Ogilvie went up to Sibyl. Suffering and love had taught him many lessons, amongst others those of absolute self-control. His face was smiling and calm as he crossed the room, bent over the child and kissed her. Those blue eyes of hers, always so full of penetration and of knowledge, which was not all this earth, could detect no sorrow in her father’s.
“I must go to town, I shall be away for as short a time as possible. As soon as I come back I will come to you,” he said. “Look after her, please, Miss Winstead. If you cannot remain in the room, send nurse. Now, don’t tire yourself, my little love. Remember that father will be back very soon.”
“Don’t hurry, father darling,” replied Sibyl “’cos I am quite happy thinking about you, even if you are not here.”
He went away, ran downstairs, put on his hat and went out. His wife was standing in the porch.
“One moment, Phil,” she called, “where are you going?”
“To town.”
“To do what?”
“To do what I said,” he answered, and he gave her a strange look, which frightened her, and caused her to fall back against the wall.
He disappeared down the avenue, she sank into a chair and began to weep. She was thoroughly miserable and frightened. Philip had returned, but all pleasant golden dreams were shattered, for although he had sent a cablegram to Lord Grayleigh, saying that all was well, better than well, his conscience was speaking to him, that troublesome terrible conscience of his, and he was about to destroy his own work.
“What fearful creatures men with consciences are,” moaned Mrs. Ogilvie.
Meanwhile Ogilvie walked quickly up the avenue. Just at the gates he met an old couple who were coming in. They were a queer-looking old pair, dressed in old-fashioned style. Ogilvie did not know them, but the woman paused when she saw him, came forward, dropped a curtsey and said:
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“What can I do for you?” said Ogilvie. He tried to speak courteously, but this delay, and the presence of the old couple whose names he did not even know, irritated him.
“If you please, sir, you are Mr. Ogilvie?”
“That is my name.”
“We know you,” continued the old woman, “by the likeness to your little daughter.”
The mention of Sibyl caused Ogilvie now to regard them more attentively.
“May I inquire your names?” he asked.
“Holman, sir,” said the woman. “This is my husband, sir. We heard only yesterday of dear little Missie’s illness, and we couldn’t rest until we came to enquire after her. We greatly ’opes, sir, that the dear little lamb is better. We thought you wouldn’t mind if we asked.”
“By no means,” answered Ogilvie. “Any friends of Sibyl’s, any real friends, are of interest to me.”
He paused and looked into the old woman’s face.
“She’s better, ain’t she, dear lamb?” asked Mrs. Holman.
Ogilvie shook his head; it was a quick movement, his face was very white, his lips opened but no words came. The next instant he had hurried down the road, leaving the old pair looking after him.
Mrs. Holman caught her husband’s hand.
“What do it mean, John?” she asked, “what do it mean?”
“We had best go to the house and find out,” was Holman’s response.
“Yes, we had best,” replied Mrs. Holman; “but,John, I take it that it means the worst. The little lamb was too good for this earth. I always said it, John, always.”
“Come to the house and let’s find out,” said Holman again.
He took his old wife’s hand, and the strange-looking pair walked down the avenue. Presently they found themselves standing outside the pretty old-fashioned porch of lovely Silverbel. They did not know as they walked that they were in full view of the windows of the Chamber of Peace, and that eager blue eyes were watching them, eager eyes which filled with love and longing when they gazed at them.
“Miss Winstead!” cried little Sibyl.
“What is it, dear?” asked the governess.
Sibyl had been silent for nearly a quarter of an hour, and Miss Winstead, tired with the bazaar and many other things, had been falling into a doze. The sudden excitement in Sibyl’s voice now arrested her attention.
“Oh, Miss Winstead, they have come.”
“Who have come, dear?”
“The Holmans, the darlings! I saw them walking down the avenue. Oh, I should so like to see them. Will you go down and bring them up? Please do.”
“But the doctor said you were to be quiet, and not excite yourself.”
“What does it matter whether I incite myself or not? Please, please let me see the Holmans.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Miss Winstead. She left the room and went downstairs. As she entered the central hall she suddenly found herself listening to an animated conversation.
“Now, my good people,” said Mrs. Ogilvie’s voice, raised high and clear, “you will be kind enough to return to town immediately. The child is ill, but we hope soon to have her better. See her, did you say, my good woman? Certainly not. I shall be pleased to offer you refreshment if you will go round to the housekeeper’s entrance, but you must take the next train to town, you cannot see the child.”
“If you please, Mrs. Ogilvie,” here interrupted Miss Winstead, coming forward. “Sibyl noticed Mr. and Mrs. Holman as they walked down the avenue, and is very much pleased and delighted at their coming to see her, and wants to know if they may come up at once and have a talk with her?”
“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie; “I really must give the child another bedroom, this sort of thing is so bad for her. It is small wonder the darlingdoes not get back her health—the dreadful way in which she is over-excited and injudiciously treated. Really, my good folks, I wish you would go back to town and not make mischief.”
“But if the little lady wishes?” began Mrs. Holman, in a timid voice, tears trembling on her eyelids.
“Sibyl certainly does wish to see you,” said Miss Winstead in a grave voice. “I think, Mrs. Ogilvie,” she added, “it would be a pity to refuse her. I happen to know Mr. and Mrs. Holman pretty well, and I do not think they will injure dear little Sibyl. If you will both promise to come upstairs quietly,” continued Miss Winstead, “and not express sorrow when you see her, for she is much changed, and will endeavor to speak cheerfully, you will do her good, not harm.”
“Oh, yes, we’ll speak cheerfully,” said Holman; “we know the ways of dear little Miss. If so be that she would see us, it would be a great gratification, Madam, and we will give you our word that we will not injure your little daughter.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, waving her hand, “My opinion is never taken in this house, nor my wishes consulted. I pass the responsibility on to you, Miss Winstead. When the child’s father returns and finds that you have acted as you have doneyou will have to answer to him. I wash my hands of the matter.”
Mrs. Ogilvie went out on to the lawn.
“The day is improving,” she thought. She glanced up at the sky. “It certainly is miserable at home, and every one talks nonsense about Sibyl. I shall really take a drive and go and see the Le Stranges. I cannot stand the gloom of the house. The dear child is getting better fast, there is not the least doubt of it, and why Phil should talk as he does, and in particular why he should speak as if we were paupers, is past bearing. Lose Silverbel! I certainly will not submit to that.”
So the much aggrieved wife went round in the direction of the stables, gave orders that the pony trap was to be got ready for her, and soon afterward was on her way to the Le Stranges. By the time she reached that gay and somewhat festive household, she herself was as merry and hopeful as usual.
Meantime Miss Winstead took the Holmans upstairs.
“You must be prepared for a very great change,” said Miss Winstead, “but you will not show her that you notice it. She is very sweet and very happy, and I do not think anyone need be over-sorry about her.”
Miss Winstead’s own voice trembled. The next moment she opened the door of the Chamber of Peace, and the old-fashioned pair from whom Sibyl had bought so many dusty toys stood before her.
“Eh, my little love, and how are you, dearie?” said Mrs. Holman. She went forward, dropped on her knees by the bed, and took one of Sibyl’s soft white hands. “Eh, dearie, and what can Mrs. Holman do for you?”
“How do you do, Mrs. Holman?” said Sibyl, in her weak, but perfectly clear voice; “and how do you do, Mr. Holman? How very kind of you both to come to see me. Do you know I love you very much. I think of you so often. Won’t you come to the other side of the bed, Mr. Holman, and won’t you take a chair? My voice is apt to get tired if I talk too loud. I am very glad to see you both.”
“Eh! but you look sweet,” said Mrs. Holman.
Mr. Holman now took his big handkerchief and blew his nose violently. After that precautionary act he felt better, as he expressed it, and no longer in danger of giving way. But Mrs. Holman never for a single instant thought of giving way. She had once, long ago, had a child of her own—a child who died when young—and she had sat by that dying child’s bed and never once given expression to herfeelings. So why should she now grieve little Sibyl by showing undue sorrow?
“It is nice to look at you, dearie,” she repeated, “and what a pretty room you have, my love.”
“Everything is beautiful,” said little Sibyl, “everything in all the world, and I love you so much.”
“To be sure, darling, and so do Holman and I love you.”
“Whisper,” said Sibyl, “bend a little nearer, my voice gets so very tired. Have you kept your hundred pounds quite safe?”
“Yes, darling, but we won’t talk of money now.”
“Only,” said Sibyl, “when the gold comes from the mineyou’llbe all right. Lord Grayleigh has wrote your name and Mr. Holman’s in his note-book, and he has promised that you are to get some of the gold. You’ll be able to have the shop in Buckingham Palace Road, and the children will come to you and buy your beautiful toys.” She paused here and her little face turned white.
“You must not talk any more, dearie,” said Mrs. Holman. “It’s all right about the gold and everything else. All we want is for you to get well.”
“I am getting well,” answered Sibyl, but as she said the words a curious expression came into her eyes.
“You know,” she said, as Mrs. Holman rose and took her hand before she went away, “that when we have wings we fly. I think my wings are coming; but oh, I love you, and you won’t forget me when you have your big shop in Buckingham Palace Road?”
“We will never forget you, dearie,” said Mrs. Holman, and then she stooped and kissed the child.
“Come, Holman,” she said.
“If I might,” said old Holman, straightening himself and looking very solemn, “if I might have the great privilege of kissing little Missie’s hand afore I go.”
“Oh, indeed, you may,” said Sibyl.
A moment later the old pair were seen going slowly down the avenue.
“Blessed darling, her wings are very near, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Holman. She was sobbing now, although she had not sobbed in the sick room.
“Queer woman, the mother,” said Holman. “We’ll get back to town, wife; I’m wonderful upset.”
“We’ll never sell no more of the dusty toys to no other little children,” said Mrs. Holman, and she wept behind her handkerchief.
Ogilvie went straight to town. When he arrived at Victoria he took a hansom and drove to the house of the great doctor who had last seen Sibyl. Sir Henry Powell was at home. Ogilvie sent in his card and was admitted almost immediately into his presence. He asked a few questions, they were straight and to the point, and to the point did the specialist reply. His last words were:
“It is a question of time; but the end may come at any moment. There never was any hope from the beginning. From the first it was a matter of days and weeks, I did not know when I first saw your little daughter that she could live even as long as she has done, but the injury to the spine was low down, which doubtless accounts for this fact.”
Ogilvie bowed, offered a fee, which Sir Henry refused, and left the house. Although he had just received the blow which he expected to receive, he felt strangely quiet, his troublesome heart was not troublesome any longer. There was no excitement whatever about him; he had never felt so calm in all his life before. He knew well that, as far as earthly success and earthly hope and earthly joywent, he was coming to the end of the ways. He knew that he had strength for the task which lay before him.
He went to the nearest telegraph office and sent three telegrams to Lord Grayleigh. He pre-paid the answers of each, sending one to Grayleigh’s club, another to his house in town, and another to Grayleigh Manor. The contents of each were identical.
“Wire immediately the next meeting of the directors of the Lombard Deeps.”
“Wire immediately the next meeting of the directors of the Lombard Deeps.”
He gave as the address to which the reply was to be sent his own house in Belgrave Square.
Having done this he paid a visit to his solicitor, Mr. Acland. Acland did not know that he had come back, and was unfeignedly glad to see him, but when he observed the expression on his friend’s face, he started and said:
“My dear fellow, you don’t look the better for your trip; I am sorry to see you so broken down.”
“I have a good deal to try me,” said Ogilvie; “please do not discuss my looks. It does not matter whether I am ill or well. I have much to do and must do my work quickly. You have heard, of course, about the child?”
“Of her accident?” exclaimed Acland; “yes, her mother wrote to me some time ago—she had a fall from her pony?”
“She had.”
“Take a chair, won’t you, Ogilvie?”
Ogilvie dropped into one. Acland looked at him and then said, slowly:
“I judged from Mrs. Ogilvie’s note that there was nothing serious the matter. I hope I am not mistaken.”
“You are mistaken,” replied Ogilvie; “but I cannot quite bear to discuss this matter. Shall we enter at once on the real object of my visit?”
“Certainly,” said Acland.
A clerk entered the room. “Leave us,” said Acland to the man, “and say to any inquirers that I am particularly engaged. Now, Ogilvie,” he added as the clerk withdrew, “I am quite at your service.”
“Thank you. There is a little business which has just come to my ears, and which I wish to arrange quickly. My wife tells me that she has borrowed two thousand pounds from you in order to pay a deposit on the place on the Thames called Silverbel.”
“Yes, the place where your wife is now staying.”
“Exactly.”
“I hope you approve of Silverbel, Ogilvie; it is really cheap at the price; and, of course, everyone knows that you have returned a very rich man. It would have been pleasanter for me had you beenat home when the purchase was made, but Mrs. Ogilvie was insistent. She had taken a strong fancy to the place. There were several other less expensive country places in the market, but the only one which would please her was Silverbel. I cabled to you, but got no reply. Your wife implored me to act, and I lent her the deposit. The purchase must be completed at the end of October, in about a month from now. I hope you don’t blame me, Ogilvie?”
“I don’t blame you—I understand my wife. It would have been difficult to refuse her. Of course, had you done so matters might have been a little easier for me now. As it is, I will pay you back the deposit. I have my cheque-book with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I should like to write a cheque for you now. I must get this matter put straight, and, Acland, you must find another purchaser.”
“Not really!” cried Mr. Acland. “The place is beautiful, and cheap at the price, and you have come back a rich man.”
“On the contrary, I have returned to England practically a pauper.”
“No!” cried Mr. Acland; “but the report of the LombardDeeps——”
“Hush, you will know all soon. It is sufficientfor you at present to receive the news in all confidence that I am a ruined man. Not that it matters. There will be a trifle for my wife—nothing else concerns me. May I fill in this cheque?”
“You can do so, of course,” replied Acland. “I shall receive the money in full sooner or later from the other purchaser, and then you can have it back.”
“It would be a satisfaction to me, however, to pay you the deposit you lent my wife at once.”
“Very well.”
Ogilvie filled in a cheque for two thousand pounds.
“You had better see Mrs. Ogilvie with regard to this,” he said, as he stood up. “You transacted the business with her, and you must break to her what I have already done, but what I fear she fails to believe, that the purchase cannot possibly go on. It will not be in my power, Acland, to complete it, even if I should be alive at the time.”
“I know another man only too anxious to purchase,” said Acland; “but I am deeply sorry for you—your child so ill, your own mission to Queensland a failure.”
“Yes, quite a failure. I won’t detain you any longer now. I may need your services again presently.”
Ogilvie went from the lawyer’s house straight tohis own in Belgrave Square. It was in the hands of a caretaker. A seedy-looking man in a rusty black coat opened the door. He did not know Ogilvie.
“I am the master,” said Ogilvie; “let me in, please.”
The man stood aside.
“Has a telegram come for me?”
“Yes, sir, five minutes ago.”
Ogilvie tore it open, and read the contents.
“Meeting of directors at one o’clock to-morrow, at Cannon Street Hotel. Not necessary for you to be present unless you wish.GRAYLEIGH.”
“Meeting of directors at one o’clock to-morrow, at Cannon Street Hotel. Not necessary for you to be present unless you wish.GRAYLEIGH.”
Ogilvie crushed up the telegram, and turned to the man.
“I shall sleep here to-night,” Ogilvie said, “and shall be back in the course of the evening.”
He then went to his bank. It was within half-an-hour of closing. He saw one of the managers who happened to be a friend of his. The manager welcomed him back with effusion, and then made the usual remark about his changed appearance.
Ogilvie put his troublesome questions aside.
“I had an interview with you just before I went to Queensland,” he said, “and I then placed, witha special note for your instructions in case anything happened to me, a sum of money in the bank.”
“A large sum, Ogilvie—ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, ten thousand pounds,” repeated Ogilvie. “I want to withdraw the money.”
“It is a considerable sum to withdraw at once, but as it is not on deposit you can have it.”
“I thought it only fair to give you a few hours’ notice. I shall call for it to-morrow about ten o’clock.”
“Do you wish to take it in a cheque?”
“I think not, I should prefer notes.” Ogilvie added a few more words, and then went back to his own house.
At last everything was in train. He uttered a sigh of relief. The house looked gloomy and dismantled, but for that very reason it suited his feelings. Some of the furniture had been removed to Silverbel, and the place was dusty. His study in particular looked forbidding, some ashes from the last fire ever made there still remained in the grate. He wondered if anyone had ever entered the study since he last sat there and struggled with temptation and yielded to it.
He went up to his own room, which had been hastily prepared for him, and looked around him in a forlorn way. He then quickly mounted anotherflight of stairs, and found himself at last in the room where his little daughter used to sleep. The moment he entered this room he was conscious of a sensation of comfort. The worldliness of all the rest of the house fell away in this sweet, simply furnished chamber. He sat down near the little empty bed, pressed his hand over his eyes, and gave himself up to thought.
Nobody knew how long he sat there. The caretaker and his wife took no notice. They were busy down in the kitchen. It mattered nothing at all to them whether Ogilvie were in the house or not. He breathed a conscious sigh of relief. He was glad to be alone, and the spirit of his little daughter seemed close to him. He had something hard to go through, and terrible agony would be his as he accomplished his task. He knew that he should have to walk through fire, and the fire would not be brief nor quickly over. Step by step his wounded feet must tread. By no other road was there redemption. He did not shirk the inevitable. On the contrary, his mind was made up.
“By no other road can I clasp her hand in the Eternity which lies beyond this present life,” he thought. “I deserve the pain and the shame, I deserve all. There are times when a man comes face to face with God. It is fearful when his God isangry with him. My God is angry—the pains of hell take hold of me.”
He walked to the window and looked out. It is doubtful if he saw much. Suddenly beside the little empty bed he fell on his knees, buried his face in his hands and a sob rose to his throat.
On the following day, shortly before one o’clock, the directors of the Lombard Deeps Company assembled in one of the big rooms of the Cannon Street Hotel. Lord Grayleigh, the Chairman, had not yet arrived. The rest of the directors sat around a long, green baize table and talked eagerly one to the other. They formed a notable gathering, including many of the astutest financiers in the city. As they sat and waited for Grayleigh to appear, they eagerly discussed the prospects of the new venture. While they talked their spirits rose, and had any outside spectator been present he would have guessed that they had already made up their minds to an enormous success.
Just on the stroke of one Grayleigh, carrying a roll of documents in his hand, entered the room. There was a lull in the conversation as he nodded to one and another of his acquaintances, went quickly up the room and took his seat at the head of thetable. Here he arranged his papers and held a short consultation with the secretary, a tall man of about fifty years of age. There was a short pause and then Lord Grayleigh rose to his feet.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “although, as you know, I have been and am still chairman of several companies, I can say without hesitation that never have I presided at a meeting of the directors of any company before which had such brilliant prospects. It is my firm conviction, and I hope to impress you all with a similar feeling, that the Lombard Deeps Mining Company has a great career before it.”
Expressions of satisfaction rose from one or two present.
Lord Grayleigh proceeded: “This I can frankly say is largely due to our having secured the services of Mr. Philip Ogilvie as our assayer, but I regret to have to tell you all that, although he has returned to England, he is not likely to be present to-day. A very serious domestic calamity which ought to claim your deepest sympathy is the cause of his absence, but his report in detail I shall now have the pleasure of submitting to you.”
Here Lord Grayleigh took up the document which had been signed by Ogilvie and Rycroft at the Waharoo Hotel at Brisbane. He proceeded to read it aloud, emphasizing the words which spoke of thevalue of the veins of gold beneath the alluvial deposit.
“This report,” he said in conclusion, “is vouched for by the signatures of my friend Ogilvie and also by James Rycroft, who is nearly as well known in Queensland as Ogilvie is in London.”
As detail after detail of the brilliantly worded document which Ogilvie and Rycroft had compounded with such skill, fell upon the ears of Lord Grayleigh’s audience, satisfaction not unmixed with avarice lit up the eyes of many. Accustomed as most of these men were to assayers’ reports, what they now listened to unfeignedly astonished them. There was a great silence in the room, and not the slightest word from Lord Grayleigh’s clear voice was lost.
When he had finished he laid the document on the table and was just about, as he expressed it, to proceed to business when a movement at the door caused all to turn their heads. Ogilvie had unexpectedly entered the room.
Cries of welcome greeted him and many hands were stretched out. He contented himself, however, with bowing slightly, and going up the room handed Lord Grayleigh a packet.
“Don’t open it now,” he said in a low voice, “it is for yourself, and carries its own explanation with it.”
He then turned and faced the directors. There was something about his demeanor and an indescribable look on his face, which caused the murmurs of applause to die away and silence once more to fill the room.
Lord Grayleigh slipped the small packet into his pocket and also rose to his feet.
Ogilvie’s attitude and manner disturbed him. A sensation as though of coming calamity seemed to weigh the air. Lord Grayleigh was the first to speak.
“We are all glad to welcome you back, Ogilvie,” he said. “In more senses than one we are pleased that you are able to be present just now. I have just been reading your report to these gentlemen. I had finished it when you entered the room.”
“It is an admirable and brilliant account of the mine, Mr. Ogilvie,” said a director from the far end of the table. “I congratulate you not only on the good news it contains, but on the excellent manner in which you have put details together. The Lombard Deeps will be the best thing in the market, and we shall not need for capital to work the mine to the fullest extent.”
“Will you permit me to look at my report for a moment, Lord Grayleigh?” said Ogilvie, in a grave tone.
Grayleigh gave it to him. Ogilvie took it in his hand.
“I have come here to-day,” he said, “to speak for a moment”—his voice was husky; he cleared his throat, and went on—“to perform a painful business, to set wrong right. I am prepared, gentlemen, for your opprobrium. You think well of me now, you will not do so long. I have come here to speak to you ofthat——”
“Sit down,” said Grayleigh’s voice behind him. “You must be mad. Remember yourself.” He laid his hand on Ogilvie’s arm. Ogilvie shook it off.
“I can tell you, gentlemen, what I have come to say in a few words,” he continued. “This report which I drew up, and which I signed, is asfalse as hell.”
“False?” echoed a voice in the distance, a thin voice from a foreign-looking man. “Impossible!”
“It is false,” continued Ogilvie. “I wrote the report and I ought to know. I spent three weeks at the Lombard Deeps Mine. There were no rich veins of gold; there was a certain alluvial deposit, which for a time, a few months, might yield five ounces to the ton. I wrote the report for a motive which no longer exists. God Himself smote me for my infamouswork. Gentlemen, you can do with me exactly as you think fit, but this report, signed by me, shall never go before the world.”
As he said the last words he hastily tore away his own signature, crushed it in his hands and, crossing the room, threw it into a small fire which was burning in the grate.
This action was the signal for great excitement on the part of most of the directors. Others poured out floods of questions. Lord Grayleigh alone remained quietly seated in his chair, but his face was white, and for the time he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing.
“I have no excuse to offer,” continued Ogilvie, “and I refuse to inculpate anyone with myself in this matter. This was my own concern; I thought out the report, I worded it, I signed it. Rycroft was more or less my tool. In the moment of my so-called victory God smote me. You can do with me just as you please, but the Lombard Deeps Company must collapse. I have nothing further to say.”
He left the room, dropping the now worthless document on to the table as he did so. No one interrupted him or prevented his exit. As his footsteps died away on the stairs the discomfited and astonished directors looked one at the other.
“What is the meaning of it all?” said one, goingup to Grayleigh; “you are chairman, and you ought to know.”
Grayleigh shook himself and stood up.
“This must be a brief madness,” he said; “there is no other way to account for it. Ogilvie, of all men under the sun! Gentlemen, you know his character, you know what his name was worth as our engineer, but there is one other thing you do not know. The poor fellow has a child, only one, to whom he is devoted. I heard this morning that the child is dying. Under such circumstances his mind may have been unhinged. Let me follow him. I will return after I have said a word to him.”
The chairman left the room, ran quickly downstairs and out into the street. Ogilvie had hailed a hansom and was getting into it.
“One moment first,” said Grayleigh.
“What do you want?” asked Ogilvie.
“An explanation.”
“I gave it upstairs.”
“You are mad—you are mad.”
“On the contrary, I believe that I am sane—sane at last. I grant you I was mad when I signed the report, but I am sane now.”
“What packet was that you gave me?”
“Your money back.”
“The ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes; I did not want it. I have delivered my soul, and nothing else matters.”
“Tell me at least one thing. Is this strange action on your part owing to the child’s accident?”
“It is. I was going headlong down to hell, but God, through her, has pulled me up short. Gold is utterly valueless to me now. The child is dying, and I cannot part with her for all eternity. You can draw your own conclusions.”
As Ogilvie spoke he shook Grayleigh’s detaining hand from his arm. The chairman of the Lombard Deeps Company stood still for a moment, then returned to the directors.
As Grayleigh walked slowly upstairs he had a moment’s conflict with his own conscience. In one thing at least Ogilvie was generous. He had not dragged Lord Grayleigh to the earth in his own fall. The affair of the ten thousand pounds was known to no one else.
“He fell, and I caused him to fall,” thought Lord Grayleigh. “In the moment of his fall, if I were even half a man, I would stand by him and acknowledge my share in the matter. But no; where would be the use? I cannot drag my children through the mire. Poor Ogilvie is losing his child, and for him practically life is over.”
Grayleigh re-entered the room where the directors waited for him.
“I saw Ogilvie just now,” he said, “and he sticks to his story. I fear, too, that I was wrong in my conjecture with regard to his madness. He must have had a temporary madness when he drew up and signed the false report. I suppose we ought to consider ourselves lucky.”
“At least the widows and orphans won’t be ruined,” said one of the directors, a thin-faced anxious-looking man. “Well, of course, Lord Grayleigh, we must all wash our hands of this.”
“We must do so advisedly,” was Grayleigh’s remark; “remember, we have gone far. Remember, the cablegram was not kept too secret, and the knowledge of the excellent report sent by Ogilvie has got to the ears of one or two city editors. He must give out that there was a misunderstanding as to the value of the mine.”
“And what of Ogilvie himself?” said an angry-looking man. “Such infamous conduct requires stringent measures. Do you gentlemen share my views?”
One or two did, but most protested against dragging Ogilvie’s story too prominently into the light of day.
“It may reflect on ourselves,” said one or two.“It is just possible there may be some people who will not believe that he was alone in this matter.”
Lord Grayleigh was the last to speak.
“If I were you, gentlemen,” he said, moodily, “I would leave Ogilvie to his God.”
“Philip!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, as he re-entered pretty Silverbel about four o’clock that afternoon, “I have just had an extraordinary telegram from our lawyer, Mr. Acland.”
Ogilvie looked full at her but did not speak.
“How strangely tired and worn you look,” she replied; “what can be the matter with you? Sometimes, when I think of you and the extraordinary way in which you are acting, I come to the conclusion that your brain cannot be right.”
“You are wrong there, Mildred. There was a time when not only my brain but all my moral qualities were affected, but I believe these things are put right at last.”
He gave a hollow laugh.
“I am enjoying, for the first time for many months, the applause of an approving conscience,” he continued; “that is something to live for.”
“Have you done anything rash, Philip?”
“I have done something which my conscience justifies. Now, what about the telegram from Acland?”
“He is coming here this evening to have a talk with me. What can he have to say?”
“Doubtless his visit is accounted for by an interview I had with him yesterday. I asked him to explain matters to you, as you and he conducted the business with regard to this place together. Mildred, Silverbel must be given up.”
Her face grew red with passion, she felt inclined to stamp her foot.
“It cannot be,” she cried, “we have already paid two thousand pounds deposit.”
“That money was returned by me to Acland yesterday. He has doubtless heard of another purchaser. It will be a lucky thing for us, Mildred, if he takes the furniture as well as the place. Pray don’t keep me now.”
She gave a sharp cry and flung herself into a chair. Ogilvie paused as if to speak to her, then changed his mind and went slowly upstairs. On the landing outside Sibyl’s door he paused for a moment, struggling with himself.
“The bitterness of death lies before me,” he muttered, for he knew that difficult as was the task which he had accomplished that morning at the Cannon Street Hotel, terrible as was the moment when he stood before his fellow men and branded himself as a felon, these things were nothing, nothing at all to that which now lay before him, for God demanded something more of the man—he mustopen the eyes of the child who worshipped him. The thought of this awful task almost paralyzed him; his heart beat with heavy throbs and the moisture stood on his forehead. One look at Sibyl, however, lying whiter and sweeter than ever in her little bed, restored to him that marvellous self-control which love alone can give.
Nurse was in the room, and it was evident that nurse had been having a bout of crying. Her eyelids were red. She turned when she saw her master, went up to him and shook her head.
“Leave us for a little, nurse,” said Ogilvie.
She went away at once.
Ogilvie now approached the bed, dropped into a chair and took one of Sibyl’s hands.
“You have been a long time away, father,” said the child.
“I have, my darling, I had a great deal to do.”
“Business, father?”
“Yes, dearest, important business.”
“You don’t look well,” said Sibyl. She gazed at him, apprehensively, her blue eyes opened wide, and a spasm of pain flitted across her brow.
“I have had a hard time,” said the man, “and now, my little girl, I have come to you, to you, my dearest, to perform the hardest task of my life.”
“To me, father? The hardest task of your life?”
“Yes, my little daughter, I have something to say to you.”
“Something bad?” asked Sibyl.
“Something very bad.”
Sibyl shut her eyes for a minute, then she opened them and looked steadily at her father, her childish lips became slightly compressed, it was as if a world of strength suddenly entered her little frame, as though, dying as she was, she was bracing herself to endure.
“I am very sorry,” she said. “I love you so much. What is it, darlingest father?”
“Let me hold your hand,” he said. “It will be easier for me to tell you something then.”
She gave it to him. He clasped it in both of his, bent forward, and began to speak.
“At the moment, little Sibyl, when the cablegram which told me of your accident was put into my hand, I had just done something so wicked, so terrible, that God Himself, God Almighty, rose up and smote me.”
“I don’t understand,” said the child.
“I will explain. The cablegram told me that you were ill, very ill. I wanted to undo what I had done, but it was too late. I hurried back to you. God came with me on board the ship. God came, and He was angry; I had a terrible time.”
“Still I do not understand,” repeated Sibyl.
“Let me speak, my dear girl. I reached home, and I saw you, and then a temptation came to me. I wanted us both, you and I, to be happy together for two days. I knew that at the end of that time I must open your eyes.”
“Oh, we were happy!” said the child.
“Yes, for those two days we had peace, and we were, as you say, happy. I put away from me the thought of that which was before me, but I knew that it must come. It has come, Sibyl. The peace has been changed to storm; and now, little girl, I am in the midst of the tempest; the agony I feel in having to tell you this no words can explain.”
“I wish you would try and ’splain, all the same,” said Sibyl, in a weak, very weak voice.
“I will, I must; it is wrong of me to torture you.”
“It’s only ’cos of you yourself,” she murmured.
“Listen, my darling. You have often given thoughts to the Lombard Deeps Mine?”
“Oh, yes.” She raised herself a little on her pillow, and tried to speak more cheerfully. “I have thought of it, the mine full, full of gold, and all the people so happy!”
Her voice grew quite animated.
“Any special people, dearest?”
“So many,” she replied. “I told Lord Grayleigh,and he put their names in his note-book. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Holman, the people who keep the toy-shop; she has a hundred pounds, and she wants to buy some of the gold.”
“The old pair I saw coming to see you yesterday? Are they the Holmans? Yes, I remember they told me that was their name.”
“They came, father. I love ’em so much; and there’s Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen, they want to marry. It’s a secret, but you may know. And nurse, she wants some of the gold, ’cos her eyes ache, and you sent a cablegram, father, and said the gold was there; it’s all right.”
“No, Sibyl, it is all wrong; the gold is not in the mine.”
“But you sent a cablegram.”
“I did.”
“And you said it was there.”
“I did.”
She paused and looked at him; her eyes grew full of pain; the pain reached agony point.
“You said it?”
“I did worse,” said the man. He stood up, folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at her. “I did worse, and to tell you is my punishment. I not only sent that cablegram, but I wrote an account of the mine, a false account, false as myfalse heart was, Sibyl, and I signed it with my name, for the gold I said was in the mine was not there.”
“Why did you do it, father?”
“Because I was a scoundrel.”
“What’s that?” asked Sibyl.
“A bad man.”
“No,” said the child, “no, you was always my mostperfect——”
“You thought so, darling; you were wrong. Even when I went to Queensland I was far from that. I could not bid you good-by before I went, because of the sin which I was about to commit. I committed the sin, I dropped away from honor, I let goodness go. I did that which could never, never, under any circumstances, be worth doing, for there is nothing worth evil, there is nothing worth sin, I see it now.”
“Then you are sorry?”
“I have repented,” he cried; “my God, I have repented,” and he fell on his knees and covered his face. For the child’s sake he kept back the sobs which rose to his throat.
Sibyl looked at the bent head, at the dark hair already sprinkled with gray. She lay quite still, there was not the slightest doubt that the shock was great. Ogilvie waited, longing, wondering if thelittle hand would touch his head, if the child would forgive him.
“She is so holy, so heavenly herself,” he murmured; “is it possible that she can forgive? It must be a cruel shock to her.”
The little, white hand did not touch him. There was complete stillness in the room. At last he raised his eyes and looked at her. She looked steadily back at him.
“And so you was never perfect?” she said.
“Never.”
“And was mother never perfect?”
“Not as you think of perfection, Sibyl, but we need not talk of her now. I have sinned far more deeply than your poor mother has ever done.”
The puzzled expression grew deeper on Sibyl’s face. An old memory of her mother returned to her. She saw again the scene, and recalled her mother’s words, the words she had overheard, and which the mother had denied. She was quite still for a full moment, the little clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, then she said slowly:
“And Lord Jesus, isn’t He perfect?”
Ogilvie started when he heard her words.
“Aye, He is perfect,” he answered, “you are safe in trusting to Him. He is all that your dreams and all that your longings desire.”
She smiled very faintly.
“Why did He come into the world?” was her next question.
“Don’t you know that old story? Has no one told you?”
“Won’t you tell me now, father?”
“The old story was that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”
“Sinners,” repeated Sibyl, “’cos He loved ’em?”
“Would He have done that for anything else, do you think?”
“I ’spect not,” she replied, and again the faint smile filled her eyes.
“Then He lovesyou,” she said, after a moment. “He came from heaven ’cos of you.”
“It seems like it, my little girl, and yet I cannot bring myself to believe that He can love me.”
“Don’t speak to me, father, for a minute; go away, and look out of the window, and come back when I call you.”
He rose at once, crossed the room, and stood looking out. In a short time the feeble voice called him back.
“Father!” There was a change in the face, the look of pain had vanished, the sweet eyes were as peaceful as ever, and more clearly than ever did thatamazing knowledge and comprehension fill them, which never belonged to this earth.
“Kneel down, father,” said Sibyl.
He knelt.
Now she laid her little hand in his, and now she smiled at him, and now, as if she were strong and well again, she stroked his hand with her other hand, and at last she feebly raised the hand and pressed it to her lips.
“I am loving you so much,” she said, “same as Jesus loves you, I think.”
Then Ogilvie did give a sob. He checked it as it rose to his throat.
“It is all right,” she continued, “I love you. Jesus is perfect ... and He loves you.”
“But do you, Sibyl, really love me the same as ever?” he asked, and there was a note of incredulity in his voice.
“Seems to me I love you more’n ever” was her answer, and the next instant her soft arms encircled his neck, and he felt her kisses on his cheek.
But suddenly, without warning, there came a change. There was a catch in the eager, quick breath, the arms relaxed their hold, the little head fell back on the pillow, the face almost rosy a moment back was now white, but the eyes were radiant and full of a wonderful, astonished light.
“Why,” cried Sibyl, “it’s Lord Jesus! He has come. He is here, looking at me.” She gazed toward the foot of the bed, her eyes were raised slightly upward each moment the ecstatic expression grew and grew in their depths.
“Oh, my beautiful Lord Jesus,” she whispered. “Oh, take me.” She tried to raise her arms and her eyes were fixed on a vision which Ogilvie could not see. There was just an instant of absolute stillness, then the clear voice spoke again.
“Take me, Lord Jesus Christ, but first, afore we go, kiss father, and tell him you love him.”
The eager lips were still, but the light, too wonderful for this mortal life, continued to fill the eyes.
It seemed to Ogilvie that great wings encircled him, that he was wrapped in an infinite peace. Then it seemed also as if a kiss sweet beyond all sweetness brushed his lips.
The next instant all was cold and lonely.
There is such a thing in life as turning straight round and going the other way. This was what happened to Philip Ogilvie after the death of Sibyl. All his life hitherto he had been on the downward plane. He was now decidedly on the upward. The upward path was difficult, and his feet were tired and his spirits sore, and often he faltered and flagged and almost stopped, but he never once went back. He turned no look toward the easy way which leads to destruction, for at the top of the path which he was now climbing, he ever and always saw his child waiting for him, nor did he feel even here on earth that his spirit was really far from hers. Her influence still surrounded him—her voice spoke to him in the summer breeze—her face looked at him out of the flowers, and her smile met him in the sunshine.
He had a rough time to go through, but he endured everything for her sake. By degrees his worldly affairs were put into some sort of order, and so far as his friends and society went he vanished from view. But none of these things mattered to him now. He was living on earth, it is true; butall the ordinary earth desires had died within him. The spiritual life, however, did not die. Day by day it grew stronger and braver; so it came to pass that his sympathies, instead of dwindling and becoming small and narrow, widened, until once more he loved and once more he hoped.
He became very tolerant for others now, and especially was he tolerant to his wife.
He bore with her small ways, pitied her grief, admitted to himself that there were limits in her nature which no power could alter, and did his best to make her happy.
She mourned and grieved and grieved and mourned for that which meant nothing at all to him, but he was patient with her, and she owned to herself that she loved him more in his adversity than she had done in his prosperity.
For Sibyl’s sake, too, Ogilvie roused himself to do what he could for her special friends. There was a tiny fund which he had once put aside for his child’s education, and this he now spent in starting a shop for the Holmans in Buckingham Palace Road. He made them a present of the shop, and helped them to stock it with fresh toys. The old pair did well there, they prospered and their trade was good, but they never forgot Sibyl, and their favorite talk in the evenings as they sat side by side together wasto revive memories of the little, old shop and the child who used to buy the dusty toys.
As to Lord Grayleigh, Philip Ogilvie and he never met after that day outside the Cannon Street Hotel. The fact is, a gulf divided them; for although both men to a great extent repented of what they had done, yet there was a wide difference in their repentance—one had acted with the full courage of his convictions, the other still led a life of honor before his fellow-men, but his heart was not straight with God.
Grayleigh and Ogilvie, therefore, with the knowledge that each knew the innermost motives of the other, could not meet nor be friends. Nevertheless Sibyl had influenced Grayleigh. For her sake he ceased to be chairman of several somewhat shady companies, and lived more than he had done before in his own place, Grayleigh Manor, and surrounded by his children. He was scarcely heard to mention Sibyl’s name after her death.
But amongst his treasures he still keeps that little old note-book in which she begged of him to enter her special wishes, and so much affected was he in his heart of hearts, by her childish words, that he used his utmost influence and got a good diplomatic appointment for Rochester, thus enabling him and Lady Helen to marry, although not by the means which Sibyl had suggested.
These things happened a few years ago, and Ogilvie is still alive, but, although he lives still on earth, he also waits on the verge of life, knowing that at any hour, any moment, day or night, the message may come for him to go, and in his dreams he believes that the first to meet him at the Gates will be the child he loves.