The following letter reached Philip Ogilvie late that same evening:--
MY DEAR OGILVIE,
Your decision is naturally all that can be desired, and I
only hope you may never live to regret it. I have, most
unfortunately, given my ankle a bad sprain. I had a fall
yesterday when out riding, and am obliged to lie up for a
day or two. There is much that I should wish to talk over
with you before you go to Queensland. Can you come down here
to-morrow by the first train? I will not detain you an hour
longer than I can help. All other arrangements are in the
hands of my agents, Messrs. Spielmann & Co.
Yours sincerely,
GRAYLEIGH.
Ogilvie read this letter quickly. He knit his brow as he did so. It
annoyed him a good deal.
"I did not want to go there," he thought. "I am doing this principally
for the sake of the child. I can arrange all financial matters through
Spielmann. Grayleigh wants this thing done; I alone can do it to his
satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the public. He must pay
me--what he pays will be Sibyl's, the provision for her future. But I
don't want to see the child--until all this dirty work is over. If I
come back things may be altered. God only knows what may have
occurred. The mine may be all right, there may be deliverance, but I
didn't want to see her before I go. It is possible that I may not be
able to keep my composure. There are a hundred things which make an
interview between the child and me undesirable."
He thought and thought, and at last rose from his chair and began to
pace the room. He had not suffered from his heart since his interview
with Dr. Rashleigh. He gave it but scant consideration now.
"If I have a fatal disease it behooves me to act as if I were
absolutely sound," he said to himself. And he had so acted after the
first shock of Rashleigh's verdict had passed off. But he did not like
the thought of seeing Sibyl. Still, Grayleigh's letter could not be
lightly disregarded. If Grayleigh wished to see him and could not come
to town, it was essential that he should go to him.
He rang his bell and sent off a telegram to the effect that he would
arrive at Grayleigh Manor at an early hour on the following day.
This telegram Lord Grayleigh showed to Mrs. Ogilvie before she went to
bed that night.
"He has consented to go, as of course you are well aware," said Lord
Grayleigh, "and he comes here to see me to-morrow. But I would not say
anything about his departure for Queensland to your little daughter,
until after his visit. He may have something to say in the matter. Let
him, if he wishes it, be the one to break it to her."
"But why should not the child know? How ridiculous you are!"
"That is exactly as her father pleases," replied Lord Grayleigh. "I
have a kind of intuition that he may want to tell her himself. Anyhow,
I trust you will oblige me in the matter."
Mrs. Ogilvie pouted. She was not enjoying herself as much at Grayleigh
Manor as she had expected, and, somehow or other, she felt that she
was in disgrace. This was by no means an agreeable sensation. She
wondered why she was not in higher spirits. To visit Australia
nowadays was a mere nothing. Her husband would be back again, a rich
man, in six months at the farthest. During those six months she
herself might have a good time. There were several country houses
where she might visit. Her visiting list was already nearly full. She
would take Sibyl with her, although Sibyl sometimes was the reverse
of comforting; but it looked effective to see the handsome mother and
the beautiful child together, and Sibyl, when she did not go too far,
said very pathetic and pretty things about her. Oh yes, she and her
little daughter would have a good time, while the husband and father
was earning money for them in Australia: while the husband and father
was raking in gold, they might really enjoy themselves.
As she thought of this, Mrs. Ogilvie felt so light-hearted that she
could have skipped. Those debts which had weighed so on what she was
pleased to call her conscience, would be liquidated once and for all,
and in the future she would have plenty of money. It was the be-all of
existence to her feeble soul. She would have it in abundance in the
time which lay before her.
"Philip is a wise man. It was very silly of him to hesitate and make a
fuss," she thought; "but he has decided wisely, as I knew he would. I
shall give him a kiss when I see him, and tell him that I am quite
pleased with him."
She went to bed, therefore, cheerful, and the next morning put on her
very prettiest dress in order to meet her husband.
Ogilvie walked from the little station, which was only half a mile
away. Mrs. Ogilvie, going slowly up the avenue, saw him coming to
meet her. She stood under the shade of a great overhanging beech tree,
and waited until he appeared.
"Well, Mildred, and how are you?" said her husband. He took her hand,
and, bending forward, brushed the lightest of kisses against her
cheek.
"Quite well," she replied. "Is not the day pleasant? I am so glad
about everything, Phil. But you don't look quite the thing yourself.
Have you taken cold or suffered from one of those nasty rheumatic
attacks?"
"I am all right," he answered shortly. "I have a very few moments to
be here, as I want to catch the 12.30 back. Do you know if Lord
Grayleigh is anywhere to be found?"
"I saw him half an hour ago. I think you will find him in the
smoking-room. He is expecting you."
"And"--Ogilvie glanced to right and left--"the child?"
"She is with the other children. Shall I send her to you?"
"Not yet."
"It is so nice of you to go, Phil; it will do you no end of good. You
will enjoy your voyage," continued Mrs. Ogilvie, turning now and
laying her hand on her husband's arm.
Mr. Rochester, who was quite a young man himself, and was deeply
occupied at this time with thoughts of love and marriage, happened to
see the pair as they sauntered by together. He knew nothing, of
course, of Ogilvie's intended visit to Australia, nor was he in any
sense of the word behind the scenes. On the contrary, he thought that
Mrs. Ogilvie and her husband made a perfect picture of beautiful love
between husband and wife.
"It is good of you," pursued Mrs. Ogilvie, turning once more to her
husband. "I am greatly obliged. I am more than obliged, I am relieved
and--and satisfied. We shall have a happy life together when you come
back. There are, of course, little matters we ought to talk over
before we go."
"Debts, you mean," said Ogilvie, bluntly. "I opened your bills in your
absence. They will be----"
"Oh, Phil!" Mrs. Ogilvie's face turned very white.
"I will speak about them before I leave," he continued. "Now I must
find Grayleigh."
"Is it true that you are going on Saturday?"
"Quite true."
"Had I not better return to town with you? There will be several
things to put in order."
"I can write to you, Mildred. Now that you are here you had better
stay here. The change will be good for you. You need not return to
the house in town before next week."
"If you really don't want me, I am certainly enjoying myself here."
"I don't want you," he replied, but as he spoke his grey eyes looked
wistful. He turned for an instant and glanced at her. He noted the
sunny, lovely hair, the agile, youthful, rounded figure. Once he had
loved her passionately.
"Sibyl will be delighted to see you," continued Mrs. Ogilvie. "She has
been, on the whole, behaving very nicely. Of course, making both
friends and foes, as is her usual impetuous way."
"That reminds me," said Ogilvie. "I shall see Sibyl before I leave;
but that reminds me."
"Of what?"
"I do not wish her to be told."
"Told what? What do you mean? My dear Phil, you are eccentric."
"I have no time to dispute the point, Mildred. I wish to give one
hasty direction, which is to be obeyed. Sibyl is not to be told that I
am going to Australia."
"What, never?"
"She must be told when I am gone, but not till then. I will write to
her, and thus break the news. She is not to be told to-day, not until
she gets home, you understand? I won't go at all if you tell her."
"Oh, of course, I understand," said Mrs. Ogilvie, in a frightened way;
"but why should not the child hear what really is good tidings?"
"I do not wish it. Now, have you anything further to say, for I must
see Lord Grayleigh immediately."
Mrs. Ogilvie clutched her husband's arm.
"You will leave me plenty of money when you go, will you not?"
"You shall have a bank-book and an account, but you must be careful.
My affairs are not in the most prosperous condition, and your bills
are terribly heavy."
"My bills! but I really----"
"We will not dispute them. They shall be paid before I go."
"Oh, my dear Philip, and you are not angry?"
"They shall be paid, Mildred. The liquidation of your debts is part of
the reward for taking up this loathsome work."
"Philip, how ridiculously morbid you are!"
The husband and wife walked slower and slower. Ogilvie saw Grayleigh
standing on the steps.
"There is Lord Grayleigh," he said. "I must go at once. Yes, the
bills will be paid." He laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder.
"There is nothing else, is there, Mildred?"
"No," she began, then she hesitated.
"What more?"
"A trinket, it took my fancy--a diamond cross--you noticed it. I could
not resist it."
"How much?" said the man. His face was very stern and white, and there
was a blue look round his lips.
"Two thousand pounds."
"Let me have the bill to-morrow at latest. It shall be cleared. Now
don't keep me."
He strode past her and went up to where Lord Grayleigh was waiting for
him.
"This is good," said the nobleman. "I am very sorry I could not come
to town. Yes, my ankle is better, but I dare not use it. I am limping,
as you see."
"Shall we go into the house?" said Ogilvie; "I want to get this thing
over. I have not a moment if I am to start on Saturday."
"You must do what we want. The public are impatient. We must get your
report as soon as possible. You will wire it to us, of course."
"That depends."
"Now listen, Ogilvie," said Lord Grayleigh, as they both entered the
study of the latter and Ogilvie sank into a chair, "you either do this
thing properly or you decline it, you give it up."
"Can I? I thought the die was cast."
"The worldly man in me echoes that hope, but I _could_ get Atherton to
take your place even now."
"Even now?" echoed Philip Ogilvie.
"Even now it may be possible to manage it, although I"--Lord Grayleigh
had a flashing memory of Sibyl's face and the look in her eyes, when
she spoke of her perfect father. Then he glanced at the man who,
silent and with suppressed suffering in his face, stood before him.
The irresolution in Ogilvie's face took something from its character,
and seemed to lower the man's whole nature. Lord Grayleigh shivered;
then the uncomfortable sensation which the memory of Sibyl gave him
passed away.
"I shall regret it extremely if you cannot do what I want," he said,
with emphasis.
Ogilvie had a quick sensation of momentary relief. His wife owed
another two thousand pounds. It would be bankruptcy, ruin if he did
not go. He stood up.
"The time for discussing the thing is over," he said. "I will
go--and--do _as you wish_. The only thing to put straight is the price
down."
"What do you mean by the price down?"
"I want money."
"Of course, you shall have it."
"I want more than my expenses, and something to cover the loss to my
business which my absence may create."
"How much more?" Lord Grayleigh looked at him anxiously.
"Ten thousand pounds in cash now, to be placed to my credit in my
bank."
"Ten thousand pounds in cash! That is a big order."
"Not too big for what you require me to do. You make hundreds of
thousands by me eventually; what is one ten thousand? It will relieve
my mind and set a certain matter straight. The fact is--I will confide
in you so far--my own pecuniary affairs are anything but flourishing.
I have had some calls to meet. What little property I own is settled
on my wife. You know that a man cannot interfere with his marriage
settlements. I have one child. I want to make a special provision for
her."
"I know your child," said Lord Grayleigh, in a very grave tone; "she
is out of the common."
A spasm of pain crossed the father's face.
"She is," he answered slowly. "I wish to make a provision for her. If
I die (I may die, we are all mortal; I am going to a distant place;
possibilities in favor of death are ten per cent. greater than if I
remain at home)--if I die, this will be hers. It will comfort me, and
make it absolutely impossible for me to go back. You understand that
sometimes a miserable starved voice within me speaks. I allude to the
voice of conscience. However much it clamors, I cannot listen to it
when that sum of money lies in the bank to my credit, with my last
will and testament leaving it eventually to my daughter."
"I would not give your daughter such a portion, if I were you,"
thought Lord Grayleigh, but he did not say the words aloud. He said
instead, "What you wish shall be done."
The two men talked a little longer together. Certain necessary
arrangements were concluded, and Ogilvie bore in his pocket before he
left a check for ten thousand pounds on Lord Grayleigh's private
account.
"This clinches matters," he said, and he gave a significant glance at
Grayleigh.
"You will see Spielmann for all the rest," was Grayleigh's answer;
"and now, if you must catch the train----"
"Yes, I must; good-by."
Lord Grayleigh walked with him as far as the porch.
"Have you seen your wife?" he asked. "Can we not induce you to wait
for the next train and stay to lunch?"
"No, thanks; it is impossible. Oh, I see you have sent for the
dog-cart; I will drive to the station."
Just then Sibyl, Gus and Freda appeared in view. Sibyl was extremely
dirty. She had been climbing trees to good effect that morning, and
there was a rent in front of her dress and even a very apparent hole
in one of her stockings. She and Gus were arguing somewhat fiercely,
and the cap she wore was pushed back, and her golden hair was all in a
tangle. Suddenly she raised her eyes, caught sight of her father, and,
with a shout something between a whoop and a cry, flung herself into
his arms.
"Daddy, daddy!" she cried.
He clasped her tightly to his breast. He did not notice the shabby
dress nor the torn stocking; he only saw the eager little face, the
eyes brimful with love; he only felt the beating of the warm, warm
heart.
"Why, dad, now I shall be happy. Where are you, Gus? Gus, this is
father; Gus, come here!"
But at a nod from Lord Grayleigh both Gus and Freda had vanished round
the corner.
"I will say good-by, if you must go, Ogilvie," said Grayleigh. He
took his hand, gave it a sympathetic squeeze, and went into the house.
"But must you go, father? Why, you have only just come," said Sibyl.
"I must, my darling, I must catch the next train; there is not ten
minutes. Jump on the dog-cart, and we will drive to the station
together."
"Oh, 'licious!" cried Sibyl, "more than 'licious; but what will mother
say?"
"Never mind, the coachman will bring you back. Jump up, quick."
In another instant Sibyl was seated between her father and the
coachman. The spirited mare dashed forward, and they bowled down the
avenue. Ogilvie's arm was tight round Sibyl's waist, he was hugging
her to him, squeezing her almost painfully tight. She gasped a little,
drew in her breath, and then resolved to bear it.
"There's something troubling him, he likes having me near him,"
thought the child. "I wouldn't let him see that he's squeezing me up a
bit too tight for all the world."
The mare seemed to fly over the ground. Ogilvie was glad.
"We shall have a minute or two at the station. I can speak to her
then," he thought. "I won't tell her that I am going, but I can say
something." Then the station appeared in view, and the mare was
pulled up with a jerk; Ogilvie jumped to his feet, and lifted Sibyl to
the ground.
"Wait for the child," he said to the servant, "and take her back
carefully to the house."
"Yes, sir," answered the man, touching his hat.
Ogilvie went into the little station, and Sibyl accompanied him.
"I have my ticket," he said, "we have three minutes to spare, three
whole precious minutes."
"Three whole precious minutes," repeated Sibyl. "What is it, father?"
"I am thinking of something," he said.
"What?" asked the girl.
"For these three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, you and I
are to all intents and purposes alone in the world."
"Father! why, so we are," she cried. "Mother's not here, we are all
alone. Nothing matters, does it, when we are alone together?"
"Nothing."
"You don't look quite well, dear father."
"I have been having some suffering lately, and am worried about
things, those sort of things that don't come to little girls."
"Of course they don't, father, but when I'm a woman I'll have them.
I'll take them instead of you."
"Now listen, my darling."
"Father, before you speak ... I know you are going to say something
very, _very_ solemn; I know you when you're in your solemn moments; I
like you best of all then. You seem like Jesus Christ then. Don't you
feel like Jesus Christ, father?"
"Never, Sib, never; but the time is going by, the train is signalled.
My dearest, what is it?"
"Mayn't I go back to town with you? I like the country, I like Gus and
Freda and Mabel, but there is no place like your study in the evening,
and there's no place like my bedroom at night when you come into it.
I'd like to go back with you, wouldn't it be fun! Couldn't you take
me?"
"I could, of course," said the man, and just for a moment he wavered.
It would be nice to have her in the house, all by herself, for the
next two or three days, but he put the thought from him as if it were
a temptation.
"No, Sib," he said, "you must go back to your mother; it would not be
at all right to leave your mother alone."
"Of course not," she answered promptly, and she gave a sigh which was
scarcely a sigh.
"It would have been nice all the same," said Ogilvie. "Ah! there is
my train; kiss me, darling."
She flung her arms tightly round his neck.
"Sibyl, just promise before I leave you that you will be a good girl,
that you will make goodness the first thing in life. If, for instance,
we were never to meet again--of course we shall, thousands of times,
but just suppose, for the sake of saying it, that we did not, I should
like to know that my little girl put goodness first. There is nothing
else worth the while in life. Cling on to it, Sibyl, cling tight hold
to it. Never forget that I----"
"Yes, father, I will cling to it. Yes, father!"
"That I wish it. You would do a great deal for me?"
"For you and Lord Jesus Christ," she answered softly.
"Then I wish this, remember, and whatever happens, whatever you hear,
remember you promised. Now here's my train, stand back. Good-by,
little woman, good-by."
"I'll see you again very, very soon, father?"
"Very soon," answered the man. He jumped into the carriage, the train
puffed out of the station. A porter came up to Sibyl and spoke to her.
"Anybody come to meet you, Miss?"
"No, thank you," she answered with dignity; "I was seeing my father
off to town; there's my twap waiting outside."
The man smiled, and the little girl went gravely out of the station.
Sibyl went back to Lord Grayleigh's feeling perplexed. There was an
expression about her father's face which puzzled her.
"He ought to have me at home with him," she thought. "I have seen him
like this now and then, and he's mostly not well. He's beautiful when
he talks as he did to-day, but he's mostly not well when he does it. I
'spect he's nearer Lord Jesus when he's not well, that must be it. My
most perfect father wants me to be good; I don't want to be good a
bit, but I must, to please him."
Just then a somewhat shrill and petulant voice called the child.
"My dear Sibyl, where _have_ you been? What are you doing on the
dog-cart? How unladylike. Jump down this minute."
The man pulled up the mare, and Sibyl jumped to the ground. She met
her mother's angry face with a smile which she tried hard to make
sweet.
"I didn't do anything naughty, really, Mummy," she said. "Father took
me to the station to say good-by. He's off back to town, and he took
me with him, and I came back on the twap."
"Don't say twap, sound your 'r'--trap."
"Tw-rap," struggled Sibyl over the difficult word.
"And now you are to go into the house and ask Nurse to put on your
best dress. I am going to take you to a garden party, immediately
after lunch. Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen Douglas are coming with us.
Be quick."
"Oh, 'licious," said Sibyl. She rushed into the house, and up to the
nursery. Nurse was there waiting to deck her in silk and lace and
feathers. The little girl submitted to her toilet, and now took a vast
interest in it.
"You must make me quite my prettiest self," she said to the nurse;
"you must do your very best, 'cos mother----"
"What about your mother now, missy?"
"'Cos mother's just a little----Oh, nothing," said Sibyl, pulling
herself up short.
"She likes me best when I'm pretty," continued the child; "but father
likes me always. Nursie, do you know that my ownest father came down
here to-day, and that I dwove to the station to see him off? Did you
know it?"
"No, Miss Sibyl, I can't say I did."
"He talked to me in a most pwivate way," continued Sibyl. "He told me
most 'portant things, and I promised him, Nursie--I promised him that
I'd----Oh, no! I won't tell you. Perhaps I won't be able to keep my
promise, and then you'd----Nothing, Nursie, nothing; don't be
'quisitive. I can see in your face that you are all bursting with
'quisitiveness; but you aren't to know. I am going to a party with my
own mother after lunch, and Lady Helen is coming, and Mr. Rochester. I
like them both very much indeed. Lady Helen told me stories last
night. She put her arm round my waist, and she talked to me; and I
told her some things, too, and she laughed."
"What did you tell her, Miss Sibyl?"
"About my father and mother. She laughed quite funnily. I wish people
wouldn't; it shows how little they know. It's 'cos they are so far
from being perfect that they don't understand perfect people. But
there's the lunch gong. Yes, I do look very nice. Good-by, Nursie."
Sibyl ran downstairs. The children always appeared at this meal, and
she took her accustomed place at the table. Very soon afterwards, she,
her mother, Lady Helen, and Mr. Rochester, started for a place about
ten miles off, where an afternoon reception was being given.
Sibyl felt inclined to be talkative, and Mrs. Ogilvie, partly because
she had a sore feeling in her heart with regard to her husband's
departure, although she would not acknowledge it, was inclined to be
snappish. She pulled the little girl up several times, and at last
Sibyl subsided in her seat, and looked out straight before her. It was
then that Lady Helen once more put her arm round her waist.
"Presently," said Lady Helen, "when the guests are all engaged, you
and I will slip out by ourselves, and I will show you one of the most
beautiful views in all England. We climb a winding path, and we
suddenly come out quite above all the trees, and we look around us;
and when we get there, you'll be able to see the blue sea in the
distance, and the ships, one of which is going to take your----"
But just then Mrs. Ogilvie gave Helen Douglas so severe a push with
her foot, that she stopped, and got very red.
"What ship do you mean?" said Sibyl, surprised at the sudden break in
the conversation, and now intensely interested, "the ship that is
going to take my--my what?"
"Did you never hear the old saying, that you must wait until your ship
comes home?" interrupted Mr. Rochester, smiling at the child, and
looking at Lady Helen, who had not got over her start and confusion.
"But this ship was going out," said Sibyl. "Never mind, I 'spect it's
a secret; there's lots of 'em floating round to-day. I've got some
'portant ones of my own. Never mind, Lady Helen, don't blush no more."
She patted Lady Helen in a patronizing way on her hand, and the whole
party laughed; the tension was, for the time, removed.