but a question of time for the loving little heart to be still for ever.
Sibyl cried with delight when she saw Lady Helen.
“Such a lot of big-wigs are coming to-morrow,” she said, “but Lord Grayleigh does not come until the day of the bazaar, so you are quite the first. You’ll come and see me very, very often, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Sibyl. The fact is I have come on purpose to see you. I should not have come to the bazaar but for you. Lord Grayleigh wrote to me and said you were not well, and he thought you loved me, little Sib, and that it would cheer you up to see me.”
“Oh, you are sweet,” answered the child, “and I do, indeed I do love you. But you ought to have come for the bazaar as well as for me. It is darling mother’s splendid work of charity. She wants to help a lot of little sick children and sick grown up people: isn’t it dear of her?”
“Well, I am interested in the bazaar,” said Lady Helen, ignoring the subject of Mrs. Ogilvie’s noble action.
“It is so inciting all about it,” continued the little girl, “and I can see the marquee quite splendidly from here, and mother flitting about. Isn’t mother pretty, isn’t she quite sweet? She is going to have the most lovely dress for the bazaar, a sort of silvery white; she will look like an angel – but then she is an angel, isn’t she, Lady Helen?”
Lady Helen bent and kissed Sibyl on her soft forehead. “You must not talk too much and tire yourself,” she said; “let me talk to you. I have plenty of nice things to say.”
“Stories?” said Sibyl.
“Yes, I will tell you stories.”
“Thank you; I do love ’em. Did you ever tell them to Mr. Rochester?”
“I have not seen him lately.”
“You’ll be married to him soon, I know you will.”
“We need not talk about that now, need we? I want to do something to amuse you.”
“It’s odd how weak my voice has grown,” said Sibyl, with a laugh. “Mother says I am getting better, and perhaps I am, only somehow I do feel weak. Do you know, mother wanted me to dress dolls for her, but I couldn’t. Nursie did ’em. There’s one big beautiful doll with wings; Nurse made the wings, but she can’t put them on right; will you put them on proper, Lady Helen?”
“I should like to,” replied Lady Helen; “I have a natural aptitude for dressing dolls.”
“The big doll with the wings is in that box over there. Take it out and sit down by the sofa so that I can see you, and put the wings on properly. There’s plenty of white gauze and wire. I want you to make the doll as like an angel as you can.”
Lady Helen commenced her pretty work. Sibyl watched her, not caring to talk much now, for Lady Helen seemed too busy to answer.
“It rests me to have you in the room,” said the child, “you are like this room. Do you know Miss Winstead has given it such a funny name.”
“What is that, Sibyl?”
“She calls it the Chamber of Peace – isn’t it sweet of her?”
“The name is a beautiful one, and so is the room,” answered Lady Helen.
“I do wish Mr. Rochester was here,” was Sibyl’s next remark.
“He will come to the bazaar, dear.”
“And then, perhaps, I’ll see him. I want to see him soon, I have something I’d like to say.”
“What, darling?”
“Something to you and to him. I want you both to be happy. I’m tremendous anxious that you should both be happy, and I think – I wouldn’t like to say it to mother, for perhaps it will hurt her, but I do fancy that, perhaps, I’m going to have wings, too, not like dolly’s, but real ones, and if I have them I might – ”
“What, darling?”
“Fly away to my beautiful Lord Jesus. You don’t know how I want to be close to Him. I used to think that if I got into father’s heart I should be quite satisfied, but even that, even that is not like being in the heart of Jesus. If my wings come I must go, Lady Helen. It will be lovely to fly up, won’t it, for perhaps some day I might get tired of lying always flat on my back. Mother doesn’t know, darling mother doesn’t guess, and I wouldn’t tell her for all the wide world, for she thinks I’m going to get quite well again, but one night, when she thought I was asleep, I heard Nursie say to Miss Winstead, ‘Poor lamb, she’ll soon want to run about again, but she never can, never.’ I shouldn’t like to be always lying down flat, should you, Lady Helen?”
“No, darling, I don’t think I should.”
“Well, there it is, you see, you wouldn’t like it either. Of course I want to see father again, but whatever happens he’ll understand. Only if my wings come I must fly off, and I want everyone to be happy before I go.”
Lady Helen had great difficulty in keeping back her tears, for Sibyl spoke in a perfectly calm, contented, almost matter-of-fact voice which brought intense conviction with it.
“So you must marry Mr. Rochester,” she continued, “for you both love each other so very much.”
“That is quite true,” replied Lady Helen.
Sibyl looked at her with dilated, smiling eyes. “The Lombard Deeps Mine is full to the brim with gold,” she said, in an excited voice. “I know – Lord Grayleigh told me. He has it all wrote down in his pocket-book, and you and Mr. Rochester are to have your share. When you are both very, very happy you’ll think of me, won’t you?”
“I can never forget you, my dear little girl. Kiss me, now – see! the angel doll is finished.”
“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” said the child, her attention immediately distracted by this new interest. “Do take it down to mother. She’s dressing the stall where the dolls are to be sold; ask her to put the angel doll at the head of all the other dolls. Take it to mother now. I can watch from my window – do go at once.”
Lady Helen was glad of an excuse to leave the room. When she got into the corridor outside she stopped for a moment, put her handkerchief to her eyes, made a struggle to subdue her emotion, and then ran downstairs.
The great marquee was already erected on the lawn, and many of the stall-holders were arranging their stalls and giving directions to different workmen. Mrs. Ogilvie was flitting eagerly about. She was in the highest spirits, and looked young and charming.
“Sibyl sent you this,” said Lady Helen.
Mrs. Ogilvie glanced for a moment at the angel doll.
“Oh, lay it down anywhere, please,” she said in a negative tone. But Lady Helen thought of the sweet blue eyes looking down on this scene from the Chamber of Peace. She was not going to put the angel doll down anywhere.
“Please, Mrs. Ogilvie,” she said, “you must take an interest in it.” There was something in her tone which arrested even Mrs. Ogilvie’s attention.
“You must take a great interest in this doll,” she continued. “Little Sibyl thinks so much of it. Forgive me, Mrs. Ogilvie, I – ”
“Oh, what is it now,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “what can be the matter? Really everyone who goes near Sibyl acts in the most extraordinary way.” She looked petulantly, as she spoke, into Lady Helen’s agitated face.
“I cannot help thinking much of Sibyl,” continued Lady Helen, “and I am very – more than anxious about her. I am terribly grieved, for – I think – ”
“You think what? Oh, please don’t begin to be gloomy now. You have only seen Sibyl for the first time since her accident. She is very much better than she was at first. You cannot expect her to look quite well all of a sudden.”
“But have you had the very best advice for her?”
“I should rather think so. We had Sir Henry Powell down twice. Everything has been done that could be done. It is merely a question of time and rest. Time and rest will effect a perfect cure; at least, that is my opinion.”
“But what is Sir Henry Powell’s opinion?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t believe in doctors. The child is getting better, I see it with my own eyes. It is merely a question of time.”
“Sibyl is getting well, but not in the way you think,” replied Lady Helen. She said the words with significance, and Mrs. Ogilvie felt her heart throb for a moment with a sudden wild pain, but the next instant she laughed.
“I never knew anyone so gloomy,” she said, “and you come to me with your queer remarks just when I am distracted about the great bazaar. I am almost sorry I asked you here, Lady Helen.”
“Well, at least take the doll – the child is looking at you,” said Lady Helen. “Kiss your hand to her; look pleased even if you are not interested, and give me a promise, that I may take to her, that the angel doll shall stand at the head of the doll stall. The child wishes it; do not deny her wishes now.”
“Oh, take her any message you like, only leave me, please, for the present. Ah, there she is, little darling.” Mrs. Ogilvie took the angel doll in her hand, and blew a couple of kisses to Sibyl. Sibyl smiled down at her from the Chamber of Peace. Very soon afterward Lady Helen returned to her little friend.
It was on the first day of the bazaar when all the big-wigs had arrived, when the fun was at its height, when the bands were playing merrily, and the little pleasure skiffs were floating up and down the shining waters of the Thames, when flocks of visitors from all the neighborhood round were crowding in and out of the marquee, and people were talking and laughing merrily, and Mrs. Ogilvie in her silvery white dress was looking more beautiful than she had ever looked before in her life, that a tired, old-looking man appeared on the scene.
Mrs. Ogilvie half expected that her husband would come back on the day of the bazaar, for if the Sahara kept to her dates she would make her appearance in the Tilbury Docks in the early morning of that day. Mrs. Ogilvie hoped that her husband would get off, and take a quick train to Richmond, and arrive in time for her to have a nice straight talk with him, and explain to him about Sibyl’s accident, and tell him what was expected of him. She was anxious to see him before anyone else did, for those who went in and out of the child’s room were so blind, so persistent in their fears with regard to the little girl’s ultimate recovery; if Mrs. Ogilvie could only get Philip to herself, she would assure him that the instincts of motherhood never really failed, that her own instincts assured her that the great doctors were wrong, and she herself was right. The child was slowly but gradually returning to the paths of health and strength.
If only Ogilvie came back in good time his wife would explain these matters to him, and tell him not to make a fool of himself about the child, and beg of him to help her in this great, this auspicious occasion of her life.
“He will look very nice when he is dressed in his, best,” she said to herself. “It will complete my success in the county if I have him standing by my side at the door of the marquee to receive our distinguished guests.”
As this thought came her eyes sparkled, and she got her maid to dress her in the most becoming way, and she further reflected that when they had a moment to be alone the husband and wife could talk of the wonderful golden treasures which Ogilvie was bringing back with him from the other side of the world. Perhaps he had thought much of her, his dear Mildred, while he had been away.
“Men of that sort often think much more of their wives when they are parted from them,” she remembered. “I have read stories to that effect. I dare say Philip is as much in love with me as he ever was. He used to be devoted to me when first we were married. There was nothing good enough for me then. Perhaps he has brought me back some jewels of greater value than I possess; I will gladly wear them for his sake.”
But notwithstanding all her dreams and thoughts of her husband, Ogilvie did not come back to his loving wife in the early hours of the first day of the bazaar. Neither was there any message or telegram from him. In spite of herself, Mrs. Ogilvie now grew a little fretful.
“As he has not come in time to receive our guests, if I knew where to telegraph, I would wire to him not to come now until the evening,” she thought. But she did not know where to telegraph, and the numerous duties of the bazaar occupied each moment of her time.
According to his promise Lord Grayleigh was present, and there were other titled people walking about the grounds, and Lady Helen as a stall-holder was invaluable.
Sibyl had asked to have her white couch drawn nearer than ever to the window, and from time to time she peeped out and saw the guests flitting about the lawns and thought of her mother’s great happiness and wonderful goodness. The band played ravishing music, mostly dance music, and the day, although it was late in the season, was such a perfect one that the feet of the buyers and sellers alike almost kept time to the festive strains.
It was on this scene that Ogilvie appeared. During his voyage home he had gone through almost every imaginable torture, and, as he reached Silverbel, he felt that the limit of his patience was almost reached. He knew, because she had sent him a cable to that effect, that his wife was staying in a country place, a place on the banks of the Thames. She had told him further that the nearest station to Silverbel was Richmond. Accordingly he had gone to Richmond, jumped into the first cab he could find, and desired the man to drive to Silverbel.
“You know the place, I presume?” he said.
“Silverbel, sir, certainly sir; it is there they are having the big bazaar.”
As the man spoke he looked askance for a moment at the occupant of his cab, for Ogilvie was travel-stained and dusty. He looked like one in a terrible hurry. There was an expression in his gray eyes which the driver did not care to meet.
“Go as fast as you can,” he said briefly, and then the man whipped up his horse and proceeded over the dusty roads.
“A rum visitor,” he thought; “wonder what he’s coming for. Don’t look the sort that that fine young lady would put up with on a day like this.”
Ogilvie within the cab, however, saw nothing. He was only conscious of the fact that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the house where his little daughter – but did his little daughter still live? Was Sibyl alive? That was the thought of all thoughts, the desire of all desires, which must soon be answered yea or nay.
When the tired-out and stricken man heard the strains of the band, he did rouse himself, however, and began dimly to wonder if, after all, he had come to the wrong house. Were there two houses called Silverbel, and had the man taken him to the wrong one? He pulled up the cab to inquire.
“No, sir,” replied the driver, “it’s all right. There ain’t but one place named Silverbel here, and this is the place, sir. The lady is giving a big bazaar and her name is Mrs. Ogilvie.”
“Then Sibyl must have got well again,” thought Ogilvie to himself. And just for an instant the heavy weight at his breast seemed to lift. He paid his fare, told the man to take his luggage round to the back entrance, and jumped out of the cab.
The man obeyed him, and Ogilvie, just as he was, stepped across the lawn. He had the air of one who was neither a visitor nor yet a stranger. He walked with quick, short strides straight before him and presently he came full upon his wife in her silvery dress. A large white hat trimmed with pink roses reposed on her head. There were nature’s own pink roses on her cheeks and smiles in her eyes.
“Oh, Phil!” she cried, with a little start. She was quite clever enough to hide her secret dismay at his arriving thus, and at such a moment. She dropped some things she was carrying and ran toward him with her pretty hands outstretched.
“Why, Phil!” she said again. “Oh, you naughty man, so you have come back. But why didn’t you send me a telegram?”
“I had not time, Mildred; I thought my own presence was best. How is the child?”
“Oh, much the same – I mean she is going on quite, quite nicely.”
“And what is this?”
Ogilvie motioned with his hand as he spoke in the direction of the crowd of people, the marquee, and the band. The music of the band seemed to get on his brain and hurt him.
“What is all this?” he repeated.
“My dear Phil, my dear unpractical husband, this is a bazaar! Have you never heard of a bazaar before? A bazaar for the Cottage Hospital at Watleigh, the Home for Incurables; such a useful charity, Phil, and so much needed. The poor things are wanting funds dreadfully; they have got into debt, and something must be done to relieve them Think of all the dear little children in those wards, Phil; the Sisters have been obliged to refuse several cases lately. It is most pathetic, isn’t it? Oh, by the way, Lord Grayleigh is here; you will be glad to see him?”
“Presently, not now. How did you say Sibyl was?”
“I told you a moment ago. You can go and see her when you have changed your things. I wish you would go away at once to your room and get into some other clothes. There are no end of people you ought to meet. How strange you look, Phil.”
“I want to know more of Sibyl.” Here the husband caught the wife’s dainty wrist and drew her a little aside. “No matter about other things at present,” he said sternly. “How is Sibyl? Remember, I have heard no particulars; I have heard nothing since I got your cable. How is she? Is there much the matter?”
“Well, I really don’t think there is, but perhaps Lady Helen will tell you. Shall I send her to you? I really am so busy just now. You know I am selling, myself, at the principal stall. Oh, do go into the house, you naughty dear; do go to your own room and change your things! I expected you early this morning, and Watson has put out some of your wardrobe. Watson will attend on you if you will ring for him. You will find there is a special dressing room for you on the first floor. Go, dear, do.”
But Ogilvie now hold both her hands. His own were not too clean; they were soiled by the dust of his rapid journey. He gripped her wrists tightly.
“Where is the child?” he repeated again.
“Don’t look at me like that, you quite frighten me. The child, she is in her room; she is going on nicely.”
“But is she injured? Can she walk?”
“What could you expect? She cannot walk yet, but she is getting better gradually – at least, I think so.”
“What you think is nothing, less than nothing. What do the doctors say?”
As Ogilvie was speaking he drew his wife gradually but surely away from the fashionably dressed people and the big-wigs who were too polite to stare, but who were all the time devoured with curiosity. It began to be whispered in the crowd that Ogilvie had returned, and that his wife and he were looking at certain matters from different points of view. There were several men and women present, who, although they encouraged Mrs. Ogilvie to have the bazaar, nevertheless thought her a heartless woman, and these people now were rather rejoicing in Ogilvie’s attitude. He did not look like a person who could be trifled with. He drew his wife toward the shrubbery.
“I will see the child in a minute,” he said; “nothing else matters. She is ill, unable to walk, lying down. I want to hear full particulars. If you will not tell them to me, I will send for the doctor. The question I wish answered is this, what do the doctors say?”
Tears filled Mrs. Ogilvie’s pretty, dark eyes.
“Really, Phil, you are too cruel. After these weeks of anxiety, which only a mother can understand, you speak to me in that tone, just as if the dear little creature were nothing to me at all.”
“You can cry, Mildred, as much as you please, and you can talk all the sentimental stuff that best appeals to you, but answer my question now. What do the doctors say, and what doctors has she seen?”
“The local doctor here, our own special doctor in town, and the great specialist, Sir Henry Powell.”
“Good God, that man!” said Ogilvie, starting back. “Then she must have been badly hurt?”
“She was badly hurt.”
“Well, what did the doctors say? Give me their verdict. I insist upon knowing.”
“They – they – of course, they are wrong, Phil. You are hurting me; I wish you would not hold my hands so tightly.”
“Speak!” was his only response.
“They said at the time – of course they were mistaken, doctors often are. You cannot imagine how many diagnoses of theirs have been proved to be wrong. Yes, I learned that queer word; I did not understand it at first. Now I know all about it.”
“Speak!” This one expression came from Ogilvie’s lips almost with a hiss.
“Well, they said at the time that – oh, Phil, you kill me when you look at me like that! They said the case was – ”
“Hopeless?” asked the man between his white lips.
“They certainly said it. But, Phil; oh, Phil, dear, they are wrong!”
He let her hands go with a sudden jerk. She almost fell.
“You knew it, and you could have that going on?” he said. “Go back to your bazaar.”
“I certainly will. I think you are terribly unkind.”
“You can have those people here, and that band playing, when you know that? Well, if such scenes give you pleasure at such a time, go and enjoy them.”
He strode into the house. She looked after his retreating figure; then she took out her daintily laced handkerchief, applied it to her eyes, and went back to her duties.
“I am a martyr in a good cause,” she said to herself; “but it is bitterly hard when one’s husband does not understand one.”