Daddy's Girl

“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.”

CHAPTER XVI

There was a pretty white room at Silverbel in which lay a patient child. She lay flat on her back just as she had lain ever since the accident. Her bed was moved into the wide bay window, and from there she could look out at the lovely garden and at the shining Thames just beyond. From where she lay she could also see the pleasure boats and the steamers crowded with people as they went up and down the busy river, and it seemed to her that her thoughts followed those boats which went toward the sea. It seemed to her further that her spirit entered one of the great ships at the mouth of the Thames and crossed in it the boundless deep, and found a lonely man at the other side of the world into whose heart she crept.

“I am quite cosy there,” she said to herself, “for father’s perfect heart is big enough to hold me, however much I suffer, and however sad I am.”

Not that Sibyl was sad, nor did she suffer. After the first shock she had no pain of any sort, and there never was a more tranquil little face than hers as it lay on its daintily frilled pillow and looked out at the shining river.

There was no part of the beautiful house half so beautiful as the room given up to her use. It might well and aptly be called the Chamber of Peace. Indeed, Miss Winstead, who was given to sentimentalities and had a poetic turn of mind, had called Sibyl’s chamber by this title.

From the very first the child never murmured. She who had been so active, like a butterfly in her dancing motion, in her ceaseless grace, lay on her couch uncomplaining. And as to pain, she had scarcely any, and what little she had grew less day by day. The great specialist from London said that this was the worst symptom of the case, and established the fact beyond doubt that the spine was fatally injured. It was a question of time. How long a time no one could quite tell, but the great doctors shook their heads over the child, and an urgent cablegram was sent to Ogilvie to hurry home without a moment’s delay.

But, though all her friends knew it, no one told Sibyl herself that she might never walk again nor dance over the smoothly kept lawns, nor mount the nameless pony, nor carry apples to Dan Scott. In her presence people thought it their duty to be cheerful, and she was always cheerful herself. After the first week or so, during which she was more or less stunned and her head felt strangely heavy, she liked to talk and laugh and ask questions. As far as her active little brain went there was but little difference in her, except that now her voice was low, and sometimes it was difficult to follow the rapid, eager words. But the child’s eyes were quite as clear and beautiful as ever, and more than ever now there visited them that strange, far-away look and that quick, comprehending gaze.

“I want nothing on earth but father, the touch of father’s hand and the look in his face,” she said several times; and then invariably her own eyes would follow the steamers and the boats as they went down the river toward the sea, and she would smile as the remembrance of the big ships came to her.

“Miss Winstead,” she said on one of these occasions, “I go in my own special big ship every night across the sea to father. I sleep in father’s heart every night, that’s why I don’t disturb you, and why the hours seem so short.”

Miss Winstead had long ceased to scold Sibyl, and nurse was now never cross to the little girl, and Mrs. Ogilvie was to all appearance the most tender, devoted mother on earth. When the child had been brought back after her accident Mrs. Ogilvie had not yet returned from town. She had meant to spend the night at the house in Belgrave Square. An urgent message, however, summoned her, and she arrived at Silverbel about midnight. She lost all self-control when she saw the beautiful unconscious child, and went into such violent hysterics that the doctors had to take her from the room.

But this state of grief passed, and she was able, as she said to herself, to crush her mother’s heart in her breast and superintend everything for Sibyl’s comfort. It was Mrs. Ogilvie herself who, by the doctor’s orders, sent off the cablegram which her husband received at the very moment of his fall from the paths of honor. It was she who worded it, and she thought of nothing at that moment but the child who was dying in the beautiful house. For the time she quite forgot her dreams of wealth and of greatness and of worldly pleasure. Nay, more, she felt just then that she could give up everything if only Sibyl might be saved. Mrs. Ogilvie also blamed herself very bitterly for forgetting her promise to the child. She was indeed quite inconsolable for several days, and at last had a nervous attack and was obliged to retire to her bed.

There came an answering cable from Ogilvie to say that he was starting on board the Sahara, and would be in England as quickly as the great liner could bring him across the ocean. But by the doctor’s orders the news that her father was coming back to her was not told to Sibyl.

“Something may detain him; at any rate the suspense will be bad for her,” the doctors said, and as she did not fret, and seemed quite contented with the strange fancy that she crossed the sea at night to lie in his arms, there was no need to give her any anxiety with regard to the matter.

But as the days went on Mrs. Ogilvie’s feelings, gradually but surely, underwent a sort of revulsion. For the first week she was frantic, ill, nervous, full of intense self-reproach. But during the second week, when Sibyl’s state of health assumed a new phase, when she ceased to moan in her sleep, and to look troubled, and only lay very still and white, Mrs. Ogilvie took it into her head that after all the doctors had exaggerated the symptoms. The child was by no means so ill as they said. She went round to her different friends and aired these views. When they came to see her she aired them still further.

“Doctors are so often mistaken,” she said, “I don’t believe for a single instant that the dear little thing will not be quite as well as ever in a short time. I should not be the least surprised if she were able to walk by the time Philip comes back. I do sincerely hope such will be the case, for Philip makes such a ridiculous fuss about her, and will go through all the apprehension and misery which nearly wrecked my mother’s heart. He will believe everything those doctors have said of the child.”

The neighbors, glad to see Mrs. Ogilvie cheerful once more, rather agreed with her in these views, that is, all who did not go to see Sibyl. But those who went into her white room and looked at the sweet patient’s face shook their heads when they came out again. It was those neighbors who had not seen the child who quoted instances of doctors who were mistaken in their diagnoses, and Mrs. Ogilvie derived great pleasure and hope from their conversation.

Gradually, but surely, the household settled down into its new life. The Chamber of Peace in the midst of the house diffused a peaceful atmosphere everywhere else. Sibyl’s weak little laugh was a sound to treasure up and remember, and her words were still full of fun, and her eyes often brimmed over with laughter. No one ever denied her anything now. She could see whoever she fancied, even to old Scott, who hobbled upstairs in his stockings, and came on tiptoe into the room, and stood silently at the foot of the white bed.

“I won’t have the curse of the poor, I did my best,” said Sibyl, looking full at the old man.

“Yes, you did your best, dearie,” he replied. His voice was husky, and he turned his head aside and looked out of the window and coughed in a discreet manner. He was shocked at the change in the radiant little face, but he would not allow his emotion to get the better of him.

“The blessing of the poor rests on you, dear little Miss,” he said then, “the blessing of the poor and the fatherless. It was a fatherless lad you tried to comfort. God bless you for ever and ever.”

Sibyl smiled when he said this, and then she gazed full at him in that solemn comprehending way which often characterized her. When he went out of the room she lay silent for a time; then she turned to nurse and said with emphasis:

“I like old Scott, he’s a very religious man.”

“That he is, darling,” replied nurse.

“Seems to me I’m getting religious too,” continued Sibyl. “It’s ’cos of Lord Jesus, I ’spect. He is kind to me, is Lord Jesus. He takes me to father every night.”

The days went by, and Mrs. Ogilvie, who was recovering her normal spirits hour by hour, now made up her mind that Sibyl’s recovery was merely a question of time, that she would soon be as well as ever, and as this was the case, surely it seemed a sad pity that the bazaar, which had been postponed, should not take place.

“The bazaar will amuse the child, besides doing a great deal of good to others,” thought Mrs. Ogilvie.

No sooner had this idea come to her, than she found her engagement-book, and looked up several items. The bazaar had of course been postponed from the original date, but it would be easy to have it on the 24th of September. The 24th was in all respects a suitable date, and those people who had not gone abroad or to Scotland would be glad to spend a week in the beautiful country house. It was such a sad pity, thought Mrs. Ogilvie, not to use the new furniture to the best advantage, not to sleep in the new beds, not to make use of all the accessories which had cost so much money, or rather which had cost so many debts, for not a scrap of the furniture was paid for, and the house itself was only held on sufferance.

“It will be doing such a good work,” said Mrs. Ogilvie to herself. “I shall be not only entertaining my friends and amusing dear little Sibyl, but I shall be collecting money for an excellent charity.”

In the highest spirits she ran upstairs and burst into her little daughter’s room.

“Oh, Mummy,” said Sibyl. She smiled and said faintly, “Come and kiss me, Mummy.”

Mrs. Ogilvie was all in white and looked very young and girlish and pretty. She tripped up to the child, bent over her and kissed her.

“My little white rose,” she said, “you must get some color back into your cheeks.”

“Oh, color don’t matter,” replied Sibyl. “I’m just as happy without it.”

“But you are quite out of pain, my little darling?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“And you like lying here in your pretty window?”

“Yes, mother darling.”

“You are not weary of lying so still?”

Sibyl laughed.

“It is funny,” she said, “I never thought I could lie so very still. I used to get a fidgety sort of pain all down me if I stayed still more than a minute at a time, but now I don’t want to walk. My legs are too heavy. I feel heavy all down my legs and up to the middle of my back, but that is all. See, Mummy, how nicely I can move my hands. Nursie is going to give me some dolls to dress.”

“What a splendid idea, Sib!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you shall dress some dolls for mother’s bazaar.”

“Are you going to have it after all?” cried Sibyl, her eyes brightening. “Are the big-wigs coming?”

“Yes, pet, and you shall help me. You shall dress pretty little dolls which the big-wigs shall buy – Lord Grayleigh and the rest.”

“I like Lord Grayleigh,” replied Sibyl. “I am glad you are going to have the bazaar, Mummy.”

Mrs. Ogilvie laughed with glee. She seated herself in a comfortable rocking chair near the window and chatted volubly. Sibyl was really a wonderfully intelligent child. It was delightful to talk to her. There was no narrowness about Sibyl. She had quite a breadth of view and of comprehension for her tender years.

“My dear little girl,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I am so glad you like the idea. Perhaps by the day of the bazaar you will be well enough to come downstairs and even to walk a little.”

Sibyl made no answer to this. After a moment’s pause she said:

“Do have the bazaar and let all the big-wigs come. I can watch them from my bed. I can look out of the window and see everything – it will be fun.”

Soon afterward Mrs. Ogilvie left the room. She met Miss Winstead on the stairs.

“Miss Winstead,” she said, “I have just been sitting with the child. She seems much better.”

“Do you think so?” replied Miss Winstead shortly.

“I do. Why do you stare at me in that disapproving manner? You really are all most unnatural. Who should know of the health of her child if her own mother does not? The little darling is recovering fast – I have just been having a most interesting talk with her. She would like me to have the bazaar.”

“The bazaar!” echoed Miss Winstead. “Surely you don’t mean to have it here?”

“Yes, here. The child is greatly interested. She would like me to have it, and I am going to send out invitations at once. It will be held on the 24th and 25th of the month.”

“I would not, if I were you,” said Miss Winstead slowly. “You know what the doctors have said.”

Mrs. Ogilvie first turned white, and then her face grew red and angry.

“I don’t believe a single word of what they say,” she retorted with some passion. “The child looks better every day. What the dear little thing wants is rousing. The bazaar will do her no end of good. Mark my words, Miss Winstead, we shall have Sibyl on her feet again by the 24th.”

“You forget,” said Miss Winstead slowly, “the Sahara is due in England about that date. Mr. Ogilvie will be back. He will not be prepared for – for what he has to see.”

“I know quite well that my husband will return about then, but I don’t understand what you mean by saying that he will not be prepared. There will be nothing but joyful tidings to give him. The child nearly herself and the bazaar at its height. Delightful! Now pray, my good creature, don’t croak any more; I must rush up to town this afternoon – there is a great deal to see about.”

CHAPTER XVII

Lord Grayleigh was so anxious about the Syndicate that he would not go to Scotland for the shooting as usual. Later on he would attend to his pleasures, but not now. Later on when Ogilvie had returned, and the company was finally floated, and the shares taken up, he would relax his efforts, but just at present he was engaged over the biggest thing of his life. He was cheerful, however, and full of hope. He even thanked Providence for having aided all his exertions. So blinded was he by the glare of avarice and the desire for adding wealth to wealth that Ogilvie’s cablegram set every anxiety at rest. He even believed that the mine was as full of gold as the cablegram seemed to indicate. Yes, everything was going well. The Lombard Deeps Company would be floated in a short time, the Board of Directors was complete.

Ogilvie’s cablegram was shown to a few of the longest-headed men in the financial world, and his report was anxiously looked for. Rumors carefully worded got by degrees into the public press, the ominous whispers were absolutely silenced: all, in short, was ripe for action. Nothing definite, however, could be done until the full report of the mine arrived.