Daddy's Girl

“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.”

CHAPTER XIX

This was better than the phantom ship. This was peace, joy, and absolute delight. Sibyl need not now only lie in her father’s arms at night and in her dreams. She could look into his face and hear his voice and touch his hand at all hours, day and night.

Her gladness was so real and beautiful that it pervaded the entire room, and in her presence Ogilvie scarcely felt pain. He held her little hand and sat by her side, and at times when she was utterly weary he even managed to raise her in his arms and pace the room with her, and lay her back again on her bed without hurting her, and he talked cheerfully in her presence, and smiled and even joked with her, and they were gay together with a sort of tender gaiety which had never been theirs in the old times. At night, especially, he was her best comforter and her kindest and most tender nurse.

For the first two days after his return Ogilvie scarcely left Sibyl. During all that time he asked no questions of outsiders. He did not even inquire for the doctor’s verdict. Where was the good of asking a question which could only receive one answer? The look on the child’s face was answer enough to her father.

Meanwhile, outside in the grounds, the bazaar went on. The marquee was full of guests, the band played cheerily, the notable people from all the country round arrived in carriages, and bought the pretty things from the different stall-holders and went away again.

The weather was balmy, soft and warm, and the little skiffs with their gay flags did a large trade on the river. Lord Grayleigh was one of the guests, returning to town, it is true, at night, but coming back again early in the morning. He heard that Ogilvie had returned and was naturally anxious to see him, but Ogilvie sent word that he could not see anyone just then. Grayleigh understood. He shook his head when Mrs. Ogilvie herself brought him the message.

“This cuts him to the heart,” he said; “I doubt if he will ever be the same man again.”

“Oh, Lord Grayleigh, what nonsense!” said the wife. “My dear husband was always eccentric, but as Sibyl recovers so will he recover his equanimity. It is a great shock to him, of course, to see her as she is now, dear little soul. But I cannot tell you how bad I was at first; indeed, I was in bed for nearly a week. I had a sort of nervous attack – nervous fever, the doctor said. But I got over it. I know now so assuredly that the darling child is getting well that I am never unhappy about her. Philip will be just the same by-and-by.”

Grayleigh made no reply. He gave Mrs. Ogilvie one of his queer glances, turned on his heel and whistled softly to himself. He muttered under his breath that some women were poor creatures, and he was sorry for Ogilvie, yes, very sorry.

Grayleigh was also anxious with regard to another matter, but that anxiety he managed so effectually to smother that he would not even allow himself to think that it had any part in Ogilvie’s curious unwillingness to see him.

At this time it is doubtful whether Ogilvie did refuse to see Grayleigh in any way on account of the mine, for during those two days he had eyes, ears, thoughts, and heart for no one but Sibyl. When anyone else entered her room he invariably went out, but he quickly returned, smiling as he did so, and generally carrying in his hand some treasure which he had brought for her across the seas. He would then draw his chair near the little, white bed and talk to her in light and cheerful strains, telling her wonderful things he had seen during his voyage, of the sunsets at sea, of a marvelous rainbow which once spanned the sky from east to west, and of many curious mirages which he had witnessed. He always talked to the child of nature, knowing how she understood nature, and those things which are the special heritage of the innocent of the earth, and she was as happy during those two peaceful days as it was ever the lot of little mortal to be.

But, in particular, when Mrs. Ogilvie entered the sick room did Ogilvie go out. He had during those two days not a single word of private talk with his wife. To Miss Winstead he was always polite and tolerant; to nurse he was more than polite, he was kind, and to Sibyl he was all in all, everything that father could be, everything that love could imagine. He kept himself, his wounded conscience, his fears, his heavy burden of sin in abeyance for the sake of the fast-fleeting little life, because he willed, with all the strength of his nature, to give the child every comfort that lay in his power during her last moments.

But the peaceful days could not last long. They came to an end with the big bazaar. The band ceased to play on the lawn, the pleasure boats ceased to ply up and down the Thames, the lovely Indian summer passed into duller weather, the equinoctial gales visited the land, and Ogilvie knew that he must brace himself for something he had long made up his mind to accomplish. He must pass out of this time of quiet into a time of storm. He had known from the first that he must do this, but until the bazaar came to an end, by a sort of tacit consent, neither the child nor the man talked of the gold mine.

But now the guests having gone, even Lady Helen Douglas and Lord Grayleigh having left the house, Ogilvie knew that he must act.

On the morning of the third day after his return Mrs. Ogilvie entered Sibyl’s room. She came in quietly looking pale and at the same time jubilant. The result of the bazaar was a large check which was to be sent off that day to the Home for Incurables at Watleigh. Mrs. Ogilvie felt herself a very good and charitable woman indeed. She wore her very prettiest dress and had smiles in her dark eyes.

“Oh! my ownest darling mother, how sweet you look!” said little Sibyl. “Come and kiss me, darling mother.”

Mrs. Ogilvie had to bend forward to catch the failing voice. She asked the child what she said. Sibyl feebly repeated her words.

“Don’t tire her,” said Ogilvie; “if you cannot hear, be satisfied to guess. The child wishes you to kiss her.”

Mrs. Ogilvie turned on her husband a look of reproach. There was an expression in her eyes which seemed to say: “And you think that I, a mother, do not understand my own child.” But Ogilvie would not meet his wife’s eyes. He walked to one of the windows and looked out. The little, white couch had been moved a trifle out of the window now that the weather was getting chilly, and a screen was put up to protect the child from any draught.

Ogilvie stood and looked across the garden. Where the marquee had stood the grass was already turning yellow, there were wisps of straw about; the scene without seemed to him to be full with desolation. Suddenly he turned, walked to the fireplace, and stirred the fire into a blaze. At that moment Miss Winstead entered the room.

“Miss Winstead,” said Ogilvie, “will you sit with Sibyl for a short time? Mildred, I should like a word with you alone.”

His voice was cheerful, but quite firm. He went up to Sibyl and kissed her.

“I shall soon be back, my little love,” he said, and she kissed him and smiled, and watched both parents as they went out of the room.

“Isn’t it wonderful,” she said, turning to her governess, “how perfect they both are! I don’t know which is most perfect; only, of course I can’t help it, but I like father’s way best.”

“I should think you did,” replied Miss Winstead. “Shall I go on reading you the new fairy tale, Sibyl?”

“Not to-day, thank you, Miss Winstead,” answered Sibyl.

“Then what shall I read?”

“I don’t think anything, just now. Father has been reading the most beautiful inciting things about a saint called John, who wrote a story about the New Jerusalem. Did you ever read it?”

“You mean a story out of the Bible, from the Book of Revelation?”

“Perhaps so; I don’t quite know what part of the Bible. Oh, it’s most wonderful inciting, and father reads so splendid. It’s about what happens to people when their wings are grown long. Did you never read about it, Miss Winstead? The New Jerusalem is so lovely, with streets paved with gold, same as the gold in the gold mine, you know, and gates all made of big pearls, each gate one big whole pearl. I won’t ask you to read about it, ’cos I like father’s way of reading best; but it’s all most wonderful and beautiful.”

The child lay with a smile on her face. She could see a little way across the garden from where she lay.

Meanwhile Ogilvie and his wife had gone downstairs. When they reached the wide central hall, he asked her to accompany him into a room which was meant to be a library. It looked out toward the back of the house, and was not quite in the same absolute order as the other beautiful rooms were in. Ogilvie perhaps chose it for that reason.

The moment they had both got into the room he closed the door, and turned and faced his wife.

“Now, Mildred,” he said, “I wish to understand – God knows I am the last person who ought to reproach you – but I must clearly understand what this means.”

“What it means?” she repeated. “Why do you speak in that tone? Oh, it’s very fine to say you do not mean to reproach me, but your eyes and the tone of your voice reproach me. You have been very cruel to me, Philip, these last two days. What I have suffered, God only knows. I have gone through the most fearful strain; I, alone, unaided by you, have had to keep the bazaar going, to entertain our distinguished guests, to be here, there, and everywhere, but, thank goodness, we did collect a nice little sum for the Home for Incurables. I wonder, Philip, when you think of your own dear little daughter, and what she may – ”

“Hush!” said the man.

Mrs. Ogilvie paused in her rapid flow of words, and looked at him with interrogation in her eyes.

“I refuse to allow Sibyl’s name to enter into this matter,” he said. “You did what you did, God knows with what motive. I don’t care, and I do not mean to inquire. The question I have now to ask is, what is the meaning of this?” As he spoke he waved his hand round the room, and then pointed to the grounds outside.

“Silverbel!” she cried; “but I wrote to you and told you the place was in the market. I even sent you a cablegram. Oh, of course, I forgot, you rushed away from Brisbane in a hurry. You received the other cablegram about little Sibyl?”

“Yes, I received the other cablegram, and, as you say, I rushed home. But why are you here? Have you taken the house for the season, or what?”

Mrs. Ogilvie gave an excited scream, ending off in a laugh.

“Why, we have bought Silverbel,” she cried; “you are, you must be pleased. Mr. Acland lent me enough money for the first deposit, and you have just come back in time, my dear Phil, to pay the final sum due at the end of October, eighteen thousand pounds. Quite a trifle compared to the fortune you must have brought back with you. Then, of course, there is also the furniture to be paid for, but the tradespeople are quite willing to wait. We are rich, dear Phil, and I am so happy about it.”

“Rich!” he answered. He did not say another word for a moment, then he went slowly up to his wife, and took her hand.

“Mildred,” he said slowly, “do you realize – do you at all realize the fact that the child is dying?”

“Nonsense,” she answered, starting back.

“The child is dying,” repeated Ogilvie, “and when the child dies, any motive that I ever had for amassing gold, or any of those things which are considered essential to the worldly man’s happiness, goes out. After the child is taken, I have no desire to live as a wealthy man, as a man of society, as a man of means. Life to me is reduced to the smallest possible modicum of interest. When I went to Queensland, I went there because I wished to secure money for the child. I did bitter wrong, and God is punishing me, but I sinned for her sake… I now repent of my sin, and repentance means – ”