Chapter 22

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_ CHAPTER XXII

"Philip!" said Mrs. Ogilvie, as he re-entered pretty Silverbel about four o'clock that afternoon, "I have just had an extraordinary telegram from our lawyer, Mr. Acland."

Ogilvie looked full at her but did not speak.

"How strangely tired and worn you look," she replied; "what can be the matter with you? Sometimes, when I think of you and the extraordinary way in which you are acting, I come to the conclusion that your brain cannot be right."

"You are wrong there, Mildred. There was a time when not only my brain but all my moral qualities were affected, but I believe these things are put right at last."

He gave a hollow laugh.

"I am enjoying, for the first time for many months, the applause of an approving conscience," he continued; "that is something to live for."

"Have you done anything rash, Philip?"

"I have done something which my conscience justifies. Now, what about the telegram from Acland?"

"He is coming here this evening to have a talk with me. What can he have to say?"

"Doubtless his visit is accounted for by an interview I had with him yesterday. I asked him to explain matters to you, as you and he conducted the business with regard to this place together. Mildred, Silverbel must be given up."

Her face grew red with passion, she felt inclined to stamp her foot.

"It cannot be," she cried, "we have already paid two thousand pounds deposit."

"That money was returned by me to Acland yesterday. He has doubtless heard of another purchaser. It will be a lucky thing for us, Mildred, if he takes the furniture as well as the place. Pray don't keep me now."

She gave a sharp cry and flung herself into a chair. Ogilvie paused as if to speak to her, then changed his mind and went slowly upstairs. On the landing outside Sibyl's door he paused for a moment, struggling with himself.

"The bitterness of death lies before me," he muttered, for he knew that difficult as was the task which he had accomplished that morning at the Cannon Street Hotel, terrible as was the moment when he stood before his fellow men and branded himself as a felon, these things were nothing, nothing at all to that which now lay before him, for God demanded something more of the man--he must open the eyes of the child who worshipped him. The thought of this awful task almost paralyzed him; his heart beat with heavy throbs and the moisture stood on his forehead. One look at Sibyl, however, lying whiter and sweeter than ever in her little bed, restored to him that marvellous self-control which love alone can give.

Nurse was in the room, and it was evident that nurse had been having a bout of crying. Her eyelids were red. She turned when she saw her master, went up to him and shook her head.

"Leave us for a little, nurse," said Ogilvie.

She went away at once.

Ogilvie now approached the bed, dropped into a chair and took one of Sibyl's hands.

"You have been a long time away, father," said the child.

"I have, my darling, I had a great deal to do."

"Business, father?"

"Yes, dearest, important business."

"You don't look well," said Sibyl. She gazed at him, apprehensively, her blue eyes opened wide, and a spasm of pain flitted across her brow.

"I have had a hard time," said the man, "and now, my little girl, I have come to you, to you, my dearest, to perform the hardest task of my life."

"To me, father? The hardest task of your life?"

"Yes, my little daughter, I have something to say to you."

"Something bad?" asked Sibyl.

"Something very bad."

Sibyl shut her eyes for a minute, then she opened them and looked steadily at her father, her childish lips became slightly compressed, it was as if a world of strength suddenly entered her little frame, as though, dying as she was, she was bracing herself to endure.

"I am very sorry," she said. "I love you so much. What is it, darlingest father?"

"Let me hold your hand," he said. "It will be easier for me to tell you something then."

She gave it to him. He clasped it in both of his, bent forward, and began to speak.

"At the moment, little Sibyl, when the cablegram which told me of your accident was put into my hand, I had just done something so wicked, so terrible, that God Himself, God Almighty, rose up and smote me."

"I don't understand," said the child.

"I will explain. The cablegram told me that you were ill, very ill. I wanted to undo what I had done, but it was too late. I hurried back to you. God came with me on board the ship. God came, and He was angry; I had a terrible time."

"Still I do not understand," repeated Sibyl.

"Let me speak, my dear girl. I reached home, and I saw you, and then a temptation came to me. I wanted us both, you and I, to be happy together for two days. I knew that at the end of that time I must open your eyes."

"Oh, we were happy!" said the child.

"Yes, for those two days we had peace, and we were, as you say, happy. I put away from me the thought of that which was before me, but I knew that it must come. It has come, Sibyl. The peace has been changed to storm; and now, little girl, I am in the midst of the tempest; the agony I feel in having to tell you this no words can explain."

"I wish you would try and 'splain, all the same," said Sibyl, in a weak, very weak voice.

"I will, I must; it is wrong of me to torture you."

"It's only 'cos of you yourself," she murmured.

"Listen, my darling. You have often given thoughts to the Lombard Deeps Mine?"

"Oh, yes." She raised herself a little on her pillow, and tried to speak more cheerfully. "I have thought of it, the mine full, full of gold, and all the people so happy!"

Her voice grew quite animated.

"Any special people, dearest?"

"So many," she replied. "I told Lord Grayleigh, and he put their names in his note-book. There's Mr. and Mrs. Holman, the people who keep the toy-shop; she has a hundred pounds, and she wants to buy some of the gold."

"The old pair I saw coming to see you yesterday? Are they the Holmans? Yes, I remember they told me that was their name."

"They came, father. I love 'em so much; and there's Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen, they want to marry. It's a secret, but you may know. And nurse, she wants some of the gold, 'cos her eyes ache, and you sent a cablegram, father, and said the gold was there; it's all right."

"No, Sibyl, it is all wrong; the gold is not in the mine."

"But you sent a cablegram."

"I did."

"And you said it was there."

"I did."

She paused and looked at him; her eyes grew full of pain; the pain reached agony point.

"You said it?"

"I did worse," said the man. He stood up, folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at her. "I did worse, and to tell you is my punishment. I not only sent that cablegram, but I wrote an account of the mine, a false account, false as my false heart was, Sibyl, and I signed it with my name, for the gold I said was in the mine was not there."

"Why did you do it, father?"

"Because I was a scoundrel."

"What's that?" asked Sibyl.

"A bad man."

"No," said the child, "no, you was always my most perfect----"

"You thought so, darling; you were wrong. Even when I went to Queensland I was far from that. I could not bid you good-by before I went, because of the sin which I was about to commit. I committed the sin, I dropped away from honor, I let goodness go. I did that which could never, never, under any circumstances, be worth doing, for there is nothing worth evil, there is nothing worth sin, I see it now."

"Then you are sorry?"

"I have repented," he cried; "my God, I have repented," and he fell on his knees and covered his face. For the child's sake he kept back the sobs which rose to his throat.

Sibyl looked at the bent head, at the dark hair already sprinkled with gray. She lay quite still, there was not the slightest doubt that the shock was great. Ogilvie waited, longing, wondering if the little hand would touch his head, if the child would forgive him.

"She is so holy, so heavenly herself," he murmured; "is it possible that she can forgive? It must be a cruel shock to her."

The little, white hand did not touch him. There was complete stillness in the room. At last he raised his eyes and looked at her. She looked steadily back at him.

"And so you was never perfect?" she said.

"Never."

"And was mother never perfect?"

"Not as you think of perfection, Sibyl, but we need not talk of her now. I have sinned far more deeply than your poor mother has ever done."

The puzzled expression grew deeper on Sibyl's face. An old memory of her mother returned to her. She saw again the scene, and recalled her mother's words, the words she had overheard, and which the mother had denied. She was quite still for a full moment, the little clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, then she said slowly:

"And Lord Jesus, isn't He perfect?"

Ogilvie started when he heard her words.

"Aye, He is perfect," he answered, "you are safe in trusting to Him. He is all that your dreams and all that your longings desire."

She smiled very faintly.

"Why did He come into the world?" was her next question.

"Don't you know that old story? Has no one told you?"

"Won't you tell me now, father?"

"The old story was that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners."

"Sinners," repeated Sibyl, "'cos He loved 'em?"

"Would He have done that for anything else, do you think?"

"I 'spect not," she replied, and again the faint smile filled her eyes.

"Then He loves you," she said, after a moment. "He came from heaven 'cos of you."

"It seems like it, my little girl, and yet I cannot bring myself to believe that He can love me."

"Don't speak to me, father, for a minute; go away, and look out of the window, and come back when I call you."

He rose at once, crossed the room, and stood looking out. In a short time the feeble voice called him back.

"Father!" There was a change in the face, the look of pain had vanished, the sweet eyes were as peaceful as ever, and more clearly than ever did that amazing knowledge and comprehension fill them, which never belonged to this earth.

"Kneel down, father," said Sibyl.

He knelt.

Now she laid her little hand in his, and now she smiled at him, and now, as if she were strong and well again, she stroked his hand with her other hand, and at last she feebly raised the hand and pressed it to her lips.

"I am loving you so much," she said, "same as Jesus loves you, I think."

Then Ogilvie did give a sob. He checked it as it rose to his throat.

"It is all right," she continued, "I love you. Jesus is perfect ... and He loves you."

"But do you, Sibyl, really love me the same as ever?" he asked, and there was a note of incredulity in his voice.

"Seems to me I love you more'n ever" was her answer, and the next instant her soft arms encircled his neck, and he felt her kisses on his cheek.

But suddenly, without warning, there came a change. There was a catch in the eager, quick breath, the arms relaxed their hold, the little head fell back on the pillow, the face almost rosy a moment back was now white, but the eyes were radiant and full of a wonderful, astonished light.

"Why," cried Sibyl, "it's Lord Jesus! He has come. He is here, looking at me." She gazed toward the foot of the bed, her eyes were raised slightly upward each moment the ecstatic expression grew and grew in their depths.

"Oh, my beautiful Lord Jesus," she whispered. "Oh, take me." She tried to raise her arms and her eyes were fixed on a vision which Ogilvie could not see. There was just an instant of absolute stillness, then the clear voice spoke again.

"Take me, Lord Jesus Christ, but first, afore we go, kiss father, and tell him you love him."

The eager lips were still, but the light, too wonderful for this mortal life, continued to fill the eyes.

It seemed to Ogilvie that great wings encircled him, that he was wrapped in an infinite peace. Then it seemed also as if a kiss sweet beyond all sweetness brushed his lips.

The next instant all was cold and lonely. _

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