There was a pretty white room at Silverbel in which lay a patient
child. She lay flat on her back just as she had lain ever since the
accident. Her bed was moved into the wide bay window, and from there
she could look out at the lovely garden and at the shining Thames just
beyond. From where she lay she could also see the pleasure boats and
the steamers crowded with people as they went up and down the busy
river, and it seemed to her that her thoughts followed those boats
which went toward the sea. It seemed to her further that her spirit
entered one of the great ships at the mouth of the Thames and crossed
in it the boundless deep, and found a lonely man at the other side of
the world into whose heart she crept.
"I am quite cosy there," she said to herself, "for father's perfect
heart is big enough to hold me, however much I suffer, and however sad
I am."
Not that Sibyl was sad, nor did she suffer. After the first shock she
had no pain of any sort, and there never was a more tranquil little
face than hers as it lay on its daintily frilled pillow and looked out
at the shining river.
There was no part of the beautiful house half so beautiful as the room
given up to her use. It might well and aptly be called the Chamber of
Peace. Indeed, Miss Winstead, who was given to sentimentalities and
had a poetic turn of mind, had called Sibyl's chamber by this title.
From the very first the child never murmured. She who had been so
active, like a butterfly in her dancing motion, in her ceaseless
grace, lay on her couch uncomplaining. And as to pain, she had
scarcely any, and what little she had grew less day by day. The great
specialist from London said that this was the worst symptom of the
case, and established the fact beyond doubt that the spine was fatally
injured. It was a question of time. How long a time no one could quite
tell, but the great doctors shook their heads over the child, and an
urgent cablegram was sent to Ogilvie to hurry home without a moment's
delay.
But, though all her friends knew it, no one told Sibyl herself that
she might never walk again nor dance over the smoothly kept lawns, nor
mount the nameless pony, nor carry apples to Dan Scott. In her
presence people thought it their duty to be cheerful, and she was
always cheerful herself. After the first week or so, during which she
was more or less stunned and her head felt strangely heavy, she liked
to talk and laugh and ask questions. As far as her active little
brain went there was but little difference in her, except that now her
voice was low, and sometimes it was difficult to follow the rapid,
eager words. But the child's eyes were quite as clear and beautiful as
ever, and more than ever now there visited them that strange, far-away
look and that quick, comprehending gaze.
"I want nothing on earth but father, the touch of father's hand and
the look in his face," she said several times; and then invariably her
own eyes would follow the steamers and the boats as they went down the
river toward the sea, and she would smile as the remembrance of the
big ships came to her.
"Miss Winstead," she said on one of these occasions, "I go in my own
special big ship every night across the sea to father. I sleep in
father's heart every night, that's why I don't disturb you, and why
the hours seem so short."
Miss Winstead had long ceased to scold Sibyl, and nurse was now never
cross to the little girl, and Mrs. Ogilvie was to all appearance the
most tender, devoted mother on earth. When the child had been brought
back after her accident Mrs. Ogilvie had not yet returned from town.
She had meant to spend the night at the house in Belgrave Square. An
urgent message, however, summoned her, and she arrived at Silverbel
about midnight. She lost all self-control when she saw the beautiful
unconscious child, and went into such violent hysterics that the
doctors had to take her from the room.
But this state of grief passed, and she was able, as she said to
herself, to crush her mother's heart in her breast and superintend
everything for Sibyl's comfort. It was Mrs. Ogilvie herself who, by
the doctor's orders, sent off the cablegram which her husband received
at the very moment of his fall from the paths of honor. It was she who
worded it, and she thought of nothing at that moment but the child who
was dying in the beautiful house. For the time she quite forgot her
dreams of wealth and of greatness and of worldly pleasure. Nay, more,
she felt just then that she could give up everything if only Sibyl
might be saved. Mrs. Ogilvie also blamed herself very bitterly for
forgetting her promise to the child. She was indeed quite inconsolable
for several days, and at last had a nervous attack and was obliged to
retire to her bed.
There came an answering cable from Ogilvie to say that he was starting
on board the _Sahara_, and would be in England as quickly as the great
liner could bring him across the ocean. But by the doctor's orders
the news that her father was coming back to her was not told to Sibyl.
"Something may detain him; at any rate the suspense will be bad for
her," the doctors said, and as she did not fret, and seemed quite
contented with the strange fancy that she crossed the sea at night to
lie in his arms, there was no need to give her any anxiety with regard
to the matter.
But as the days went on Mrs. Ogilvie's feelings, gradually but surely,
underwent a sort of revulsion. For the first week she was frantic,
ill, nervous, full of intense self-reproach. But during the second
week, when Sibyl's state of health assumed a new phase, when she
ceased to moan in her sleep, and to look troubled, and only lay very
still and white, Mrs. Ogilvie took it into her head that after all the
doctors had exaggerated the symptoms. The child was by no means so ill
as they said. She went round to her different friends and aired these
views. When they came to see her she aired them still further.
"Doctors are so often mistaken," she said, "I don't believe for a
single instant that the dear little thing will not be quite as well as
ever in a short time. I should not be the least surprised if she were
able to walk by the time Philip comes back. I do sincerely hope such
will be the case, for Philip makes such a ridiculous fuss about her,
and will go through all the apprehension and misery which nearly
wrecked my mother's heart. He will believe everything those doctors
have said of the child."
The neighbors, glad to see Mrs. Ogilvie cheerful once more, rather
agreed with her in these views, that is, all who did not go to see
Sibyl. But those who went into her white room and looked at the sweet
patient's face shook their heads when they came out again. It was
those neighbors who had not seen the child who quoted instances of
doctors who were mistaken in their diagnoses, and Mrs. Ogilvie derived
great pleasure and hope from their conversation.
Gradually, but surely, the household settled down into its new life.
The Chamber of Peace in the midst of the house diffused a peaceful
atmosphere everywhere else. Sibyl's weak little laugh was a sound to
treasure up and remember, and her words were still full of fun, and
her eyes often brimmed over with laughter. No one ever denied her
anything now. She could see whoever she fancied, even to old Scott,
who hobbled upstairs in his stockings, and came on tiptoe into the
room, and stood silently at the foot of the white bed.
"I won't have the curse of the poor, I did my best," said Sibyl,
looking full at the old man.
"Yes, you did your best, dearie," he replied. His voice was husky,
and he turned his head aside and looked out of the window and coughed
in a discreet manner. He was shocked at the change in the radiant
little face, but he would not allow his emotion to get the better of
him.
"The blessing of the poor rests on you, dear little Miss," he said
then, "the blessing of the poor and the fatherless. It was a
fatherless lad you tried to comfort. God bless you for ever and ever."
Sibyl smiled when he said this, and then she gazed full at him in that
solemn comprehending way which often characterized her. When he went
out of the room she lay silent for a time; then she turned to nurse
and said with emphasis:
"I like old Scott, he's a very religious man."
"That he is, darling," replied nurse.
"Seems to me I'm getting religious too," continued Sibyl. "It's 'cos
of Lord Jesus, I 'spect. He is kind to me, is Lord Jesus. He takes me
to father every night."
The days went by, and Mrs. Ogilvie, who was recovering her normal
spirits hour by hour, now made up her mind that Sibyl's recovery was
merely a question of time, that she would soon be as well as ever, and
as this was the case, surely it seemed a sad pity that the bazaar,
which had been postponed, should not take place.
"The bazaar will amuse the child, besides doing a great deal of good
to others," thought Mrs. Ogilvie.
No sooner had this idea come to her, than she found her
engagement-book, and looked up several items. The bazaar had of course
been postponed from the original date, but it would be easy to have it
on the 24th of September. The 24th was in all respects a suitable
date, and those people who had not gone abroad or to Scotland would be
glad to spend a week in the beautiful country house. It was such a sad
pity, thought Mrs. Ogilvie, not to use the new furniture to the best
advantage, not to sleep in the new beds, not to make use of all the
accessories which had cost so much money, or rather which had cost so
many debts, for not a scrap of the furniture was paid for, and the
house itself was only held on sufferance.
"It will be doing such a good work," said Mrs. Ogilvie to herself. "I
shall be not only entertaining my friends and amusing dear little
Sibyl, but I shall be collecting money for an excellent charity."
In the highest spirits she ran upstairs and burst into her little
daughter's room.
"Oh, Mummy," said Sibyl. She smiled and said faintly, "Come and kiss
me, Mummy."
Mrs. Ogilvie was all in white and looked very young and girlish and
pretty. She tripped up to the child, bent over her and kissed her.
"My little white rose," she said, "you must get some color back into
your cheeks."
"Oh, color don't matter," replied Sibyl. "I'm just as happy without
it."
"But you are quite out of pain, my little darling?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"And you like lying here in your pretty window?"
"Yes, mother darling."
"You are not weary of lying so still?"
Sibyl laughed.
"It is funny," she said, "I never thought I could lie so very still. I
used to get a fidgety sort of pain all down me if I stayed still more
than a minute at a time, but now I don't want to walk. My legs are too
heavy. I feel heavy all down my legs and up to the middle of my back,
but that is all. See, Mummy, how nicely I can move my hands. Nursie is
going to give me some dolls to dress."
"What a splendid idea, Sib!" said Mrs. Ogilvie, "you shall dress some
dolls for mother's bazaar."
"Are you going to have it after all?" cried Sibyl, her eyes
brightening. "Are the big-wigs coming?"
"Yes, pet, and you shall help me. You shall dress pretty little dolls
which the big-wigs shall buy--Lord Grayleigh and the rest."
"I like Lord Grayleigh," replied Sibyl. "I am glad you are going to
have the bazaar, Mummy."
Mrs. Ogilvie laughed with glee. She seated herself in a comfortable
rocking chair near the window and chatted volubly. Sibyl was really a
wonderfully intelligent child. It was delightful to talk to her. There
was no narrowness about Sibyl. She had quite a breadth of view and of
comprehension for her tender years.
"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Ogilvie, "I am so glad you like the
idea. Perhaps by the day of the bazaar you will be well enough to come
downstairs and even to walk a little."
Sibyl made no answer to this. After a moment's pause she said:
"Do have the bazaar and let all the big-wigs come. I can watch them
from my bed. I can look out of the window and see everything--it will
be fun."
Soon afterward Mrs. Ogilvie left the room. She met Miss Winstead on
the stairs.
"Miss Winstead," she said, "I have just been sitting with the child.
She seems much better."
"Do you think so?" replied Miss Winstead shortly.
"I do. Why do you stare at me in that disapproving manner? You really
are all most unnatural. Who should know of the health of her child if
her own mother does not? The little darling is recovering fast--I
have just been having a most interesting talk with her. She would like
me to have the bazaar."
"The bazaar!" echoed Miss Winstead. "Surely you don't mean to have it
here?"
"Yes, here. The child is greatly interested. She would like me to have
it, and I am going to send out invitations at once. It will be held on
the 24th and 25th of the month."
"I would not, if I were you," said Miss Winstead slowly. "You know
what the doctors have said."
Mrs. Ogilvie first turned white, and then her face grew red and angry.
"I don't believe a single word of what they say," she retorted with
some passion. "The child looks better every day. What the dear little
thing wants is rousing. The bazaar will do her no end of good. Mark my
words, Miss Winstead, we shall have Sibyl on her feet again by the
24th."
"You forget," said Miss Winstead slowly, "the _Sahara_ is due in
England about that date. Mr. Ogilvie will be back. He will not be
prepared for--for what he has to see."
"I know quite well that my husband will return about then, but I don't
understand what you mean by saying that he will not be prepared.
There will be nothing but joyful tidings to give him. The child nearly
herself and the bazaar at its height. Delightful! Now pray, my good
creature, don't croak any more; I must rush up to town this
afternoon--there is a great deal to see about."