Daddy's Girl

Ogilvie came of one of the best old families across the border, and had a modest competence of his own handed down to him from a long line of honorable ancestors. He had also inherited a certain code which he could not easily forget. He called it a code of honor, and Mrs. Ogilvie, alas! did not understand it. She reflected over the situation now, and grew restless. If Philip was really such a goose as to refuse his present chance, she would never forgive him. She would bring up to him continually the golden opportunity he had let slip, and weary his very soul. She was the sort of soft, pretty woman who could nag a man to the verge of distraction. She knew that inestimable art to perfection. She felt, as she lay on the sofa and toyed with the ribbons of her pretty and expensive teagown, that she had her weapons ready to hand. Then, with an irritated flash, she thought of the child. Of course the child was nice, handsome, and her own; Sibyl was very lucky to have at least one parent who would not spoil her. But was she not being spoiled? Were there not some things intolerable about her?

“May I come in, Mumsy, or are you too tired?” There was something in the quality of the voice at the door which caused Mrs. Ogilvie’s callous heart to beat quicker for a moment, then she said in an irritated tone —

“Oh, come in, of course; I want to speak to you.”

Sibyl entered. Nurse had changed her holland frock, and dressed the little girl in pale pink silk. The dress was very unsuitable, but it became the radiant little face and bright, large eyes, and pathetic, sweet mouth, to perfection.

Sibyl ran up to her mother, and, dropping on one knee by her side, looked up into her face.

“Now you’ll kiss me,” she said; “now you’re pleased with your own Sibyl. I am pretty, I’m beautiful, and you, darling mother, will kiss me.”

“Get up, Sib, and don’t be absurd,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; but as she spoke a warm light came into her eyes, for the child was fascinating, and just in the mood to appeal most to her mother.

“Really,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you do look nice in that dress, it fits you very well. Turn round, and let me see how it is made at the back. Ah! I told Mademoiselle Leroe to make it in that style; that little watteau back is so very becoming to small girls. Turn round now slowly, and let me get the side view. Yes, it is a pretty dress; be sure you don’t mess it. You are to come down with the other children to dessert. You had better go now, I am tired.”

“But Mummy – Mumsy!”

“Don’t call me Mummy or Mumsy, say mother. I don’t like abbreviations.”

“What’s that?” asked Sibyl, knitting her brows.

“Mummy or Mumsy are abbreviations of a very sacred name.”

“Sacred name!” said Sibyl, in a thoughtful tone. “Oh yes, I won’t call you anything but mother. Mother is most lovely.”

“Well, I hope you will be a good child, and not annoy me as you have been doing.”

“Oh, mother darling, I didn’t mean to vex you, but it was such a temptation, you know. You were never, never tempted, were you, mother? You are made so perfect that you cannot understand what temptation means. I did so long to climb the trees, and I knew you would not like me spoil my pretty frock, and Freda lent me the brown holland. When I saw you, Mums – I mean, mother – I forgot about everything else but just that I had climbed a tree, and that I had been brave, although for a minute I felt a scrap giddy, and I wanted to tell you about what I had done, my ownest, most darling mother.”

Mrs. Ogilvie sprang suddenly to her feet.

“Come here,” she said. There was a sharpness in her tone which arrested the words on Sibyl’s lips. “Look at me, take my hand, look steadily into my face. I have just five minutes to spare, and I wish to say something very grave and important, and you must listen attentively.”

“Oh, yes, mother, I am listening; what is it?”

“Look at me. Are you attending?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Mother, Freda says she will give me a Persian kitten; the Persian cat has two, such beauties, snow-white. May I have one, mother?”

“Attend to me, and stop talking. You think a great deal of me, your mother, and you call me perfect. Now show that you put me in high esteem.”

“That sounds very nice,” thought Sibyl to herself. “Mother is just in her most beautiful humor. Of course I’ll listen.”

“I wish,” continued the mother, and she turned slightly away from the child as she spoke, “I wish you to stop all that nonsense about your father and me. I wish you to understand that we are not perfect, either of us; we are just everyday, ordinary sort of people. As we happen to be your father and mother, you must obey us and do what we wish; but you make yourself, and us also, ridiculous when you talk as you do. I am perfectly sick of your poses, Sibyl.”

“Poses!” cried Sibyl; “what’s poses?”

“Oh, you are too tiresome; ask nurse to explain, or Miss Winstead, when you go home. Miss Winstead, if she is wise, will tell you that you must just turn round and go the other way. You must obey me, of course, and understand that I know the right way to train you; but you are not to talk of me as though I were an angel. I am nothing of the kind. I am an ordinary woman, with ordinary feelings and ordinary faults, and I wish you to be an ordinary little girl. I am very angry with you for your great rudeness to Lord Grayleigh. What did it mean?”

“Oh, mother! it meant – ” Sibyl swallowed something in her throat. Her mother’s speech was unintelligible; it hurt her, she did not exactly know why, but this last remark was an opening.

“Mother, I am glad you spoke of it. I could not, really and truly, help it.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Now go away. Hortense is coming to dress me for dinner. Go.”

“But, mother! one minute first, please – please.”

“Go, Sibyl, obey me.”

“It was ’cos Lord Grayleigh spoke against my – ”

“Go, Sibyl, I won’t listen to another word. I shall punish you severely if you do not obey me this instant.”

“I am going,” said the child, “but I cannot be – ”

“Go. You are coming down to dessert to-night, and you are to speak properly to Lord Grayleigh. Those are my orders. Now go.”

Hortense came in at that moment. She entered with that slight whirl which she generally affected, and which she considered truly Parisian. Somehow, in some fashion, Sibyl felt herself swept out of the room. She stood for a moment in the passage. There was a long glass at the further end, and it reflected a pink-robed little figure. The cheeks had lost their usual tender bloom, and the eyes had a bewildered expression. Sibyl rubbed her hands across them.

“I don’t understand,” she said to herself. “Perhaps I wasn’t quite pretty enough, perhaps that was the reason, but I don’t know. I think I’ll go to my new nursery and sit down and think of father. Oh, I wish mother hadn’t – of course it’s all right, and I am a silly girl, and I get worser, not better, every day, and mother knows what is best for me; but she might have let me ’splain things. I wish I hadn’t a pain here.” Sibyl touched her breast with a pathetic gesture.

“It’s ’cos of father I feel so bad, it’s ’cos they told lies of father.” She turned very slowly with the most mournful droop of her head in the direction of the apartment set aside for nurse and herself. She had thought much of this visit, and now this very first afternoon a blow had come. Her mother had told her to do a hard thing. She, Sibyl, was to be polite to Lord Grayleigh; she was to be polite to that dreadful, smiling man, with the fair hair and the keen eyes, who had spoken against her father. It was unfair, it was dreadful, to expect this of her.

“And mother would not even let me ’splain,” thought the child.

“Hullo!” cried a gay voice; “hullo! and what’s the matter with little Miss Beauty?” And Sibyl raised her eyes, with a start, to encounter the keen, frank, admiring gaze of Gus.

“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed, “aren’t we fine! I say! you’ll knock Freda and Mabel into next week, if you go on at this rate. But, come to the schoolroom; we want a game, and you can join.”

“I can’t, Gus,” replied Sibyl.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t feel like playing games.”

“You are quite white about the gills. I say! has anybody hurt you?”

“No, not exactly, Gus; but I want to be alone. I’ll come by-and-by.”

“Somebody wasn’t square with her,” thought Gus, as Sibyl turned away. “Queer little girl! But I like her all the same.”

CHAPTER V

Sibyl’s conduct was exemplary at dessert. She was quiet, she was modest, she was extremely polite. When spoken to she answered in the most correct manner. When guests smiled at her, she gave them a set smile in return. She accepted just that portion of the dessert which her mother most wished her to eat, eschewing unwholesome sweets, and partaking mostly of grapes. Especially was she polite to Lord Grayleigh, who called her to his side, and even put his arm round her waist. He wondered afterwards why she shivered when he did this. But she stood upright as a dart, and looked him full in the face with those extraordinary eyes of hers.

At last the children’s hour, as it was called, came to an end, and the four went round kissing and shaking hands with the different guests. Mrs. Ogilvie put her hand for an instant on Sibyl’s shoulder.

“I am pleased with you,” she said; “you behaved very nicely. Go to bed now.”

“Will you come and see me, Mumsy – mother, I mean – before you go to bed?”

“Oh no, child, nonsense! you must be asleep hours before then. No, this is good-night. Now go quietly.”

Sibyl did go quietly. Mrs. Ogilvie turned to her neighbor.

“That is such an absurd custom,” she said; “I must break her of it.”

“Break your little girl of what?” he asked. “She is a beautiful child,” he added. “I congratulate you on having such a charming daughter.”

“I have no doubt she will make a very pretty woman,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie, “and I trust she will have a successful career; but what I was alluding to now was her insane wish that I should go and say good-night to her. Her father spoils that child dreadfully. He insists on her staying up to our late dinner, which in itself is quite against all my principles, and then will go up to her room every evening when he happens to be at home. She lies awake for him at night, and they talk sentiment to each other. Very bad, is it not; quite out of date.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Rochester; “if it is an old custom it seems to me it has good in it.” As he spoke he thought again of the eager little face, the pathetic soft eyes, the pleading in the voice. Until within this last half-hour he had not known of Sibyl’s existence; but from this instant she was to come into his heart and bear fruit.

Meanwhile the child went straight to her room.

“Won’t you come to the schoolroom now?” asked Gus in a tone of remonstrance.

“No; mother said I was to go to bed,” answered Sibyl.

“How proper and good you have turned,” cried Mabel.

“Good-night,” said Sibyl. She could be quite dignified when she pleased. She allowed the girls to kiss her, and she shook hands with Gus, and felt grown-up, and, on the whole, notwithstanding the unsatisfied feeling at her heart, rather pleased with herself. She entered the room she called the nursery, and it looked cheerful and bright. Old nurse had had the fire lit, and was sitting by it. A kettle steamed on the hob, and nurse’s cup and saucer and teapot, and some bread and butter and cakes, were spread on the table. But as Sibyl came in the sense of satisfaction which she had felt for a moment or two dropped away from her like a mantle, and she only knew that the ache at her heart was worse than ever. She sat down quietly, and did not speak, but gazed fixedly into the fire.

“What is it, pet?” nurse said. “Is anything the matter?”

“No,” answered Sibyl. “Nursie, can I read the Bible a bit?”

“Sakes alive!” cried nurse, for Sibyl had never been remarkable for any religious tendency, “to be sure, my darling,” she answered. “I never go from home without my precious Bible. It is the one my mother gave me when I was a little girl. I’ll fetch it for you, dearie.”

“Thank you,” replied Sibyl.

Nurse returned, and the much-read, much-worn Bible was placed reverently in Sibyl’s hands.

“Now, my little darling,” said nurse, “you look quite white. You’ll just read a verse or two, and then you’ll go off to your bed.”

“I want to find a special verse,” said Sibyl. “When I have read it I will go to bed.” She knitted her brows and turned the pages in a puzzled, anxious way.

“What’s fretting you, dear? I know the Bible, so to speak, from end to end. Can old nursie help you in any way?”

“I know the verse is somewhere, but I cannot find the place. I remember reading it, and it has come back to me to-night.”

“What is it, dear?”

“‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.’”

“Oh, yes, love,” answered nurse promptly, “that’s in the Epistle of St. James, fourth chapter, sixth verse. I learned the whole of the Epistle for my mother when I was young, and I have never forgotten a word of it. Here it is, dear.”

“But what are you fretting your head over that verse for?” asked the puzzled old woman; “there’s some that I could find for you a deal more suitable to little ladies like yourself. There’s a beautiful verse, for instance, which says, ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord.’ That means all those in charge of you, dear, nurses and governesses and all. I heard its meaning explained once very clear, and that was how it was put.”

“There is not a bit about nurses and governesses in the Bible,” said Sibyl, who had no idea of being imposed upon, although she was in trouble. “Never mind that other verse now, nursie, it’s not that I’m thinking of, it’s the one you found about ‘God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the humble.’ It seems to ’splain things.”

“What things, dear?”

“Why, about mother. Nursie, isn’t my mother quite the very humblest woman in all the world?”

“Oh, my goodness me, no!” exclaimed the woman under her breath. “I wouldn’t remark it, my dear,” she said aloud.

“That’s ’cos you know so very little. You can’t never guess what my ownest mother said to me to-day, and I’m not going to tell you, only that verse comforts me, and I understand now.”

Sibyl got up and asked nurse to take off her pink frock. She felt quite cheerful and happy again. She knelt down in her white nightdress and said her prayers. She always prayed for her father and mother in a peculiar way. She never asked God to give them anything, they had already got all that heart could wish. They were beautiful in person, they were lovely in character, they were perfect in soul. She could only thank God for them. So she thanked God now as usual.

“Thank You, Jesus, for giving me father and mother,” said Sibyl, “and in especial for making my mother just so truly perfect that she is humble. She does not like me to think too much of her. It is because she is humble, and You give grace to the humble. It is a great comfort to me, Jesus, to know that, because I could not quite understand my mother afore dinner. Good-night, Jesus, I am going to sleep now; I am quite happy.”

Sibyl got into bed, closed her eyes, and was soon sound asleep.

On the following Monday Lord Grayleigh went to town, and there he had a rather important interview with Philip Ogilvie.

“I failed to understand your letter,” he said, “and have come to you for an explanation.”

Ogilvie was looking worried and anxious.

“I thought my meaning plain enough,” he replied, “but as you are here, I will answer you; and first, I want to put a question to you. Why do you wish me to be the assayer?”

“For many reasons; amongst others, because I wish to do you a good turn. For your position you are not too well off. This will mean several thousands a year to you, if the vein is as rich as we hope it will be. The alluvial we know is rich. It has washed at five ounces to the ton.”

“But if there should not happen to be a rich vein beneath?” queried Ogilvie, and as he spoke he watched his companion narrowly.

Lord Grayleigh shrugged his shoulders. The action was significant.

“I see,” cried Ogilvie. He was silent for a moment, then he sprang to his feet. “I have regarded you as my friend for some time, Grayleigh, and there have been moments when I have been proud of your acquaintanceship, but in the name of all that is honorable, and all that is virtuous, why will you mix up a pretended act of benevolence to me with – you know what it means – a fraudulent scheme? You are determined that there shall be a rich vein below the surface. In plain words, if there is not, you want a false assay of the Lombard Deeps. That is the plain English of it, isn’t it?”

“Pooh! my dear Ogilvie, you use harsh words. Fraudulent! What does the world – our world I mean – consist of? Those who make money, and those who lose it. It is a great competition of skill – a mere duel of wits. All is fair in love, war, and speculation.”

“Your emendation of that old proverb may be fin de siècle, but it does not suit my notions,” muttered Ogilvie, sitting down again.

Grayleigh looked keenly at him.

“You will be sorry for this,” he said; “it means much to you. You would be quite safe, you know that.”

“And what of the poor country parson, the widow, the mechanic? I grant they are fools; but – ”

“What is the matter with you?” said Lord Grayleigh; “you never were so scrupulous.”

“I don’t know that I am scrupulous now. I shall be very glad to assay the mine for you, if I may give you a – ”

“We need not enter into that,” said Grayleigh, rising; “you have already put matters into words which had better never have been uttered. I will ask you to reconsider this: it is a task too important to decline without weighing all the pros and cons. You shall have big pay for your services; big pay, you understand.”

“And it is that which at once tempts and repels me,” said Ogilvie. Then he paused, and said abruptly, “How is Sibyl? Have you seen much of her?”

“Your little daughter? I saw her twice. Once, when she was very dirty, and rather rude to me, and a second time, when she was the perfection of politeness and good manners.”

“Sibyl is peculiar,” said Ogilvie, and his eyes gleamed with a flash of the same light in them which Sibyl’s wore at intervals.

“She is a handsome child, it is a pity she is your only one, Ogilvie.”

“Not at all,” answered Ogilvie; “I never wish for another, she satisfies me completely.”

“Well, to turn to the present matter,” said Lord Grayleigh; “you will reconsider your refusal?”

“I would rather not.”

“But if I as a personal favor beg you to do so.”

“There is not the slightest doubt that the pay tempts me,” said Ogilvie; “it would be a kindness on your part to close the matter now finally, to relieve me from temptation. But suppose I were to – to yield, what would the shareholders say?”

“They would be managed. The shareholders will expect to pay the engineer who assays the mine for them handsomely.”

Ogilvie stood in a dubious attitude, Grayleigh went up and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“I will assume,” he said, “that you get over scruples which after all may have no foundation, for the mine may be all that we wish it to be. What I want to suggest is this. Someone must go to Australia to assay the Lombard Deeps. If you will not take the post we must get someone else to step into your shoes. The new claim was discovered by the merest accident, and the reports state it to be one of the richest that has ever been panned out. Of course that is as it may be. We will present you, if you give a good assay, with five hundred shares in the new syndicate. You can wait until the shares go up, and then sell out. You will clear thousands of pounds. We will also pay your expenses and compensate you handsomely for the loss of your time. This is Monday; we want you to start on Saturday. Give me your decision on Wednesday morning. I won’t take a refusal now.”

Ogilvie was silent; his face was very white, and his lips were compressed together. Soon afterward the two men parted.

Lord Grayleigh returned to Grayleigh Manor by a late train, and Ogilvie went back to his empty house. Amongst other letters which awaited him was one with a big blot on the envelope. This blot was surrounded by a circle in red ink, and was evidently of great moment to the writer. The letter was addressed to “Philip Ogilvie, Esq.,” in a square, firm, childish hand, and the great blot stood a little away from the final Esquire. It gave the envelope an altogether striking and unusual appearance. The flap was sealed with violet wax, and had an impression on it which spelt Sibyl. Ogilvie, when he received this letter, took it up tenderly, looked at the blot on the cover of the envelope, glanced behind him in a shamefaced way, pressed his lips to the violet seal which contained his little daughter’s name, then sitting down in his chair, he opened the envelope.

Sibyl was very good at expressing her feelings in words, but as yet she was a poor scribe, and her orthography left much to be desired. Her letter was somewhat short, and ran as follows: —

“Daddy Dear, – Here’s a blot to begin, and the blot means a kiss. I will put sum more at the end of the letter. Pleas kiss all the kisses for they com from the verry botom of my hart. I have tried Daddy to be good cos of you sinse I left home, but I am afraid I have been rather norty. Mother gets more purfect evry day. She is bewtiful and humbel. Mother said she wasn’t purfect but she is, isn’t she father? I miss you awful, speshul at nights, cos mother thinks its good for me not to lie awake for her to come and kiss me. But you never think that and you always com, and I thank God so much for having gived you to me father. Your Sibyl.”

“Father, what does ‘scroopolus’ mean? I want to know speshul. – Sib.”

The letter finished with many of these strange irregular blots, which Ogilvie kissed tenderly, and then folded up the badly-spelt little epistle, and slipped it into his pocket-book. Then he drew his chair forward to where his big desk stood, and, leaning his elbows on it, passed his hands through his thick, short hair. He was puzzled as he had never been in all his life before. Should he go, or should he stay? Should he yield to temptation, and become rich and prosperous, or should he retain his honor, and face the consequences? He knew well – he had seen them coming for a long time – the consequences he was about to face would not be pleasant. They spelt very little short of ruin. He suddenly opened a drawer, and took from its depths a sheaf of accounts which different tradespeople had sent in to his wife. Mrs. Ogilvie was hopelessly reckless and extravagant. Money in her hand was like water; it flowed away as she touched it. Her jeweler’s bill alone amounted to thousands of pounds. If Ogilvie accepted the offer now made to him he might satisfy these pressing creditors, and not deprive Sibyl of her chance of an income by-and-by. Sibyl! As the thought of her face came to him, he groaned inwardly. He wished sometimes that God had never given him such a treasure.

“I am unworthy of my little Angel,” he said to himself. Then he started up and began to pace the room. “And yet I would not be without her for all the wealth in the world, for all the greatness and all the fame,” he cried; “she is more to me than everything else on earth. If ever she finds out what I really am, I believe I shall go raving mad. I must keep a straight front, must keep as clean as I can for Sibyl’s sake. O God, help me to be worthy of her!”

He read the badly-spelt, childish letter once again, and then he thrust the bills out of sight and thought of other liabilities which he himself had incurred, till his thoughts returned to the tempting offer made to him.

“Shall I risk it?” he said to himself. “Shall I risk the chance of the mine being really good, and go to Australia and see if it is as rich as the prospectuses claim it to be. But suppose it is not? Well, in that case I am bound to make it appear so. Five ounces of gold to every ton; it seems bona fide enough. It it is bona fide, why should not I have my share of the wealth? It is as legitimate a way of earning money as any other,” and he swerved again in the direction of Lord Grayleigh’s offer.

Lord Grayleigh had given him until Wednesday to decide.