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Daddy's Girl, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 19 |
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_ 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----" "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. _ |
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