Daddy's Girl

“I knew you’d have luck,” she said. Then she caught her mother’s warning eye and colored painfully, thus making the situation, if possible, a little more awkward.

“Suppose we go for a row on the river this lovely afternoon,” said Lady Helen, starting up restlessly. She had talked of the coming bazaar, and had wandered through the rooms at Silverbel, and had listened to Mrs. Ogilvie’s suggestions with regard to furniture and different arrangements until she was almost tired of the subject.

Rochester sprang to his feet.

“I can easily get a boat,” he said; “I’ll go and consult with mine host.”

He sauntered across the grounds, and Sibyl, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him. A boat was soon procured, and they all found themselves on the shining silver Thames.

“Is that why our house is called Silverbel?” asked Sibyl. “Is it ’cos we can see the silver shine of the river, and ’cos it is belle, French for beautiful?”

“Perhaps so,” answered the mother with a smile.

The evening came on, the heat of the day was over, the sun faded.

“What a pity we must go back to London,” said Sibyl. “I don’t think I ever had such a lovely day before.”

“We shall soon be back here,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie. “I shall see about furnishing next week at the latest, and we can come down whenever we are tired of town.”

“That will be lovely,” said Sibyl. “Oh, won’t my pony love cantering over the roads here!”

When they landed at the little quay just outside the inn, the landlord came down to meet them. He held a telegram in his hand.

“This came for you, madam, in your absence,” he said, and he gave the telegram to Mrs. Ogilvie. She tore it open. It was from her lawyer, Mr. Acland, and ran as follows:

“Ominous rumors with regard to Lombard Deeps have reached me. Better not go any further at present with the purchase of Silverbel.”

Mrs. Ogilvie’s face turned pale. She looked up and met the fixed stare of her little daughter and of Rochester. Lady Helen had turned away. She was leaning over the rails of the little garden and looking down into the swiftly flowing river.

Mrs. Ogilvie’s face grew hard. She crushed up the telegram in her hand.

“I hope there is nothing wrong?” asked Rochester.

“Nothing at all,” she replied. “Yes, we will come here next week. Sibyl, don’t stare in that rude way.”

The return journey was not as lively as that happy one in the morning.

Sibyl felt through her sensitive little frame that her mother was worried about something. Rochester also looked anxious. Lady Helen alone seemed unconscious and distrait. When the child nestled up to her she put her arm round her waist.

“Are you sad about anything, darling Lady Helen?” whispered Sibyl.

“No, Sibyl; I am quite happy.”

“Then you are thinking very hard?”

“I often think.”

“I do so want you to be awfully happy.”

“I know you do, and I think I shall be.”

“Then that is right. Twelve he marries. Wasn’t it sweet of the marguerite daisy to give Mr. Rochester just the right petal at the end; wasn’t it luck?”

“Yes; but hush, don’t talk so loud.”

Mr. Rochester now changed his seat, and came opposite to where Lady Helen and the child had placed themselves. He did not talk to Lady Helen, but he looked at her several times. Presently he took one of Sibyl’s hands, and stroked it fondly.

“Does Lady Helen tell you beautiful stories too?” asked Sibyl, suddenly.

“No,” he answered; “she is quite naughty about that. She never tells me the charming stories she tells you.”

“You ought to,” said Sibyl, looking at her earnestly; “it would do him good. It’s an awfully nice way, if you want to give a person a home truth, to put it into a story. Nurse told me about that, and I remembered it ever since. She used to put her home truths into proverbs when I was quite young, such as, ‘A burnt child dreads the fire,’ or ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ or – ”

“Oh, that will do, Sibyl.” Lady Helen spoke; there was almost a piteous appeal in the words.

“Well,” said Sibyl, “perhaps it is better to put home truths into stories, not proverbs. It’s like having more sugar. The ‘home truth’ is the pill, and when it is sugared all over you can swallow it. You can’t swallow it without the sugar, can you? Nursie begins her stories like this: ‘Miss Sibyl, once upon a time I knew a little girl,’ and then she tells me all about a horrid girl, and I know the horrid girl is me. I am incited, of course, but very, very soon I get down to the pill. Now, I am sure, Mr. Rochester, there are some things you ought to be told, there are some things you do wrong, aren’t there, Mr. Rochester?”

“Oh, Sibyl, do stop that ceaseless chatter,” cried her mother from the other end of the carriage; “you talk the most utter nonsense,” and Sibyl for once was effectually silenced.

The party broke up at Victoria Station, and Mrs. Ogilvie and her little daughter drove home. As soon as ever they arrived there Watson informed Mrs. Ogilvie that Mr. Acland was waiting to see her in the library.

“Tiresome man!” she muttered, but she went to see him at once. The electric light was on; the room reminded her uncomfortably of her husband. He spent a great deal of time in his library, more than a very happy married man would have done. She had often found him there with a perplexed brow, and a heart full of anxiety. She had found him there, too, in his rare moments of exultation and happiness. She would have preferred to see the lawyer in any room but this.

“Well,” she said, “why did you send me that ridiculous telegram?”

“You would not be surprised if you had read the article which appeared to-day in The Financial Enquirer.”

“I have never heard of The Financial Enquirer.”

“But City men know it,” replied Mr. Acland, “and to a great extent it governs the market. It is one of our leading financial papers. The rumors it alludes to may be untrue, but they will influence the subscriptions made by the public to the share capital. In fact, with so ominous an article coming from so first-rate a source, nothing but a splendid report from Ogilvie can save the mine.”

Mrs. Ogilvie drummed with her delicate taper fingers on the nearest table.

“How you puzzle a poor woman with your business terms,” she said. “What do I know about mines? When my husband left me he said that he would come back a rich man. He gave me his promise, he must keep his word.”

“He will naturally keep his word if he can, and if the mine is all that Lord Grayleigh anticipates everything will be right,” replied Acland. “There is no man more respected than Ogilvie in the City. His report as assayer will save the situation; that is, if it is first-rate. But if it is a medium report the capital will not be sufficiently subscribed to, and if the report happens to be bad the whole thing will fall through. We shall know soon now.”

“This is very disturbing,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I have had a long, tiring day, and you give me a headache. When is my husband’s report likely to reach England?”

“Not for several weeks, of course. It ought to be here in about two months’ time, but we may have a cablegram almost any day. The public are just in a waiting attitude, they want to invest their money. If the mine turns out a good thing shares will be subscribed to any extent. Everything depends on Ogilvie’s report.”

“Won’t you stay and have some supper?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, carelessly. “I have said already that I do not understand these things.”

“I cannot stay, I came to see you because it is important. I want to know if you really wish to go on with the purchase of Silverbel. I am ready to pay a deposit for you of £2,000 on the price of the estate, which will, of course, clinch the purchase, and this deposit I have arranged to pay to-morrow, but under the circumstances would it not be best to delay? If your husband cannot give a good report of the mine he will not want to buy an expensive place like Silverbel. My advice to you, Mrs. Ogilvie, is to let Silverbel go. I happen to know at this moment of another purchaser who is only waiting to close if you decline. When your husband comes back rich you can easily buy another place.”

“No other place will suit me except Silverbel,” she answered.

“I strongly recommend you not to buy it now.”

“And I intend to have it. I am going down there to live next week. Of course, you arranged that I could go in at once after the deposit was paid?”

“Yes, on sufferance, subject to your completing the purchase in October.”

“Then pray don’t let the matter be disturbed again. I shall order furniture immediately. You are quite a raven, a croaker of bad news, Mr. Acland.”

Mr. Acland raised his hand in deprecation.

“I thought it only fair to tell you,” he answered, and the next moment he left the house. As he did so, he uttered a solitary remark:

“What a fool that woman is! I pity Ogilvie.”

CHAPTER XIII

It was the last week in July when Mrs. Ogilvie took possession of Silverbel. She had ordered furniture in her usual reckless fashion, going to the different shops where she knew she could obtain credit. The house, already beautiful, looked quite lovely when decorated by the skilful hands which arranged draperies and put furniture into the most advantageous positions.

Sibyl’s room, just over the front porch, was really worthy of her. It was a bower of whiteness and innocence. It had lattice windows which looked out on to the lovely grounds. Climbing roses peeped in through the narrow panes, and sent their sweet fragrance to greet the child when the windows were open and she put her head out.

Sibyl thought more than ever of her father as she took possession of the lovely room at Silverbel. What a beautiful world it was! and what a happy little girl she, Sibyl, thought herself in possessing such perfect parents. Her prayers became now passionate thanks. She had got so much that it seemed unkind to ask Lord Jesus for one thing more. Of course, He was making the mine full of gold, and He was making her father very, very rich, and everyone, everyone she knew was soon to be happy.

Lady Helen Douglas came to stay at Silverbel, and this seemed to give an added touch to the child’s sense of enjoyment, for Lady Helen had at last, in a shy half whisper, told the eager little listener that she did love Mr. Rochester, and, further, that they were only waiting to proclaim their engagement to the world until the happy time when Sibyl’s father came back.

“For Jim,” continued Lady Helen, “will take shares in the Lombard Deeps, and as soon as ever he does this we can afford to marry. But you must not speak of this, Sibyl. I have only confided in you because you have been our very good friend all along.”

Sibyl longed to write off at once to her father to hurry up matters with regard to the gold mine.

“Of course, it is full of gold, quite full,” thought the child; “but I hope father will write, or, better still, come home quickly and tell us all about it.”

She began to count the days now to her father’s return, and was altogether in such a happy mood that it was delightful to be in her presence or to see her joyful face.

Sibyl was nearly beside herself with delight at having exchanged her dull town life for this happy country one. She quickly made friends with the poor people in the nearest village, who were all attracted by her bright ways and pretty face. Her mother also gave her a small part of the garden to do what she liked with, and when she was not digging industriously, or riding her pony, or talking to Lady Helen, or engaged in her lessons, she followed her mother about like a faithful little dog.

Mrs. Ogilvie was so pleased and contented with her purchase that she was wonderfully amiable. She often now sat in the long evenings with Sibyl by her side, and listened without impatience to the child’s rhapsodies about her father. Mrs. Ogilvie would also be glad when Philip returned. But just now her thought of all thoughts was centred on the bazaar. This bazaar was to clinch her position as a country lady. All the neighbors round were expected to attend, and already she was busy drawing up programmes of the coming festivities, and arranging with a great firm in London for the special marquee, which was to grace her lawn right down to the river’s edge.

The bazaar was expected to last for quite three days, and, during that time, a spirited band would play, and there would be various entertainments of all sorts and descriptions. Little boats, with colored flags and awnings, were to be in requisition on the brink of the river, and people should pay heavily for the privilege of occupying these boats.

Mrs. Ogilvie clapped her hands almost childishly when this last brilliant idea came to her, and Sibyl thought that it was worthy of mother, and entered into the scheme with childish enthusiasm.

The third week in August was finally decided as the best week for the bazaar, and those friends who were not going abroad promised to stay at Silverbel for the occasion.

Some weeks after Mrs. Ogilvie had taken possession of Silverbel, Mr. Acland called to see her.

“We have had no cable yet from your husband,” he said, “and the rumors continue to be ominous. I wish with all my heart we could silence them. I, myself, believe in the Lombard Deeps, for Grayleigh is the last man to lend his name or become chairman of a company which has not brilliant prospects; but I can see that even he is a little anxious.”

“Oh, pray don’t croak,” was Mrs. Ogilvie’s response and then she once again likened Mr. Acland to the raven.

“You are a bird of ill-omen,” she said, shaking her finger playfully in his face.

He frowned as she addressed him; he could not see the witticism of her remark.

“When people are perfectly happy and know nothing whatever with regard to business, what is the good of coming and telling these dismalities?” she continued. “I am nothing but a poor little feminine creature, trying to do good, and to make myself happy in an innocent way. Why will you come and croak? I know Philip quite well enough to be certain that he would not have set foot on this expedition if he had not been satisfied in advance that the mine was a good one.”

“That is my own impression,” said Mr. Acland, thoughtfully; “but don’t forget you are expected to complete the purchase of Silverbel by the end of October.”

“Oh! Philip will be back before then,” answered Mrs. Ogilvie in a light and cheerful tone. “Any day now we may get a cablegram. Well, sweetheart, and what are you doing here?”

Sibyl had entered the room, and was leaning against the window frame.

“Any day we may expect what to happen, mother darling?” she asked.

“We may expect a cable from father to say he is coming back again.”

“Oh! do you think so? Oh, I am so happy!”

Sibyl skipped lightly out of the room. She ran across the sunny, radiant garden, and presently found herself in a sort of wilderness which she had appropriated, and where she played at all sorts of solitary games. In that wilderness she imagined herself at times a lonely traveler, at other times a merchant carrying goodly pearls, at other times a bandit engaged in feats of plunder. All possible scenes in history or imagination that she understood did the child try to enact in the wilderness. But she went there now with no intention of posing in any imaginary part. She went there because her heart was full.

“Oh, Lord Jesus, it is so beautiful of you,” she said, and she looked up as she spoke full at the blue sky. “I can scarcely believe that my ownest father will very soon be back again; it is quite too beautiful.”

A few days after this, and toward the end of the first week in August, Sibyl was one day playing as usual in the grounds when the sound of carriage wheels attracted her attention. She ran down to see who was arriving, and a shout of delight came from her when she saw Lord Grayleigh coming down the drive. He called the coachman to stop and put out his head.

“Jump into the carriage, Sib, I have not seen you for some time. When are you going to pay me another visit at Grayleigh Manor?”

“Oh, some time, but not at present,” replied Sibyl. “I am too happy with mother here to think of going away. Isn’t Silverbel sweet, Lord Grayleigh?”

“Charming,” replied Grayleigh. “Is your mother in, little woman?”

“I think so. She is very incited about the bazaar. Are you coming to the bazaar?”

“I don’t know, I will tell you presently.”

Sibyl laid her little hand in Lord Grayleigh’s. He gave it a squeeze, and she clasped it confidingly.

“Do you know that I am so monstrous happy I scarcely know what to do,” she said.

“Because you have got a pretty new place?”

“No, no, nothing of that sort. It’s ’cos father is coming back afore long! He will cable, whatever that means, and soon afterward he’ll come. I’m always thanking Lord Jesus about it. Isn’t it good of Him to send my ownest father back so soon?”

Lord Grayleigh made no answer, unless an uneasy movement of his feet signified a sense of discomfort. The carriage drew up at the porch and he alighted. Sibyl skipped out after him.

“Shall I find mother for you?” she said. “Oh, there she is on the lawn. Darlingest mother, she can think of nothing at present but the bazaar, when all the big-wigs are to be present. You’re a big-wig, aren’t you? I asked nurse what big-wigs were, and she said people with handles. Mother said they were people in a good social position. I remember the words so well ’cos I couldn’t understand ’em, but when I asked Miss Winstead to ’splain, she said mother meant ladies and gentlemen, and when I asked her to tell me what ladies and gentlemen was, she said people who behaved nicely. Now isn’t it all very puzzling, ’cos the person who I think behaves nicest of all is our footman, Watson. He has lovely manners and splendid impulses; and perhaps the next nicest is dear Mrs. Holman, and she keeps a toy-shop in a back street. But when I asked mother if Watson and Mrs. Holman were big-wigs, she said I spoked awful nonsense. What do you think, Lord Grayleigh? Please do try to ’splain.”

Lord Grayleigh had laughed during Sibyl’s long speech. He now laid his hand on her arm.

“A big-wig is quite an ugly word,” he said, “but a lady or a gentleman, you will find them in all ranks of life.”

“You haven’t ’splained a bit,” said the little girl. “Mother wants big-wigs at her bazaar; you are one, so will you come?”

“I will answer that question after I have seen your mother.”

Lord Grayleigh crossed the lawn, and Sibyl, feeling dissatisfied, turned away.

“He doesn’t look quite happy,” she thought; “I’m sorry he is coming to take up mother’s time. Mother promised, and it’s most ’portant, to ride with me this evening. It’s on account of poor Dan Scott it is so ’portant. Oh, I do hope she won’t forget. Perhaps Miss Winstead would come if mother can’t. I promised poor Dan a basket of apples, and also that I’d go and sit with him, and mother said he should cert’nly have the apples, and that she and I would ride over with them. He broke his arm a week ago, poor fellow! poor little Dan! I’ll go and find Miss Winstead. If mother can’t come, she must.”

Sibyl ran off in search of her governess, and Lord Grayleigh and Mrs. Ogilvie, in deep conversation, paced up and down the lawn.

“You didn’t hear by the last mail?” was Lord Grayleigh’s query.

“No, I have not heard for two mails. I cannot account for his silence.”

“He is probably up country,” was Lord Grayleigh’s answer. “I thought before cabling that I would come and inquire of you.”

“I have not heard,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie. “Of course things are all right, and Philip was never much of a correspondent. It probably means, Lord Grayleigh, that he has completed his report, and is coming back. I shall be glad, for I want him to be here some time before October, in order to see about paying the rest of the money for our new place. What do you think of Silverbel?”

“Oh, quite charming,” said Lord Grayleigh, in that kind of tone which clearly implied that he was not thinking about his answer.

“I am anxious, of course, to complete the purchase,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie.

“Indeed!” Lord Grayleigh raised his brows.

“Mr. Acland lent me two thousand pounds to pay the deposit,” continued the lady, “but we must complete by the end of October. When my husband comes back rich, he will be able to do so. He will come back rich, won’t he?” Here she looked up appealingly at Lord Grayleigh.

“He will come back rich, or we shall have the deluge,” he replied, oracularly. “Don’t be uneasy. As you have not heard I shall cable. I shall wire to Brisbane, which I fancy is his headquarters.”

“Perhaps,” answered Mrs. Ogilvie, in an abstracted tone. “By the way, if you are going back to town, may I make use of your carriage? There are several things I want to order for my bazaar. It is to be in about a fortnight now. You will remember that you are one of the patrons.”

“Certainly,” he answered; “at what date is the bazaar to be held?”

She named the arranged date, and he entered it in a gold-mounted engagement book.

“I shall stay in town to-night,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie. “Just wait for me a moment, and I will get on my hat.”

Soon afterward the two were driving back to the railway station. Mrs. Ogilvie had forgotten all about her engagement to Sibyl. Sibyl saw her go off with a feeling of deep disappointment, for Miss Winstead had a headache, and declined to ride with the little girl. Dan Scott must wait in vain for his apples. But should he wait? Sibyl wondered.

She went down in a discontented way to a distant part of the grounds. She was not feeling at all happy now. It was all very well to have a heart bubbling over with good-nature and kindly impulses; but when those impulses were flung back on herself, then the little girl felt that latent naughtiness which was certainly an integral part of her character. She saw Dan Scott’s old grandfather digging weeds in the back garden. Dan Scott was one of the gardener’s boys. He was a bright, cheery-faced little fellow, with sloe-black eyes and tight-curling hair, and a winsome smile and white teeth. Sibyl had made friends with him at once, and when he ceased to appear on the scenes a week back, she was full of consternation, for Dan had fallen from a tree, and broken his arm rather badly. He had been feverish also, and could not come to attend to his usual work. His old grandfather had at first rated the lad for having got into this trouble, but then he had pitied him.

Sibyl the day before had promised old Scott that she and her mother would ride to Dan’s cottage and present him with a basket of early apples. There were some ripening now on the trees, long in shape, golden in color, and full of delicious juice.

Sibyl had investigated these apples on her own account, and pronounced them very good, and had thought that a basket of the fruit would delight Dan. She had spoken to her mother on the subject, and her mother, in the height of good-humor, had promised that the apples should be gathered, and the little girl and she would ride down a lovely country lane to Dan’s cottage. They were to start about six o’clock, would ride under the shade of some spreading beech trees, and come back in the cool of the evening.

The whole plan was delightful, and Sibyl had been thinking about it all day. Now her mother had gone off to town, and most clearly had forgotten her promise to the child.

“Well, Missy,” said old Scott as he dug his spade deep down into the soil; “don’t stand just there, Missy, you’ll get the earth all over you.”

Sibyl moved to a respectful distance.

“How is Dan?” she asked, after a pause.

“A-wrastling with his pain,” answered Scott, a frown coming between his brows.

“Is he expecting me and mother with the beautiful apples?” asked Sibyl, in a somewhat anxious tone.

“Is he expecting you, Missy?” answered the old man, raising his beetling brows and fixing his black eyes on the child. “Is he a-counting the hours? Do ducks swim, Missy, and do little sick boys a-smothered up in bed in small close rooms want apples and little ladies to visit ’em or not? You said you’d go, Missy, and Dan he’s counting the minutes.”

“Of course I’ll go,” replied Sibyl, but she looked anxious and distrait. Then she added, “I will go if I possibly can.”