Daddy's Girl

“What?” she asked, looking at him with round, dilated eyes.

“Restitution,” he replied; “all the restitution that lies in my power.”

“You – you terrify me,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “what are you talking about? Restitution! What have you to give back?”

“Listen, and I will explain. You knew, Mildred – oh, yes, you knew it well enough – that I went to Australia on no honorable mission. You did not care to inquire, you hid yourself behind a veil of pretended ignorance; but you knew– yes, you did, and you dare not deny it – that I went to Queensland to commit a crime. It would implicate others if I were to explain things more fully. I will not implicate others, I will stand alone now, in this bitter moment when the fruit of my sin is brought home to me. I will bear the responsibility of my own sin. I will not drag anybody else down in my fall, but it is sufficient for you to know, Mildred, that the Lombard Deeps Mine as a speculation is worthless.”

“Worthless!” she cried, “impossible!”

“Worthless,” he repeated.

“Then why, why did you send a cablegram to say the mine was full of gold? Lord Grayleigh told me he had received such a message from you.”

“I told a dastardly lie, which I am about to put straight.”

“But, but,” she began, her lips white, her eyes shining, “if you do not explain away your lie (oh, Phil, it is such an ugly word), if you do not explain it away, could not the company be floated?”

“It could, and the directors could reap a fortune by means of it. Do you understand, Mildred, what that implies?”

“Do I understand?” she replied. “No, I was always a poor little woman who had no head for figures.”

“Nevertheless you will, I think, take it in when I explain. You are not quite so stupid as you make yourself out. The directors and I could make a fortune – it would be easy, for there is enough gold in the mine to last for at least six months, and the public are credulous, and can be taken in. We should make our fortunes out of the widows and orphans, out of the savings of the poor clerks, and from the clergyman’s tiny stipend. We could sweep in their little earnings, and aggrandize our own wealth and importance, and lose our souls. Yes, Mildred, we could, but we won’t. I shall prevent that. I have a task before me which will save this foulest crime from being committed.”

Mrs. Ogilvie dropped into a chair; she burst into hysterical weeping.

“What you say can’t be true, Phil. Oh, Phil, darling, do have mercy.”

“How?” he asked.

“Don’t do anything so mad, so rash. You always had such a queer, troublesome sort of conscience. Phil, I cannot stand poverty, I cannot stand being dragged down; I must have this place; I have set my heart on it.”

He came up to her and took both her hands.

“Is it worth evil?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Is anything under the sun worth evil?” She made no answer. He dropped her hands and left the room.

CHAPTER XX

Ogilvie went up to Sibyl. Suffering and love had taught him many lessons, amongst others those of absolute self-control. His face was smiling and calm as he crossed the room, bent over the child and kissed her. Those blue eyes of hers, always so full of penetration and of knowledge, which was not all this earth, could detect no sorrow in her father’s.

“I must go to town, I shall be away for as short a time as possible. As soon as I come back I will come to you,” he said. “Look after her, please, Miss Winstead. If you cannot remain in the room, send nurse. Now, don’t tire yourself, my little love. Remember that father will be back very soon.”

“Don’t hurry, father darling,” replied Sibyl “’cos I am quite happy thinking about you, even if you are not here.”

He went away, ran downstairs, put on his hat and went out. His wife was standing in the porch.

“One moment, Phil,” she called, “where are you going?”

“To town.”

“To do what?”

“To do what I said,” he answered, and he gave her a strange look, which frightened her, and caused her to fall back against the wall.

He disappeared down the avenue, she sank into a chair and began to weep. She was thoroughly miserable and frightened. Philip had returned, but all pleasant golden dreams were shattered, for although he had sent a cablegram to Lord Grayleigh, saying that all was well, better than well, his conscience was speaking to him, that troublesome terrible conscience of his, and he was about to destroy his own work.

“What fearful creatures men with consciences are,” moaned Mrs. Ogilvie.

Meanwhile Ogilvie walked quickly up the avenue. Just at the gates he met an old couple who were coming in. They were a queer-looking old pair, dressed in old-fashioned style. Ogilvie did not know them, but the woman paused when she saw him, came forward, dropped a curtsey and said:

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“What can I do for you?” said Ogilvie. He tried to speak courteously, but this delay, and the presence of the old couple whose names he did not even know, irritated him.

“If you please, sir, you are Mr. Ogilvie?”

“That is my name.”

“We know you,” continued the old woman, “by the likeness to your little daughter.”

The mention of Sibyl caused Ogilvie now to regard them more attentively.

“May I inquire your names?” he asked.

“Holman, sir,” said the woman. “This is my husband, sir. We heard only yesterday of dear little Missie’s illness, and we couldn’t rest until we came to enquire after her. We greatly ’opes, sir, that the dear little lamb is better. We thought you wouldn’t mind if we asked.”

“By no means,” answered Ogilvie. “Any friends of Sibyl’s, any real friends, are of interest to me.”

He paused and looked into the old woman’s face.

“She’s better, ain’t she, dear lamb?” asked Mrs. Holman.

Ogilvie shook his head; it was a quick movement, his face was very white, his lips opened but no words came. The next instant he had hurried down the road, leaving the old pair looking after him.

Mrs. Holman caught her husband’s hand.

“What do it mean, John?” she asked, “what do it mean?”

“We had best go to the house and find out,” was Holman’s response.

“Yes, we had best,” replied Mrs. Holman; “but, John, I take it that it means the worst. The little lamb was too good for this earth. I always said it, John, always.”

“Come to the house and let’s find out,” said Holman again.

He took his old wife’s hand, and the strange-looking pair walked down the avenue. Presently they found themselves standing outside the pretty old-fashioned porch of lovely Silverbel. They did not know as they walked that they were in full view of the windows of the Chamber of Peace, and that eager blue eyes were watching them, eager eyes which filled with love and longing when they gazed at them.

“Miss Winstead!” cried little Sibyl.

“What is it, dear?” asked the governess.

Sibyl had been silent for nearly a quarter of an hour, and Miss Winstead, tired with the bazaar and many other things, had been falling into a doze. The sudden excitement in Sibyl’s voice now arrested her attention.

“Oh, Miss Winstead, they have come.”

“Who have come, dear?”

“The Holmans, the darlings! I saw them walking down the avenue. Oh, I should so like to see them. Will you go down and bring them up? Please do.”

“But the doctor said you were to be quiet, and not excite yourself.”

“What does it matter whether I incite myself or not? Please, please let me see the Holmans.”

“Yes, dear,” replied Miss Winstead. She left the room and went downstairs. As she entered the central hall she suddenly found herself listening to an animated conversation.

“Now, my good people,” said Mrs. Ogilvie’s voice, raised high and clear, “you will be kind enough to return to town immediately. The child is ill, but we hope soon to have her better. See her, did you say, my good woman? Certainly not. I shall be pleased to offer you refreshment if you will go round to the housekeeper’s entrance, but you must take the next train to town, you cannot see the child.”

“If you please, Mrs. Ogilvie,” here interrupted Miss Winstead, coming forward. “Sibyl noticed Mr. and Mrs. Holman as they walked down the avenue, and is very much pleased and delighted at their coming to see her, and wants to know if they may come up at once and have a talk with her?”

“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie; “I really must give the child another bedroom, this sort of thing is so bad for her. It is small wonder the darling does not get back her health – the dreadful way in which she is over-excited and injudiciously treated. Really, my good folks, I wish you would go back to town and not make mischief.”

“But if the little lady wishes?” began Mrs. Holman, in a timid voice, tears trembling on her eyelids.

“Sibyl certainly does wish to see you,” said Miss Winstead in a grave voice. “I think, Mrs. Ogilvie,” she added, “it would be a pity to refuse her. I happen to know Mr. and Mrs. Holman pretty well, and I do not think they will injure dear little Sibyl. If you will both promise to come upstairs quietly,” continued Miss Winstead, “and not express sorrow when you see her, for she is much changed, and will endeavor to speak cheerfully, you will do her good, not harm.”

“Oh, yes, we’ll speak cheerfully,” said Holman; “we know the ways of dear little Miss. If so be that she would see us, it would be a great gratification, Madam, and we will give you our word that we will not injure your little daughter.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, waving her hand, “My opinion is never taken in this house, nor my wishes consulted. I pass the responsibility on to you, Miss Winstead. When the child’s father returns and finds that you have acted as you have done you will have to answer to him. I wash my hands of the matter.”

Mrs. Ogilvie went out on to the lawn.

“The day is improving,” she thought. She glanced up at the sky. “It certainly is miserable at home, and every one talks nonsense about Sibyl. I shall really take a drive and go and see the Le Stranges. I cannot stand the gloom of the house. The dear child is getting better fast, there is not the least doubt of it, and why Phil should talk as he does, and in particular why he should speak as if we were paupers, is past bearing. Lose Silverbel! I certainly will not submit to that.”

So the much aggrieved wife went round in the direction of the stables, gave orders that the pony trap was to be got ready for her, and soon afterward was on her way to the Le Stranges. By the time she reached that gay and somewhat festive household, she herself was as merry and hopeful as usual.

Meantime Miss Winstead took the Holmans upstairs.

“You must be prepared for a very great change,” said Miss Winstead, “but you will not show her that you notice it. She is very sweet and very happy, and I do not think anyone need be over-sorry about her.”

Miss Winstead’s own voice trembled. The next moment she opened the door of the Chamber of Peace, and the old-fashioned pair from whom Sibyl had bought so many dusty toys stood before her.

“Eh, my little love, and how are you, dearie?” said Mrs. Holman. She went forward, dropped on her knees by the bed, and took one of Sibyl’s soft white hands. “Eh, dearie, and what can Mrs. Holman do for you?”

“How do you do, Mrs. Holman?” said Sibyl, in her weak, but perfectly clear voice; “and how do you do, Mr. Holman? How very kind of you both to come to see me. Do you know I love you very much. I think of you so often. Won’t you come to the other side of the bed, Mr. Holman, and won’t you take a chair? My voice is apt to get tired if I talk too loud. I am very glad to see you both.”

“Eh! but you look sweet,” said Mrs. Holman.

Mr. Holman now took his big handkerchief and blew his nose violently. After that precautionary act he felt better, as he expressed it, and no longer in danger of giving way. But Mrs. Holman never for a single instant thought of giving way. She had once, long ago, had a child of her own – a child who died when young – and she had sat by that dying child’s bed and never once given expression to her feelings. So why should she now grieve little Sibyl by showing undue sorrow?

“It is nice to look at you, dearie,” she repeated, “and what a pretty room you have, my love.”

“Everything is beautiful,” said little Sibyl, “everything in all the world, and I love you so much.”

“To be sure, darling, and so do Holman and I love you.”

“Whisper,” said Sibyl, “bend a little nearer, my voice gets so very tired. Have you kept your hundred pounds quite safe?”

“Yes, darling, but we won’t talk of money now.”

“Only,” said Sibyl, “when the gold comes from the mine you’ll be all right. Lord Grayleigh has wrote your name and Mr. Holman’s in his note-book, and he has promised that you are to get some of the gold. You’ll be able to have the shop in Buckingham Palace Road, and the children will come to you and buy your beautiful toys.” She paused here and her little face turned white.

“You must not talk any more, dearie,” said Mrs. Holman. “It’s all right about the gold and everything else. All we want is for you to get well.”

“I am getting well,” answered Sibyl, but as she said the words a curious expression came into her eyes.

“You know,” she said, as Mrs. Holman rose and took her hand before she went away, “that when we have wings we fly. I think my wings are coming; but oh, I love you, and you won’t forget me when you have your big shop in Buckingham Palace Road?”

“We will never forget you, dearie,” said Mrs. Holman, and then she stooped and kissed the child.

“Come, Holman,” she said.

“If I might,” said old Holman, straightening himself and looking very solemn, “if I might have the great privilege of kissing little Missie’s hand afore I go.”

“Oh, indeed, you may,” said Sibyl.

A moment later the old pair were seen going slowly down the avenue.

“Blessed darling, her wings are very near, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Holman. She was sobbing now, although she had not sobbed in the sick room.

“Queer woman, the mother,” said Holman. “We’ll get back to town, wife; I’m wonderful upset.”

“We’ll never sell no more of the dusty toys to no other little children,” said Mrs. Holman, and she wept behind her handkerchief.

CHAPTER XXI

Ogilvie went straight to town. When he arrived at Victoria he took a hansom and drove to the house of the great doctor who had last seen Sibyl. Sir Henry Powell was at home. Ogilvie sent in his card and was admitted almost immediately into his presence. He asked a few questions, they were straight and to the point, and to the point did the specialist reply. His last words were:

“It is a question of time; but the end may come at any moment. There never was any hope from the beginning. From the first it was a matter of days and weeks, I did not know when I first saw your little daughter that she could live even as long as she has done, but the injury to the spine was low down, which doubtless accounts for this fact.”

Ogilvie bowed, offered a fee, which Sir Henry refused, and left the house. Although he had just received the blow which he expected to receive, he felt strangely quiet, his troublesome heart was not troublesome any longer. There was no excitement whatever about him; he had never felt so calm in all his life before. He knew well that, as far as earthly success and earthly hope and earthly joy went, he was coming to the end of the ways. He knew that he had strength for the task which lay before him.

He went to the nearest telegraph office and sent three telegrams to Lord Grayleigh. He pre-paid the answers of each, sending one to Grayleigh’s club, another to his house in town, and another to Grayleigh Manor. The contents of each were identical.

“Wire immediately the next meeting of the directors of the Lombard Deeps.”

He gave as the address to which the reply was to be sent his own house in Belgrave Square.

Having done this he paid a visit to his solicitor, Mr. Acland. Acland did not know that he had come back, and was unfeignedly glad to see him, but when he observed the expression on his friend’s face, he started and said:

“My dear fellow, you don’t look the better for your trip; I am sorry to see you so broken down.”

“I have a good deal to try me,” said Ogilvie; “please do not discuss my looks. It does not matter whether I am ill or well. I have much to do and must do my work quickly. You have heard, of course, about the child?”

“Of her accident?” exclaimed Acland; “yes, her mother wrote to me some time ago – she had a fall from her pony?”

“She had.”

“Take a chair, won’t you, Ogilvie?”

Ogilvie dropped into one. Acland looked at him and then said, slowly:

“I judged from Mrs. Ogilvie’s note that there was nothing serious the matter. I hope I am not mistaken.”

“You are mistaken,” replied Ogilvie; “but I cannot quite bear to discuss this matter. Shall we enter at once on the real object of my visit?”

“Certainly,” said Acland.

A clerk entered the room. “Leave us,” said Acland to the man, “and say to any inquirers that I am particularly engaged. Now, Ogilvie,” he added as the clerk withdrew, “I am quite at your service.”

“Thank you. There is a little business which has just come to my ears, and which I wish to arrange quickly. My wife tells me that she has borrowed two thousand pounds from you in order to pay a deposit on the place on the Thames called Silverbel.”

“Yes, the place where your wife is now staying.”

“Exactly.”

“I hope you approve of Silverbel, Ogilvie; it is really cheap at the price; and, of course, everyone knows that you have returned a very rich man. It would have been pleasanter for me had you been at home when the purchase was made, but Mrs. Ogilvie was insistent. She had taken a strong fancy to the place. There were several other less expensive country places in the market, but the only one which would please her was Silverbel. I cabled to you, but got no reply. Your wife implored me to act, and I lent her the deposit. The purchase must be completed at the end of October, in about a month from now. I hope you don’t blame me, Ogilvie?”

“I don’t blame you – I understand my wife. It would have been difficult to refuse her. Of course, had you done so matters might have been a little easier for me now. As it is, I will pay you back the deposit. I have my cheque-book with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should like to write a cheque for you now. I must get this matter put straight, and, Acland, you must find another purchaser.”

“Not really!” cried Mr. Acland. “The place is beautiful, and cheap at the price, and you have come back a rich man.”

“On the contrary, I have returned to England practically a pauper.”

“No!” cried Mr. Acland; “but the report of the Lombard Deeps – ”

“Hush, you will know all soon. It is sufficient for you at present to receive the news in all confidence that I am a ruined man. Not that it matters. There will be a trifle for my wife – nothing else concerns me. May I fill in this cheque?”

“You can do so, of course,” replied Acland. “I shall receive the money in full sooner or later from the other purchaser, and then you can have it back.”

“It would be a satisfaction to me, however, to pay you the deposit you lent my wife at once.”

“Very well.”

Ogilvie filled in a cheque for two thousand pounds.

“You had better see Mrs. Ogilvie with regard to this,” he said, as he stood up. “You transacted the business with her, and you must break to her what I have already done, but what I fear she fails to believe, that the purchase cannot possibly go on. It will not be in my power, Acland, to complete it, even if I should be alive at the time.”

“I know another man only too anxious to purchase,” said Acland; “but I am deeply sorry for you – your child so ill, your own mission to Queensland a failure.”

“Yes, quite a failure. I won’t detain you any longer now. I may need your services again presently.”

Ogilvie went from the lawyer’s house straight to his own in Belgrave Square. It was in the hands of a caretaker. A seedy-looking man in a rusty black coat opened the door. He did not know Ogilvie.

“I am the master,” said Ogilvie; “let me in, please.”

The man stood aside.

“Has a telegram come for me?”

“Yes, sir, five minutes ago.”

Ogilvie tore it open, and read the contents.

“Meeting of directors at one o’clock to-morrow, at Cannon Street Hotel. Not necessary for you to be present unless you wish. GRAYLEIGH.”

Ogilvie crushed up the telegram, and turned to the man.

“I shall sleep here to-night,” Ogilvie said, “and shall be back in the course of the evening.”

He then went to his bank. It was within half-an-hour of closing. He saw one of the managers who happened to be a friend of his. The manager welcomed him back with effusion, and then made the usual remark about his changed appearance.

Ogilvie put his troublesome questions aside.

“I had an interview with you just before I went to Queensland,” he said, “and I then placed, with a special note for your instructions in case anything happened to me, a sum of money in the bank.”

“A large sum, Ogilvie – ten thousand pounds.”

“Yes, ten thousand pounds,” repeated Ogilvie. “I want to withdraw the money.”

“It is a considerable sum to withdraw at once, but as it is not on deposit you can have it.”

“I thought it only fair to give you a few hours’ notice. I shall call for it to-morrow about ten o’clock.”

“Do you wish to take it in a cheque?”

“I think not, I should prefer notes.” Ogilvie added a few more words, and then went back to his own house.

At last everything was in train. He uttered a sigh of relief. The house looked gloomy and dismantled, but for that very reason it suited his feelings. Some of the furniture had been removed to Silverbel, and the place was dusty. His study in particular looked forbidding, some ashes from the last fire ever made there still remained in the grate. He wondered if anyone had ever entered the study since he last sat there and struggled with temptation and yielded to it.

He went up to his own room, which had been hastily prepared for him, and looked around him in a forlorn way. He then quickly mounted another flight of stairs, and found himself at last in the room where his little daughter used to sleep. The moment he entered this room he was conscious of a sensation of comfort. The worldliness of all the rest of the house fell away in this sweet, simply furnished chamber. He sat down near the little empty bed, pressed his hand over his eyes, and gave himself up to thought.

Nobody knew how long he sat there. The caretaker and his wife took no notice. They were busy down in the kitchen. It mattered nothing at all to them whether Ogilvie were in the house or not. He breathed a conscious sigh of relief. He was glad to be alone, and the spirit of his little daughter seemed close to him. He had something hard to go through, and terrible agony would be his as he accomplished his task. He knew that he should have to walk through fire, and the fire would not be brief nor quickly over. Step by step his wounded feet must tread. By no other road was there redemption. He did not shirk the inevitable. On the contrary, his mind was made up.

“By no other road can I clasp her hand in the Eternity which lies beyond this present life,” he thought. “I deserve the pain and the shame, I deserve all. There are times when a man comes face to face with God. It is fearful when his God is angry with him. My God is angry – the pains of hell take hold of me.”

He walked to the window and looked out. It is doubtful if he saw much. Suddenly beside the little empty bed he fell on his knees, buried his face in his hands and a sob rose to his throat.

On the following day, shortly before one o’clock, the directors of the Lombard Deeps Company assembled in one of the big rooms of the Cannon Street Hotel. Lord Grayleigh, the Chairman, had not yet arrived. The rest of the directors sat around a long, green baize table and talked eagerly one to the other. They formed a notable gathering, including many of the astutest financiers in the city. As they sat and waited for Grayleigh to appear, they eagerly discussed the prospects of the new venture. While they talked their spirits rose, and had any outside spectator been present he would have guessed that they had already made up their minds to an enormous success.