An old woman wearing a bedgown, and with a cap with a large frill, appeared in the porch of the tiny cottage.—Page 224. Daddy’s Girl.An old woman wearing a bedgown, and with a cap with a large frill, appeared in the porch of the tiny cottage.—Page224.Daddy’s Girl.
“Oh, don’t I,” answered Mrs. Scott. “It’s a pity you can’t come in, Missy. There, Danny, keep quiet; the little lady ain’t no time to be a-visiting ofyou. That’s him calling out, Missy; you wait a minute, and I’ll find out what he wants.”
Mrs. Scott hobbled back to the house, and the pony chafed restlessly at the delay.
“Quiet, darling; quiet, pet,” said Sibyl to her favorite, patting him on his arched neck.
Presently Mrs. Scott came back.
“Dan’s obligated for the apples, Miss, but he thinks a sight more of a talk with you than of any apples that ever growed. He ’opes you’ll come another day.”
“I wish, I do wish I could come in now,” said Sibyl wistfully; “but I just daren’t. You see, I have not even my riding habit on, I was so afraid someone would stop me from coming at all. Give Danny my love. But you have not told me yet what a curse means, Mrs. Scott.”
“Oh, that,” answered Mrs. Scott, “but you ain’t no call to know.”
“But I’d like to. I hate hearing things without understanding. What is a curse, Mrs. Scott?”
“There are all sorts,” replied Mrs. Scott. “Once I knowed a man, and he had a curse on him, and he dwindled and dwindled, and got smaller and thinner and poorer, until nothing would nourish him, no food nor drink nor nothing, and he shrunk up ter’ble until he died. It’s my belief he haunts the churchyardnow. No one likes to go there in the evening. The name of the man was Micah Sorrel. He was the most ter’ble example of a curse I ever comed acrost in my life.”
“Well, I really must be going now,” said Sibyl with a little shiver. “Good-by; tell Dan I’ll try hard to come and see him to-morrow.”
She turned the pony’s head and cantered down the lane. She did not consider Mrs. Scott a specially nice old woman.
“She’s a gloomy sort,” thought the child, “she takes a gloomy view. I like people who don’t take gloomy views best. Perhaps she is something like old Scott; having lived with him so long as his wife, perhaps they have got to think things the same way. Old Scott looked very solemn when he said that it was a terrible thing to have the curse of the poor. I wonder what Micah Sorrel did. I am sorry she told me about him, I don’t like the story. But there, why should I blame Mrs. Scott, for I asked her to ’splain what a curse was. I ’spect I’m a very queer girl, and I didn’t really keep my whole word. I said positive and plain that I would take a basket of apples to Dan, and go and sit with him. I did take the apples, but I didn’t go in and sit with him. Oh, dear, I’ll have to go back by the churchyard. I hope Micah Sorrel won’t be about. I shouldn’t like tosee him, he must be shrunk up so awful by now. Come along, pony darling, we’ll soon be back home again.”
Sibyl lightly touched the pony’s ears with a tiny whip which Lord Grayleigh had given her. He whisked his head indignantly at the motion and broke into a trot, the trot became a canter, and the canter a gallop.
Sibyl laughed aloud in her enjoyment. They were now close to the churchyard. The sun was getting near the horizon, but still there was plenty of light.
“A little faster, as we are passing the churchyard, pony pet,” said Sybil, and she bent towards her steed and again touched him, nothing more than a feather touch, on his arched neck. But pony was spirited, and had endured too much stabling, and was panting for exercise; and, just at that moment, turning abruptly round a corner came a man waving a red flag. He was followed by a procession of school children, all shouting and racing. The churchyard was in full view.
Sibyl laughed with a sense of relief when she saw the procession. She would not be alone as she passed the churchyard, and doubtless Micah Sorrel would be all too wise to make his appearance, but the next instant she gave a cry of alarm, for thepony first swerved violently, and then rushed off at full gallop. The red flag had startled him, and the children’s shouts were the final straw.
“Not quite so fast, darling,” cried Sibyl; “a little slower, pet.”
But pet and darling was past all remonstrances on the part of his little mistress. He flew on, having clearly made up his mind to run away from the red flag and the shouting children to the other end of the earth. In vain Sibyl jerked the reins and pulled and pulled. Her small face was white as death; her little arms seemed almost wrenched from their sockets. She kept her seat bravely. Someone driving a dog-cart was coming to meet her. A voice called—
“Hullo! Stop, for goodness’ sake; don’t turn the corner. Stop! Stop!”
Sibyl heard the voice. She looked wildly ahead. She had no more power to stop the nameless pony than the earth has power to pause as it turns on its axis. The next instant the corner was reached; all seemed safe, when, with a sudden movement, the pony dashed madly forward, and Sibyl felt herself falling, she did not know where. There was an instant of intense and violent pain, stars shone before her eyes, and then everything was lost in blessed unconsciousness.
On a certain morning in the middle of July theGaikawith Ogilvie on board entered the Brisbane River. He had risen early, as was his custom, and was now standing on deck. The lascars were still busy washing the deck. He went past them, and leaning over the taffrail watched the banks of low-lying mangroves which grew on either side of the river. The sun had just risen, and transformed the scene. Ogilvie raised his hat, and pushed the hair from his brow. His face had considerably altered, it looked worn and old. His physical health had not improved, notwithstanding the supposed benefit of a long sea voyage.
A man whose friendship he had made on board, and whose name was Harding, came up just then, and spoke to him.
“Well, Ogilvie,” he cried, “we part very soon, but I trust we may meet again. I shall be returning to England in about three months from now. When do you propose to go back?”
“I cannot quite tell,” answered Ogilvie. “It depends on how soon my work is over; the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned.”
“You don’t look too well,” said his friend. “Can I get anything for you, fetch your letters, or anything of that sort?”
“I do not expect letters,” was Ogilvie’s answer; “there may be one or two cables. I shall find out at the hotel.”
Harding said something further. Ogilvie replied in an abstracted manner. He was thinking of Sibyl. It seemed to him that the little figure was near him, and the little spirit strangely in touch with his own. Of all people in the world she was the one he cared least to give his thoughts to just at that moment.
“And yet I am doing it for her,” he muttered to himself. “I must go through with it; but while I am about it I want to forget her. My work lies before me—that dastardly work which is to stain my character and blemish my honor; but there is no going back now. Sibyl was unprovided for, and I have an affection of the heart which may end my days at any moment. For her sake I had no other course open to me. Now I shall not allow my conscience to speak again.”
He made an effort to pull himself together, and as the big liner gradually neared the quay, he spoke in cheerful tones to his fellow-passengers. Just as he passed down the gangway, and landed on the quay, he heard a voice exclaim suddenly—
“Mr. Ogilvie, I believe?”
He turned, and saw a small, dapper-looking man, in white drill and a cabbage-tree hat, standing by his side.
“That is my name,” replied Ogilvie; “and yours?”
“I am Messrs. Spielmann’s agent, and my name is Rycroft. I had instructions to meet you, and guessed who you were from the description given to me. I hope you had a good voyage.”
“Pretty well,” answered Ogilvie; “but I must get my luggage together. Where are you staying?”
“At the Waharoo Hotel. I took the liberty to book you a room. Shall we go up soon and discuss business; we have no time to lose?”
“As you please,” said Ogilvie. “Will you wait here? I will return soon.”
Within half an hour the two men were driving in the direction of the hotel. Rycroft had engaged a bedroom and private sitting-room for Ogilvie. He ordered lunch, and, after they had eaten, suggested that they should plunge at once into business.
“That is quite to my desire,” said Ogilvie. “I want to get what is necessary through, in order to return home as soon as possible. It was inconvenient my leaving England just now, but Lord Grayleigh made it a condition that I should not delay an hour in examining the mine.”
“If he wishes to take up this claim, he is right,” answered Rycroft, in a grave voice. “I may as well say at once, Mr. Ogilvie, that your coming out is the greatest possible relief to us all. The syndicate ought to do well, and your name on the report is a guarantee of success. My proposal is that we should discuss matters a little to-day, and start early to-morrow by theTownvilleto Rockhampton. We can then go by rail to Grant’s Creek Station, which is only eight miles from the mine. There we can do our business, and finally return here to draw up the report.”
“And how long will all this take?” asked Ogilvie.
“If we are lucky, we ought to be back here within a month.”
“You have been over the mine, of course, yourself, Mr. Rycroft?”
“Yes; I only returned to Brisbane a week ago.”
“And what is your personal opinion?”
“There is, beyond doubt, alluvial gold. It is a bit refractory, but the washings panned out from five to six ounces to the ton.”
“So I was told in England; but, about the vein underneath? Alluvial is not dependable as a continuance. It is the vein we want to strike. Have you bored?”
“Yes, one shaft.”
“Any result?”
“That is what your opinion is needed to decide,” said his companion. As Rycroft spoke, the corners of his mouth hardened, and he looked fixedly at Ogilvie. He knew perfectly well why Ogilvie had come from England to assay the mine, and this last question took him somewhat by surprise.
Ogilvie was silent. After a moment he jumped up impatiently.
“I may as well inquire for any letters or cables that are waiting for me,” he said.
Rycroft lit his pipe and went out. He had never seen Philip Ogilvie before, and was surprised at his general appearance, and also at his manner.
“Why did they send him out?” he muttered. “Sensitive, and with a conscience: not the sort of man to care to do dirty work; but perhaps Grayleigh was right. If I am not much mistaken, he will do it all the same.”
“I shall make my own pile out of this,” he thought. He returned to the hotel later on, and the two men spent the evening in anxious consultation. The next day they started for Rockhampton, and late in the afternoon of the fourth day reached their destination.
The mine lay in a valley which had once been the bed of some prehistoric river, but was now reduced toa tiny creek. On either side towered the twin Lombard peaks, from which the mine was to take its name. For a mile on either side of the creek the country was fairly open, being dotted with clumps of briggalow throwing their dark shadows across the plain.
Beyond them, where the slope became steep, the dense scrub began. This clothed the two lofty peaks to their summits. The spot was a beautiful one, and up to the present had been scarcely desecrated by the hand of man.
“Here we are,” said Rycroft, “here lies the gold.” He pointed to the bed of the creek. “Here is our overseer’s hut, and he has engaged men for our purpose. This is our hut, Ogilvie. I hope you don’t mind sharing it with me.”
“Not in the least,” replied Ogilvie. “We shall not begin operations until the morning, shall we? I should like to walk up the creek.”
Rycroft made a cheerful answer, and Ogilvie started off alone. He scarcely knew why he wished to take this solitary walk, for he knew well that the die was cast. When he had accepted Lord Grayleigh’s check for ten thousand pounds he had burnt his boats, and there was no going back.
“Time enough for repentance in another world,” he muttered under his breath. “All I have to doat present is to stifle thought. It ought not to be difficult to go forward,” he muttered, with a bitter smile, “the downhill slope is never difficult.”
The work of boring was to commence on the following morning, and the camp was made close to the water hole beneath some tall gum trees. Rycroft, who was well used to camping, prepared supper for the two. The foreman’s camp was about a hundred yards distant.
As Ogilvie lay down to sleep that night he had a brief, sharp attack of the agony which had caused him alarm a couple of months ago. It reminded him in forcible language that his own time on earth was in all probability brief; but, far from feeling distressed on this account, he hugged the knowledge to his heart that he had provided for Sibyl, and that she at least would never want. During the night which followed, however, he could not sleep. Spectre after spectre of his past life rose up before him in the gloom. He saw now that ever since his marriage the way had been paved for this final act of crime. The extravagances which his wife had committed, and which he himself had not put down with a firm hand, had led to further extravagances on his part. They had lived from the first beyond their means. Money difficulties had always dogged hisfootsteps, and now the only way out was by a deed of sin which might ruin thousands.
“But the child—the child!” he thought; something very like a sob rose to his lips. Toward morning, however, he forced his thoughts into other channels, drew his blanket tightly round him, and fell into a long, deep sleep.
When he awoke the foreman and his men were already busy. They began to bore through the alluvial deposit in several directions, and Ogilvie and Rycroft spent their entire time in directing these operations. It would be over a fortnight’s work at least before Ogilvie could come to any absolute decision as to the true value of the mine. Day after day went quickly by, and the more often he inspected the ore submitted to him the more certain was Ogilvie that the supposed rich veins were a myth. He said little as he performed his daily task, and Rycroft watched his face with anxiety.
Rycroft was a hard-headed man, troubled by no qualms of conscience, anxious to enrich himself, and rather pleased than otherwise at the thought of fooling thousands of speculators in many parts of the world. The only thing that caused him fear was the possibility that when the instant came, Ogilvie would not take the final leap.
“Nevertheless, I believe he will,” was Rycroft’sfinal comment; “men of his sort go down deeper and fall more desperately than harder-headed fellows like myself. When a man has a conscience his fall is worse, if he does fall, than if he had none. But why does a man like Ogilvie undertake this sort of work? He must have a motive hidden from any of us. Oh, he’ll tumble safe enough when the moment comes, but if he doesn’t break his heart in that fall, I am much mistaken in my man.”
Four shafts had been cut and levels driven in many directions with disappointing results. It was soon all too plain that the ores were practically valueless, though the commencement of each lode looked fairly promising.
After a little over a fortnight’s hard work it was decided that it was useless to proceed.
“There is nothing more to be done, Mr. Ogilvie,” said Rycroft, as the two men sat over their supper together. “For six months the alluvial will yield about six ounces to the ton. After that”—he paused and looked full at the grim, silent face of the man opposite him.
“After that?” said Ogilvie. He compressed his lips the moment he uttered the words.
Rycroft jerked his thumb significantly over his left shoulder by way of answer.
“You mean that we must see this butchery of the innocents through,” said Ogilvie.
“I see no help for it,” replied Rycroft. “We will start back to Brisbane to-morrow, and when we get there draw up the report; I had better attend to that part of the business, of course under your superintendence. We must both sign it. But first had we not better cable to Grayleigh? He must have expected to hear from us before now. He can lay our cable before the directors, and then things can be put in train; the report can follow by the first mail.”
“I shall take the report back with me,” said Ogilvie.
“Better not,” answered his companion, “best trust Her Majesty’s mails. It might so happen that you would lose it.” As Rycroft spoke a crafty look came into his eyes.
“Let us pack our traps,” said Ogilvie, rising.
“The sooner we get out of this the better.”
The next morning early they left the solitude, the neighborhood of the lofty peaks and the desecrated earth beneath. They reached Brisbane in about four days, and put up once more at the Waharoo Hotel. There the real business for which all this preparation had been made commenced. Rycroft was a past master in drawing up reports of mines, and Ogilvie now helped him with a will. Hefound a strange pleasure in doing his work as carefully as possible. He no longer suffered from qualms of conscience. The mine would work really well for six months. During that time the promoters would make their fortunes. Afterward—the deluge. But that mattered very little to Ogilvie in his present state of mind.
“If I suffer as I have done lately from this troublesome heart of mine I shall have gone to my account before six months,” thought the man; “the child will be provided for, and no one will ever know.”
The report was a plausible and highly colored one.
It was lengthy in detail, and prophesied a brilliant future for Lombard Deeps. Ogilvie and Rycroft, both assayers of knowledge and experience, declared that they had carefully examined the lodes, that they had struck four veins of rich ore yielding, after crushing, an average of six ounces to the ton, and that the extent and richness of the ore was practically unlimited.
They spent several days over this document, and at last it was finished.
“I shall take the next mail home,” said Ogilvie, standing up after he had read his own words for the twentieth time.
“Sign first,” replied Rycroft. He pushed the paper across to Ogilvie.
“Yes, I shall go to-morrow morning,” continued Ogilvie. “TheSaharasails to-morrow at noon?”
“I believe so; but sign, won’t you?”
Ogilvie took up his pen; he held it suspended as he looked again at his companion.
“I shall take a berth on board at once,” he said.
“All right, old chap, but sign first.”
Ogilvie was about to put his signature to the bottom of the document, when suddenly, without the least warning, a strange giddiness, followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It passed off, leaving him very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a dazed way.
“What is wrong,” asked Rycroft; “are you ill?”
“I suffer from this sort of thing now and then,” replied Ogilvie, bringing out his words in short gasps. “Brandy, please.”
Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a glass of brandy, and brought it to Ogilvie.
“You look ghastly,” he said; “drink.”
Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the color returned to his face.
“Now sign,” said Rycroft again.
“Where is the pen?” asked Ogilvie.
He was all too anxious now to take the fatalplunge. His signature, firm and bold, was put to the document. He pushed it from him and stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie’s.
“Now our work is done,” cried Rycroft, “and Her Majesty’s mail does the rest. By the way, I cabled a brilliant report an hour back. Grayleigh seemed anxious. There have been ominous reports in some of the London papers.”
“This will set matters right,” said Ogilvie. “Put it in an envelope. If I sail to-morrow, I may as well take it myself.”
“Her Majesty’s mail would be best,” answered Rycroft. “You can see Grayleigh almost as soon as he gets the report. Remember, I am responsible for it as well as you, and it would be best for it to go in the ordinary way.” As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, took the document and folded it up.
Just at this moment there came a tap at the door. Rycroft cried, “Come in,” and a messenger entered with a cablegram.
“For Mr. Ogilvie,” he said.
“From Grayleigh, of course,” said Rycroft, “how impatient he gets! Wait outside,” he continued to the messenger.
The man withdrew, and Ogilvie slowly opened the telegram. Rycroft watched him as he read. He read slowly, and with no apparent change of feature.The message was short, but when his eyes had travelled to the end, he read from the beginning right through again. Then, without the slightest warning, and without even uttering a groan, the flimsy paper fluttered from his hand, he tumbled forward, and lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.
Rycroft ran to him. He took a certain interest in Ogilvie, but above all things on earth at that moment he wanted to get the document which contained the false report safely into the post. Before he attempted to restore the stricken man, he took up the cablegram and read the contents. It ran as follows:—
“Sibyl has had bad fall from pony. Case hopeless. Come home at once.”
“Sibyl has had bad fall from pony. Case hopeless. Come home at once.”
“So Sibyl, whoever Sibyl may be, is at the bottom of Ogilvie’s fall,” thought Rycroft. “Poor chap! he has got a fearful shock. Best make all safe. I must see things through.”
Without an instant’s hesitation Rycroft took the already signed document, thrust it into an envelope, directed it in full and stamped it. Then he went to the telegraph messenger who was still waiting outside.
“No answer to the cable, but take this at once to the post-office and register it,” he said; “here is money—you can keep the change.”
The man departed on his errand, carrying the signed document.
Rycroft now bent over Ogilvie. There was a slightly blue tinge round his lips, but the rest of his face was white and drawn.
“Looks like death,” muttered Rycroft. He unfastened Ogilvie’s collar and thrust his hand beneath his shirt. He felt the faint, very faint beat of the heart.
“Still living,” he murmured, with a sigh of relief. He applied the usual restoratives. In a few moments Ogilvie opened his eyes.
“What has happened?” he said, looking round him in a dazed way. “Oh, I remember, I had a message from London.”
“Yes, old fellow, don’t speak for a moment.”
“I must get back at once; thechild——”
“All right, you shall go in theSaharato-morrow.”
“But the document,” said Ogilvie, “it—isn’t needed; I want it back.”
“Don’t trouble about it now.”
Ogilvie staggered to his feet.
“You don’t understand. I did it because—because of one who will not need it. I want it back.”
“Too late,” said Rycroft, then. “That document is already in the post. Come, you must pull yourself together for the sake of Sibyl, whoever she is.”
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 likedto 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 theSahara, and would be in England as quickly as the great liner could bring him across the ocean. But by the doctor’sorders 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 throughall 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. Hisvoice 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 veryyoung 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 herown 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, “theSaharais 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 meanby 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.”
Lord Grayleigh was so anxious about the Syndicate that he would not go to Scotland for the shooting as usual. Later on he would attend to his pleasures, but not now. Later on when Ogilvie had returned, and the company was finally floated, and the shares taken up, he would relax his efforts, but just at present he was engaged over the biggest thing of his life. He was cheerful, however, and full of hope. He even thanked Providence for having aided all his exertions. So blinded was he by the glare of avarice and the desire for adding wealth to wealth that Ogilvie’s cablegram set every anxiety at rest. He even believed that the mine was as full of gold as the cablegram seemed to indicate. Yes, everything was going well. The Lombard Deeps Company would be floated in a short time, the Board of Directors was complete.
Ogilvie’s cablegram was shown to a few of the longest-headed men in the financial world, and his report was anxiously looked for. Rumors carefully worded got by degrees into the public press, the ominous whispers were absolutely silenced: all, in short, was ripe for action. Nothing definite, however,could be done until the full report of the mine arrived.
Lord Grayleigh was fond of saying to himself: “From the tone of Ogilvie’s cablegram the mine must be all that we desire, the ore rich, the veins good, the extent of the wealth unlimited. It will be nice,” Lord Grayleigh reflected, “to be rich and also honest at the same time.” He was a man with many kindly impulses, but he had never been much troubled by the voice of conscience. So he went backward and forward to his lovely home in the country, and played with his children, and enjoyed life generally.
On a certain day in the first week of September he received a letter from Mrs. Ogilvie; it ran as follows:—