Sibyl skipped down to the drawing-room with her spirits brimful of
happiness. She opened the door wide and danced in.
"Here I come," she cried, "here I come, buttercups and daisies and
violets and me." She looked from one parent to the other, held out her
flowing short skirts with each dimpled hand, and danced across the
room.
Mrs. Ogilvie had tears in her eyes; she had just come to the
sentimental part of her quarrel. At sight of the child she rose
hastily, and walked to the window. Philip Ogilvie went down the room,
put both his hands around Sibyl's waist, and lifted her to a level
with his shoulders.
"What a fairy-like little girl this is!" he cried.
"You are Spring come to cheer us up."
"I am glad," whispered Sibyl; "but let me down, please, father, I want
to kiss mother."
Mr. Ogilvie dropped her to the ground. She ran up to her mother.
"Father says I am Spring, look at me," she said, and she gazed into
the beautiful, somewhat sullen face of her parent.
Mrs. Ogilvie had hoped that Sibyl would not notice her tears, but
Sibyl, gentle as she looked, had the eyes of a hawk.
"Something is fretting my ownest mother," she whispered under her
breath, and then she took her mother's soft hand and covered it with
kisses. After kissing it, she patted it, and then she returned to her
father's side.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ogilvie knew why, but as soon as Sibyl entered
the room it seemed ridiculous for them to quarrel. Mrs. Ogilvie turned
with an effort, said something kind to her husband, he responded
courteously, then the dinner gong sounded, and the three entered the
dining-room.
It was one of the customs of the house that Sibyl, when they dined
alone, should always sit with her parents during this hour. Mrs.
Ogilvie objected to the plan, urging that it was very bad for the
child. But Ogilvie thought otherwise, and notwithstanding all the
mother's objections the point was carried. A high chair was placed for
Sibyl next her father, and she occupied it evening after evening,
nibbling a biscuit from the dessert, and airing her views in a
complacent way on every possible subject under the sun.
"I call Miss Winstead crosspatch now," she said on this occasion. "She
is more cranky than you think. She is, really, truly, father."
"You must not talk against your governess, Sibyl," said her mother
from the other end of the table.
"Oh, let her speak out to us, my dear," said the father. "What was
Miss Winstead cross about to-day, Sibyl?"
"Spelling, as usual," said Sibyl briefly, "but more special 'cos Lord
Jesus made me pretty."
"Hush!" said the mother again.
Sibyl glanced at her father. There was a twinkle of amusement in his
eyes which he could scarcely keep back.
"My dear," he said, addressing his wife, "do you think Miss Winstead
is just the person----"
"I beg of you, Philip," interrupted the mother, "not to speak of the
child's teacher before her face. Sibyl, I forbid you to make unkind
remarks."
"It's 'cos they're both so perfect," thought Sibyl, "but it's hard on
me not to be able to 'splain things. If I can't, what is to be done?"
She munched her biscuit sorrowfully, and looked with steadfast eyes
across the room. She supposed she would have to endure Miss Winstead,
crosspatch as she was, and she did not enjoy the task which mother and
Lord Jesus had set her.
The footman was in the act of helping Mr. Ogilvie to champagne, and
Sibyl paused in her thoughts to watch the frothy wine as it filled
the glass.
"Is it nice?" she inquired.
"Very nice, Sibyl. Would you like to taste it?"
"No, thank you, father. Nurse says if you drink wine when you're a
little girl, you grow up to be drunk as a hog."
"My dear Sibyl," cried the mother, "I really must speak to nurse. What
a disgraceful thing to say!"
"Let us turn the subject," said the father.
Sibyl turned it with a will.
"I 'spect I ought to 'fess to you," she said. "I was cross myself
to-day. Seems to me I'm not getting a bit perfect. I stamped my foot
when Miss Winstead made me write all my spelling over again. Father,
is it necessary for a little girl to spell long words?"
"You would not like to put wrong spelling into your letters to me,
would you?" was the answer.
"I don't think I'd much care," said Sibyl, with a smile. "You'd know
what I meant, wouldn't you, whether I spelt the words right or not?
All the same," she added, "I'll spell right if you wish it--I mean,
I'll try."
"That's a good girl. Now tell me what else you did naughty?"
"When Sibyl talks about her sins, would it not be best for her to do
so in private?" said the mother again.
"But this is private," said Mr. Ogilvie, "only her father and mother."
Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at a footman who stood not far off, and who was
in vain endeavoring to suppress a smile.
"I washed my doll's clothes, although nurse told me not," continued
Sibyl, "and I made a mess in the night nursery. I spilt the water and
wetted my pinny, and I _would_ open the window, although it was
raining. I ran downstairs, too, and asked Watson to give me a macaroon
biscuit. He wasn't to blame--Watson wasn't."
The unfortunate footman whose name was now introduced hastily turned
his back, but his ears looked very red as he arranged some glasses on
the sideboard.
"Father," whispered Sibyl, "do you know that Watson has got a
sweetheart, and----"
"Hush! hush!" said Mr. Ogilvie, "go on with your confessions."
"They're rather sad, aren't they, father? Now I come to think of it,
they are very, very sad. I didn't do one right thing to-day 'cept to
make myself pretty. Miss Winstead was so angry, and so was nurse, but
when I am with them I don't mind a bit being naughty. I wouldn't be a
flabby good girl for all the world."
"Oh, Angel, what is to become of you?" said her father.
Sibyl looked full at him, her eyes sparkled, then a curious change
came into them. He was good--perfect; it was lovely to think of it,
but she felt sure that she could never be perfect like that. All the
same, she did not want to pain him. She slipped her small hand into
his, and presently she whispered:
"I'll do anything in all the world to please you and mother and Lord
Jesus."
"That is right," said the father, who gave a swift thought at the
moment to the temptation which he knew was already on its way, and
which he would never yield to but for the sake of the child.
The rest of the dinner proceeded without many more remarks, and
immediately afterwards Sibyl kissed both her parents and went
upstairs.
"Good-night, little Spring," said her father, and there was a note of
pain in his voice.
She gave him an earnest hug, and then she whispered--
"Is it 'cos I'm a wicked girl you're sad?"
"No," he answered, "you are not wicked, my darling; you are the best,
the sweetest in all the world."
"Oh, no, father," answered Sibyl, "that is not true. I am not the best
nor the sweetest, and I wouldn't like to be too good, 'cept for you.
Good-night, darling father."
Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie returned to the drawing-room.
"You spoil that child," said the wife, "but it is on a par with
everything else you do. You have no perception of what is right. I
don't pretend to be a good mother, but I don't talk nonsense to Sibyl.
She ought not to speak about nurse and governess before servants, and
it is disgraceful of her to drag the footman and his concerns into the
conversation at dinner. She ought not, also, to boast about doing
naughty things."
"I wish you would leave the child alone," said Ogilvie in an annoyed
voice; "she is good enough for me, little pet, and I would not have
her altered for the world. But now, Mildred, to return to our cause of
dissension before dinner, we must get this matter arranged. What do
you mean to do about your invitation to Grayleigh Manor?"
"I have given you my views on that subject, Philip; I am going."
"I would much rather you did not."
"I am sorry." Mrs. Ogilvie shrugged her shoulders. "I am willing to
please you in all reasonable matters; this is unreasonable, therefore
I shall take my own way."
"It is impossible for me to accompany you."
"I can live without you for a few days, and I shall take the child."
"Sibyl! No, I do not wish it."
"I fear you must put up with it. I have written to say that Sibyl and
I will go down on Saturday."
Ogilvie, who had been seated, now rose, and went to the window. He
looked out with a dreary expression on his face.
"You know as well as I do the reasons why it would be best for you not
to go to Grayleigh Manor at present," he said. "You can easily write
to give an excuse. Remember, we were both asked, and the fact that I
cannot leave town is sufficient reason for you to decline."
"I am going," said Mrs. Ogilvie. Her eyes, which were large and dark,
flashed with defiance. Ogilvie looked at her with a frown between his
brows.
"Is that your last word?" he inquired.
"It is, I go on Saturday. If you were not so disagreeable and
disobliging you could easily come with me, but you never do anything
to please me."
"Nor you to please me, Mildred," he was about to say, but he
restrained himself. After a pause he said gently, "There is one thing
that makes the situation almost unbearable."
"And what is that?" she asked.
"The attitude of little Sibyl toward us both. She thinks us--Mildred,
she thinks us perfect. What will happen to the child when her eyes are
opened?"
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was Mrs. Ogilvie's
flippant remark. "But that attitude is much encouraged by you. You
make her morbid and sensitive."
"Morbid! Sibyl morbid! There never was a more open-hearted, frank,
healthy creature. Did you not hear her say at dinner that she would
not be a flabby good girl for anything? Now, I must tell you that
perhaps wrong as that speech was, it rejoiced my heart."
"And it sickened me," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "You do everything in your
power to make her eccentric. Now, I don't wish to have an eccentric
daughter. I wish to have a well brought up girl, who will be good
while she is young, speak properly, not make herself in any way
remarkable, learn her lessons, and make a successful _debut_ in
Society, all in due course."
"With a view, doubtless, to a brilliant marriage," added the husband,
bitterly.
"I am going to knock all of this nonsense out of Sibyl," was his
wife's answer, "and I mean to begin it when we get to Grayleigh
Manor."
Mrs. Ogilvie had hardly finished her words before an angry bang at the
drawing-room door told her that her husband had left her.
Ogilvie went to his smoking-room at the other end of the hall. There
he paced restlessly up and down. His temples were beating, and the
pain at his heart was growing worse.
The postman's ring was heard, and the footman, Watson, entered with a
letter.
Ogilvie had expected this letter, and he knew what its purport would
be. He only glanced at the writing, threw it on the table near, and
resumed his walk up and down.
"It is the child," he thought. "She perplexes me and she tempts me.
Never was there a sweeter decoy duck to the verge of ruin. Poor little
innocent white Angel! Her attitude toward her mother and me is
sometimes almost maddening. Mildred wants to take that little innocent
life and mould it after her own fashion. But, after all, am I any
better than Mildred? If I yield to this"--he touched the letter with
his hand--"I shall sweep in gold, and all money anxieties will be laid
to rest. Little Sib will be rich by-and-by. This is a big thing, and
if I do it I shall see my way to clearing off those debts which
Mildred's extravagance, and doubtless my own inclination, have caused
me to accumulate. Whatever happens Sibyl will be all right; and yet--I
don't care for wealth, but Mildred does, and the child will be better
for money. Money presents a shield between a sensitive heart like
Sibyl's and the world. Yes, I am tempted. Sibyl tempts me."
He thrust the letter into a drawer, locked the drawer, put the key in
his pocket, and ran up to Sibyl's nursery. She was asleep, and there
was no one else in the room. The blinds were down at the windows, and
the nursery, pretty, dainty, sweet, and fresh, was in shadow.
Ogilvie stepped softly across the room, and drew up the blind. The
moonlight now came in, and shed a silver bar of light across the
child's bed. Sibyl lay with her golden hair half covering the pillow,
her hands and arms flung outside the bedclothes.
"Good-night, little darling," said her father. He bent over her, and
pressed a light kiss upon her cheek. Feather touch as it was, it
aroused the child. She opened her big blue eyes.
"Oh, father, is that you?" she cried in a voice of rapture.
"Yes, it is I. I came to wish you good-night."
"You are good, you never forget," said Sibyl. She clasped her arms
round his neck. "I went to bed without saying my prayers. May I say
them now to you?"
"Not for worlds," it was the man's first impulse to remark, but he
checked himself. "Of course, dear," he said.
Sibyl raised herself to a kneeling posture. She clasped her soft arms
round her father's neck.
"Pray God forgive me for being naughty to-day," she began, "and pray
God make me better to-morrow, 'cos it will please my darlingest father
and mother; and I thank you, God, so much for making them good, very
good, and without sin. Pray God forgive Sibyl, and try to make her
better.
"Now, father, you're pleased," continued the little girl. "It was very
hard to say that, because really, truly, I don't want to be better,
but I'll try hard if it pleases you."
"Yes, Sibyl, try hard," said her father, "try very hard to be good.
Don't let goodness go. Grasp it tight with both hands and never let it
go. So may God indeed help you." Ogilvie said these words in a
strained voice. Then he covered her up in bed, drew down the blinds,
and left her.
"He's fretted; it's just 'cos the world is so wicked, and 'cos I'm not
as good as I ought to be," thought the child. A moment later she had
fallen asleep with a smile on her face.
Ogilvie went to his club. There he wrote a short letter. It ran as
follows:--
"MY DEAR GRAYLEIGH,--
"Your offer was not unexpected. I thought it over even
before it came, and I have considered it since. Although I
am fully aware of the money advantages it holds out to me I
have decided to decline it. Frankly, I cannot undertake to
assay the Lombard Deeps Gold Mine, although your offer has
been a great temptation. No doubt you will find another man
more suited for your purpose.
"Yours sincerely,
"PHILIP OGILVIE."
It was between one and two that same night that Ogilvie let himself in
with his latchkey.
His wife had been to one or two receptions, and had not yet gone to
bed. She was standing in the hall, looking radiant as he had seldom
seen her. She was dressed beautifully, and her hair and neck were
covered with diamonds.
"What," he cried, "up still, Mildred? You ought to be in bed."
He did not give her any glance of admiration, beautiful as she
appeared. He shivered slightly with a movement which she did not
notice as she stood before him, the lamplight falling all over her
lovely dress and figure.
"I am so glad you have come back, Phil," she said. "I shall sleep
better now that I have seen you. I hear that Lord Grayleigh has
offered you the post of engineer on the board of the Lombard Deeps
Mine Company."
Ogilvie did not answer. After a moment's pause he said in a sullen
tone--
"Had you not better go to bed? It is much too late for you to be up."
"What does that matter? I am far too excited to sleep, and it is wrong
of you to keep things of moment from your wife. This offer means a
large addition to our income. Why, Phil, Phil, we can buy a country
place now; we can do, oh! so many things. We can pay those terrible
debts that worry you. What is the matter? Aren't you pleased? Why do
you frown at me? And you are pale, are you ill?"
"Come into my smoking-room," he said, gravely. He took her hand and,
drawing her in, switched on the electric light. Then he turned his
wife round and looked full at her.
"This will make a great difference in our position," she said. Her
eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were flushed, her pearly teeth showed
between her parted lips.
"What do you mean by our position?" he said.
"You know perfectly well that we have not money enough to keep up this
house; it is a struggle from first to last."
"And yet I earn close on six thousand a year, Mildred. Have you never
considered that you are the person who makes it a struggle?"
"It is impossible; impossible to manage," she said, petulantly.
"It is, when you buy all these worthless baubles"--he touched her
diamonds, and then he started away from her. "Why you should saddle
yourself and me with debts almost impossible to meet for the sake of
these is beyond my comprehension; but if you really do want a fresh
toy in the way of an ornament to-morrow you have but to order it--that
is, in moderation."
"Ah! I knew you had accepted," she said, making a quick dancing
movement with her small feet. "Now I am happy; we can have a place if
possible on the river. I have always longed to live close to the
Thames. It is most unfashionable not to have a country seat, and the
child will be well off by-and-by. I was told to-night by a City man
who is to be one of the directors of the new company, that if you are
clever you can make a cool forty thousand pounds out of this business.
He says your name is essential to float the thing with the public."
"You know, perhaps, what all this means?" said Ogilvie, after a pause.
"Why do you speak in that tone, quite with the Sibyl air?"
"Don't dare to mention the child's name at a moment like this. I just
wish to tell you, Mildred, in a few words, what it would mean to the
world at large if I assayed the Lombard Deeps Gold Mine."
"Oh, your business terms do so puzzle me," she answered. "I declare I
am getting sleepy." Mrs. Ogilvie yawned slightly.
"It would be better if you went to bed, but as you are here I shall
put your mind at rest. If I accepted Grayleigh's offer----"
"If! But you have done so, of course you have."
"If I do, my name as engineer to the company will cause many people to
buy shares. Now, Mildred, I am not sure of the Lombard Deeps Gold
Mine. I know more about this business than I can explain to you, and
you have a tongue, and women cannot keep secrets."
"As usual, you taunt me," she said, "but what does that matter? I
could bear even an insult from you to-night, I am so excited and so
pleased. I believe in the Lombard Deeps Gold Mine. I intend to put
all the money I can lay hold of into it. Of course you will assay the
Lombard Deeps? I never could make out what assaying meant, but it
seems to be a way of raking in gold, and I was told to-night by Mr.
Halkett that you are the most trusted assayer in London. Has the
letter come yet? Has Lord Grayleigh yet offered you the post?"
"The letter has come."
"You would make thousands a year out of it. Phil, oh, Phil, how happy
I am! You have replied, have you not?"
"I have."
"Then why do you keep me in suspense? It is settled. What are you so
glum about?"
"I have declined the offer. I cannot assay the Lombard Deeps Gold
Mine."
"Philip!" His wife's voice was at first incredulous, then it rose into
a scream.
"You cannot be speaking the truth," she said.
"My answer is posted. I am not too scrupulous about small things, but
I draw the line at a matter of that sort. Go to bed."
She did not speak for a moment, her face turned pale, then she went
close up to him.
"I hate you," she said; "go your own way in the future," and she left
him standing silent.