Kitabı oku: «Daddy's Girl», sayfa 2

CHAPTER III

Sibyl and her mother went to Grayleigh Manor on the following Saturday. Sibyl was wild with excitement. Nurse was going, of course, to look after her, but Miss Winstead was to remain at home. Sibyl felt that she could manage nurse, but there were moments when Miss Winstead was a little obstinate. She would have a delightful time now in the country with her perfect mother. Of course, there was the pain of parting with father, who was just as perfect, if not a little more so. In her heart of hearts Sibyl felt that she understood her father, and that there were times when she did not quite understand her mother; but, never mind, her mother was the perfection of all feminine beauty and loveliness, and grace and goodness, and her father was the perfection of all masculine goodness and nobility of character. Sibyl in her heart of hearts wished that she had been born a boy.

“I am much more like a boy than a girl,” she thought, “and that is why I understand father so well. But it will be lovely going to the country with mother, my ownest mother. I expect I’ll have great fun; and, as mother doesn’t care so very much whether I am perfect or not, perhaps I can be a little naughty on my own account. That will be lovely. I can’t be really naughty with father, it is impossible; father is so very tall up, and has such grand thoughts about things; but I can with mother.”

So Sibyl watched the packing of her dainty frocks and gay sashes and pretty ribbons, and then ran down to the smoking-room to kiss and hug her father.

Ogilvie was very grave and silent, and did not say a word, nor draw her out in any way, and her mother was out most of the time either paying calls or shopping, and at last the day dawned when they were to go away. Ogilvie had kissed Sibyl with great passion the night before.

“Don’t forget me while you are away, little woman,” he said, “and look after mother, won’t you?”

“She won’t need me to look after her, she’s quite, quite perfect,” said Sibyl; “but I’m going to watch her, and try to copy her.”

“Child, don’t do that,” said the man.

“Not copy my ownest mother? What do you mean, father?”

“Well, well, darling, God will look after you, I do believe. You are not far from Him, are you, Sib? You know we call you the Angel. Angels are supposed to have their home in heaven.”

“Well, my home is right down here on earth,” said Sibyl in a very contented tone. “I’ll have a real jolly time away, I ’spect.”

“I hope there will be some nice little boys and girls there with whom you can play; and go to bed early, Sib, just for father’s sake, and don’t forget to pray for me.”

“I will, I will,” said the child; “I always thank God for you because he made you so beautiful and good.”

“Well, I am busy now; go to bed, little woman.”

That was the last Sibyl saw of her father before she went away, for he did not go to see his wife and daughter off, and Mrs. Ogilvie looked decidedly cross as they stepped into the train. But they soon found themselves at Grayleigh Manor.

Sibyl and her nurse were hurried off to the nursery regions, very much to the little girl’s secret indignation, and Mrs. Ogilvie seemed to be swept into a crowd of people who all surrounded her and talked eagerly and laughed noisily. Sibyl gave them a keen glance out of those very blue eyes, and in her heart of hearts thought they were a poor lot.

She and nurse had two nice rooms set apart for their own special use, a sitting-room and a sleeping-room, and nurse proceeded to unpack the little girl’s things, and then to dress her in one of her prettiest frocks.

“You are to go to tea in the schoolroom,” she said. “There are two or three other children there, and I hope you will be very good, Miss Sibyl, and not spoil this beautiful frock.”

It was a white cashmere frock, very much embroidered and surrounded by little frills and soft laces, and, while absolutely simple and quite suited to the little girl, was really a wonder of expense and art.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” she said; “you are wearing money now.”

“Money,” said Sibyl, “what do you mean?”

“This frock is money; you look very nice in it. Be sure, now, you don’t spot it. It would be wicked, just as if you were throwing sovereigns into the fire.”

“I don’t understand,” said Sibyl; “I wish it wasn’t a grand frock. Did you bring any of my common, common frocks, nursie?”

“I should think not, indeed. Your fine lady mother would be angry if she saw you looking a show.”

“If you speak again in that tone of my mother I’ll slap you,” said Sibyl.

“Highty-tighty!” said the nurse; “your spirit is almost past bearing. You need to be broke in.”

“And so do you,” answered Sibyl. “If mother is good you are not, and I’m not, so we both must be broke in; but I’ve got a bit of a temper. I know that. Nursie, when you were a little girl did you have a bit of a temper of your own?”

“That I did. I was a handful, my mother used to say.”

“Then we has something in common,” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling. “I’m a handful, too. I’m off to the schoolroom.”

“There never was such a child,” thought the woman as Sibyl dashed away, banging the door after her; “she’s not shy, and she’s as sweet as sweet can be, and yet she’s a handful of spirit, of uppishness and contrariness. Well, God bless her, whatever she is. How did that heartless mother come by her? I can understand her being the master’s child, but her mother’s! Dear me, I’m often sorry when I think how mistook the poor little thing is in that woman she thinks so perfect.”

Sibyl, quite happy, her heart beating high with excitement, poked her radiant little face round the schoolroom door. There were three children already in the room – Mabel, Gus, and Freda St. Claire. They were Lord Grayleigh’s children, and were handsome, and well cared for, and now looked with curiosity at Sibyl.

“Oh, you’re the little girl,” said Mabel, who was twelve years of age. She raised her voice in a languid tone.

“Yes, I are the little girl,” said Sibyl. She came forward with bold, confident steps, and looked at the tea table.

“Where is my place?” she said. “Is it laid for me? I am the visitor.”

Gus, aged ten, who had been somewhat inclined to sulk when Sibyl appeared, now smiled, and pulled out a chair.

“Sit down,” he said; “you had better sit there, near Mabel; she’s pouring out tea. She’s the boss, you know.”

“What’s a boss?” said Sibyl.

“You must be a silly not to know what a boss is.”

“I aren’t no more silly than you are,” said Sibyl. “May I have some bread and butter and jam? I’ll ask you some things about town, and perhaps you can’t answer me. What’s a – what’s a – oh, I’ll think of something real slangy presently; but please don’t talk to me too much while I’m eating, or I’ll spill jam on my money frock.”

“You are a very queer little girl,” said Mabel; but she looked at her now with favor. A child who could talk like Sibyl was likely to be an acquisition.

“What a silly you are,” said Gus. “What did you put on that thing for? We don’t want frilled and laced-up frocks, we want frocks that girls can wear to climb trees in, and – ”

“Climb trees! Oh,” cried Sibyl, “are you that sort? Then I’m your girl. Oh, I am glad! My ownest father would be pleased. He likes me to be brave. I’m a hoyden – do you know what a hoyden is? If you want to have a few big larks while I am here, see to ’em quick, for I’m your girl.”

Gus burst into a roar of laughter, and Mabel smiled.

“You are very queer,” she said. “I don’t know whether our governess will like our being with you. You seem to use strange words. We never get into scrapes – we are quite ladylike and good, but we don’t wear grand frocks either. Can’t you take that thing off?”

“I wish I could. I hate it myself.”

“Well, ask your servant to change it.”

“But my nurse hasn’t brought a single shabby frock with me.”

“Are all your frocks as grand as that?”

“Some of ’em grander.”

“We might lend her one of our own brown holland frocks,” said Freda.

“Oh, do!” said Sibyl; “that will be lovely.”

“We are going to do some climbing this afternoon, so you may as well put it on,” continued Freda.

Sibyl clapped her hands with delight. “It’s a great comfort coming down to this place,” she said finally, “’cos I can give way a little; but with my father and mother I have to keep myself in.”

“Why?”

“It’s mostly on account of my most perfect of fathers.”

“But isn’t Philip Ogilvie your father?” said Gus.

“Mr. Ogilvie,” corrected Sibyl, in a very proud tone.

“Oh, fudge! I heard father call him Philip Ogilvie. He’s not perfect.”

Sibyl’s face turned white; she looked full at Gus. Gus, not observing the expression in her eyes, continued, in a glib and easy tone:

“Father didn’t know I was there; he was talking to another man. I think the man’s name was Halkett. I’m always great at remembering names, and I heard him say ‘Philip Ogilvie will do what we want. When it comes to the point he’s not too scrupulous.’ Yes, scrupulous was the word, and I ran away and looked it out in the dictionary, and it means – oh, you needn’t stare at me as if your eyes were starting out of your head – it means a person who hesitates from fear of acting wrongly. Now, as your father isn’t scrupulous, that means that he doesn’t hesitate to act wrong.”

Sibyl with one swift, unerring bang struck Gus a sharp blow across the cheek.

“What have you done that for, you little beggar?” he said, his eyes flashing fire.

“To teach you not to tell lies,” answered Sibyl. She turned, went up the room, and stood by the window. Her heart was bursting, and tears were scorching her eyeballs. “But I won’t shed them,” thought the child, “not for worlds.”

Sibyl’s action was so unexpected that there was a silence in the room for a few moments, but presently Freda stole softly to Sibyl’s side and touched her on her arm.

“Gus is sorry he said anything to hurt you,” she said; “we didn’t understand that you would feel it as you do, but we are all sorry, and we like you all the better for it. Won’t you shake hands with Gus and be friends?”

“And I’ll never say a word against your father again,” said Gus.

“You had better not,” answered Sibyl. “No, I won’t shake hands; I won’t make friends with you till I know something more about you. But I’d like to climb trees, and to get into a holland frock.”

CHAPTER IV

It was great fun getting into the holland frock, more particularly when it was discovered to be too short, and also very dirty. It had a great ink-stain in front, and the sleeves were tight and showed a good bit of Sibyl’s white arms. She looked at herself in the glass and danced about in her excitement.

“You can have this old sailor hat to match the frock,” said Freda in conclusion. “Now no one will say you are too fine. Come out now, Gus and the others are waiting.”

Yes, the sun shone once more for Sibyl, and she forgot for a time Gus’s cruel words about her father. He was most attentive to her now, and initiated her into the mystery of climbing. Screams of laughter followed her valiant efforts to ascend the leafy heights of certain beech trees which grew not far from the house. This laughter attracted the attention of a lady and gentleman who were pacing the leafy alley not far away.

“What a noise those children make,” said Lord Grayleigh to his companion.

“How many children have you, Lord Grayleigh?” asked Mrs. Ogilvie. She looked full at him as she spoke.

“I have three,” he replied; “they are great scamps, and never for a single moment fit to be seen. Since their mother died” – he sighed as he uttered these words, he was a widower of over two years’ standing – “I have kept them more or less with myself. There is no harm in them, although they are pickles. Come, I will introduce you to them. That reminds me, I have not yet seen your own little daughter.”

Mrs. Ogilvie was very proud of Sibyl, but only when she looked her best. The mother now contemplated, with a feeling of satisfaction, the nice dresses which she had secured for the child before she came into the country. No one could look more lovely than this little daughter of hers, when dressed suitably, so abundant was her golden brown hair, and so blue were her eyes, so straight the little features, so soft the curves of the rosy lips. It is true those blue eyes had an expression in them which never in this world could Mrs. Ogilvie understand, nevertheless, the child’s beauty was apparent to the most superficial observer; and Mrs. Ogilvie turned and accompanied Lord Grayleigh in the direction of the merry sounds willingly enough.

“I see four little figures dancing about among those trees,” said Lord Grayleigh. “We will see them all together.”

They turned down a side walk, and came face to face with Sibyl herself. Now, at that instant the little girl certainly did not look at her best. The holland frock, short and shabby, had a great rent above the knee, her soft cheek was scratched and bleeding slightly, and there was a smudge across her forehead.

Sibyl, quite unconscious of these defects, flew to her mother’s side.

“Oh, Mummy,” she cried, “I’m so happy. Gus has been teaching me to climb. Do you see that beech tree? I climbed as far as the second branch, and Gus said I did it splendid. It’s lovely to sit up there.”

Sibyl did not even notice Lord Grayleigh, who stood and watched this little scene with an amused face. Mrs. Ogilvie was by no means pleased.

“What do you mean, Sibyl,” she said, “by wearing that disgraceful frock? Why did nurse put it into your trunk? And you know I do not wish you to climb trees. You are an extremely naughty girl. No, Lord Grayleigh, I will not introduce my little daughter to you now. When you are properly dressed, Sibyl, and know how to behave yourself, you shall have the honor of shaking hands with Lord Grayleigh. Go into the house, now, I am ashamed of you.”

Sibyl turned first red and then white.

“Is that Lord Grayleigh?” she whispered.

“Yes, my dear, but I shall not answer any of your other questions at present. I am extremely displeased with you.”

“I am sorry you are angry, mother; but may I – may I say one thing, just one, afore I go?”

Mrs. Ogilvie was about to hustle the child off, when Lord Grayleigh interfered. “Do let her speak,” he said; “she looks a most charming little maid. For my part I like children best in deshabille. What is it, little woman?”

“It’s that I don’t want to shake hands with you – never, never!” answered Sibyl, and she turned her back on the astonished nobleman, and marched off in the direction of the house.

Mrs. Ogilvie turned to apologize.

“I am terribly ashamed of Sibyl, she is the most extraordinary child,” she said. “What can have possessed her to put on that frock, and why did she speak to you in that strange, rude way?” Here Mrs. Ogilvie uttered a sigh. “I fear it is her father’s doing,” she continued, “he makes her most eccentric. I do hope you will overlook her naughty words. The moment I go into the house I shall speak to her, and also to nurse for allowing her to wear that disgraceful frock.”

“I don’t think your nurse is to blame,” said Lord Grayleigh. “I have a keen eye for dress, and have a memory of that special frock. It happens to possess a green stain in the back which I am not likely to forget. I think my Freda wore it a good deal last summer, and I remember the occasion when the green stain was indelibly fixed upon it. You must know, Mrs. Ogilvie, that my three children are imps, and it was the impiest of the imps’ frocks your little girl happened to be wearing. But what a handsome little creature she is! A splendid face. How I have come to fall under her displeasure, however, is a mystery to me.”

“Oh, you can never account for Sibyl’s whims,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “it is all her father’s fault. It is a great trial to me, I assure you.”

“I should be very proud of that child if I were you,” answered Lord Grayleigh. “She has a particularly frank, fine face.”

“Oh, she is handsome enough,” answered Mrs. Ogilvie. “But what she will grow up to, heaven only knows. She has the strangest ideas on all sorts of subjects. She absolutely believes that her father and I are perfect – could you credit it? At the same time she is a very naughty child herself. I will go into the house, now, and give her a talking to.”

“Don’t scold her, poor little thing,” said Lord Grayleigh. He was a kind-hearted man in the main. “For my part,” he continued, “I like naughty children; I must force her confidence presently. She has quite roused my curiosity. But now, Mrs. Ogilvie, to turn to other matters, what can we do to persuade your husband to alter his mind? You know, of course, that I have asked him to assay the Lombard Deeps Mine?”

“I do know it,” answered Mrs. Ogilvie, the color flushing into her face. “Philip is too extraordinary at times. For my part, I really do not know how to thank you; please believe that I am altogether on your side. If only we could persuade that eccentric husband of mine to change his mind.”

“He is a strange fellow,” answered Lord Grayleigh slowly; “but, do you know, I think all the more of him for a letter I received a few days ago. At the same time, it will be prejudicial to our interests if he should not act as engineer in this new undertaking. He is the one man the public absolutely trusts, and of course – ”

“Why do you think more of him for refusing an advantageous offer?”

“I don’t know that I can explain. Money is not everything – at least, to some people. Shall we go into the house? I need not say that I am glad you are on our side, and doubtless your husband’s scruples” – Lord Grayleigh laid the slightest emphasis on the word, and made it, even to the obtuse ears of his hearer, sound offensive – “even your husband’s scruples of conscience may be overcome by judicious management. A wife can do much on occasions of this sort, and also a friend. He and I are more than acquaintances – we are friends. I have a hearty liking for Ogilvie. It is a disappointment not to have him here, but I hope to have the pleasure of lunching with him on Monday. Trust me to do what I can to further your interests and his own on that occasion. Now shall we go into the house? You will like to rest before dinner.”

Mrs. Ogilvie often liked to affect weariness, it suited her peculiar style of beauty to look languid. She went slowly to her room. Her maid, Hortense, helped her to take off her travelling dress, and to put on a teagown before she lay down on the sofa. She then told the girl to leave her.

When alone Mrs. Ogilvie thought rapidly and deeply. What was the matter with Philip? What did Lord Grayleigh mean by talking of scruples? But she was not going to worry her head on that subject. Philip must not be quixotic, he must accept the good things the gods sent him. Additional wealth would add so immensely to their happiness.

“Money is everything,” she thought, “whatever Lord Grayleigh may say. Those who refuse it are fools, and worse. Lord Grayleigh and I must bring Philip to his senses.”

She moved restlessly on her sofa, and looked across the comfortable room.

With a little more wealth she could hold her own with her friends and acquaintances, and present a good figure in that world of society which was her one idea of heaven. Above all things, debts, which came between her and perfect bliss, could be cleared off. Her creditors would not wait for payment much longer, but if Philip assayed the new mine, he would be handsomely paid for his pains, and all her own cares would take to themselves wings and fly away. Why did he hesitate? How tiresome he was! Surely his life had not been so immaculate up to the present that he should hesitate thus when the golden opportunity to secure a vast fortune arrived.

Ogilvie came of one of the best old families across the border, and had a modest competence of his own handed down to him from a long line of honorable ancestors. He had also inherited a certain code which he could not easily forget. He called it a code of honor, and Mrs. Ogilvie, alas! did not understand it. She reflected over the situation now, and grew restless. If Philip was really such a goose as to refuse his present chance, she would never forgive him. She would bring up to him continually the golden opportunity he had let slip, and weary his very soul. She was the sort of soft, pretty woman who could nag a man to the verge of distraction. She knew that inestimable art to perfection. She felt, as she lay on the sofa and toyed with the ribbons of her pretty and expensive teagown, that she had her weapons ready to hand. Then, with an irritated flash, she thought of the child. Of course the child was nice, handsome, and her own; Sibyl was very lucky to have at least one parent who would not spoil her. But was she not being spoiled? Were there not some things intolerable about her?

“May I come in, Mumsy, or are you too tired?” There was something in the quality of the voice at the door which caused Mrs. Ogilvie’s callous heart to beat quicker for a moment, then she said in an irritated tone —

“Oh, come in, of course; I want to speak to you.”

Sibyl entered. Nurse had changed her holland frock, and dressed the little girl in pale pink silk. The dress was very unsuitable, but it became the radiant little face and bright, large eyes, and pathetic, sweet mouth, to perfection.

Sibyl ran up to her mother, and, dropping on one knee by her side, looked up into her face.

“Now you’ll kiss me,” she said; “now you’re pleased with your own Sibyl. I am pretty, I’m beautiful, and you, darling mother, will kiss me.”

“Get up, Sib, and don’t be absurd,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; but as she spoke a warm light came into her eyes, for the child was fascinating, and just in the mood to appeal most to her mother.

“Really,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you do look nice in that dress, it fits you very well. Turn round, and let me see how it is made at the back. Ah! I told Mademoiselle Leroe to make it in that style; that little watteau back is so very becoming to small girls. Turn round now slowly, and let me get the side view. Yes, it is a pretty dress; be sure you don’t mess it. You are to come down with the other children to dessert. You had better go now, I am tired.”

“But Mummy – Mumsy!”

“Don’t call me Mummy or Mumsy, say mother. I don’t like abbreviations.”

“What’s that?” asked Sibyl, knitting her brows.

“Mummy or Mumsy are abbreviations of a very sacred name.”

“Sacred name!” said Sibyl, in a thoughtful tone. “Oh yes, I won’t call you anything but mother. Mother is most lovely.”

“Well, I hope you will be a good child, and not annoy me as you have been doing.”

“Oh, mother darling, I didn’t mean to vex you, but it was such a temptation, you know. You were never, never tempted, were you, mother? You are made so perfect that you cannot understand what temptation means. I did so long to climb the trees, and I knew you would not like me spoil my pretty frock, and Freda lent me the brown holland. When I saw you, Mums – I mean, mother – I forgot about everything else but just that I had climbed a tree, and that I had been brave, although for a minute I felt a scrap giddy, and I wanted to tell you about what I had done, my ownest, most darling mother.”

Mrs. Ogilvie sprang suddenly to her feet.

“Come here,” she said. There was a sharpness in her tone which arrested the words on Sibyl’s lips. “Look at me, take my hand, look steadily into my face. I have just five minutes to spare, and I wish to say something very grave and important, and you must listen attentively.”

“Oh, yes, mother, I am listening; what is it?”

“Look at me. Are you attending?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Mother, Freda says she will give me a Persian kitten; the Persian cat has two, such beauties, snow-white. May I have one, mother?”

“Attend to me, and stop talking. You think a great deal of me, your mother, and you call me perfect. Now show that you put me in high esteem.”

“That sounds very nice,” thought Sibyl to herself. “Mother is just in her most beautiful humor. Of course I’ll listen.”

“I wish,” continued the mother, and she turned slightly away from the child as she spoke, “I wish you to stop all that nonsense about your father and me. I wish you to understand that we are not perfect, either of us; we are just everyday, ordinary sort of people. As we happen to be your father and mother, you must obey us and do what we wish; but you make yourself, and us also, ridiculous when you talk as you do. I am perfectly sick of your poses, Sibyl.”

“Poses!” cried Sibyl; “what’s poses?”

“Oh, you are too tiresome; ask nurse to explain, or Miss Winstead, when you go home. Miss Winstead, if she is wise, will tell you that you must just turn round and go the other way. You must obey me, of course, and understand that I know the right way to train you; but you are not to talk of me as though I were an angel. I am nothing of the kind. I am an ordinary woman, with ordinary feelings and ordinary faults, and I wish you to be an ordinary little girl. I am very angry with you for your great rudeness to Lord Grayleigh. What did it mean?”

“Oh, mother! it meant – ” Sibyl swallowed something in her throat. Her mother’s speech was unintelligible; it hurt her, she did not exactly know why, but this last remark was an opening.

“Mother, I am glad you spoke of it. I could not, really and truly, help it.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Now go away. Hortense is coming to dress me for dinner. Go.”

“But, mother! one minute first, please – please.”

“Go, Sibyl, obey me.”

“It was ’cos Lord Grayleigh spoke against my – ”

“Go, Sibyl, I won’t listen to another word. I shall punish you severely if you do not obey me this instant.”

“I am going,” said the child, “but I cannot be – ”

“Go. You are coming down to dessert to-night, and you are to speak properly to Lord Grayleigh. Those are my orders. Now go.”

Hortense came in at that moment. She entered with that slight whirl which she generally affected, and which she considered truly Parisian. Somehow, in some fashion, Sibyl felt herself swept out of the room. She stood for a moment in the passage. There was a long glass at the further end, and it reflected a pink-robed little figure. The cheeks had lost their usual tender bloom, and the eyes had a bewildered expression. Sibyl rubbed her hands across them.

“I don’t understand,” she said to herself. “Perhaps I wasn’t quite pretty enough, perhaps that was the reason, but I don’t know. I think I’ll go to my new nursery and sit down and think of father. Oh, I wish mother hadn’t – of course it’s all right, and I am a silly girl, and I get worser, not better, every day, and mother knows what is best for me; but she might have let me ’splain things. I wish I hadn’t a pain here.” Sibyl touched her breast with a pathetic gesture.

“It’s ’cos of father I feel so bad, it’s ’cos they told lies of father.” She turned very slowly with the most mournful droop of her head in the direction of the apartment set aside for nurse and herself. She had thought much of this visit, and now this very first afternoon a blow had come. Her mother had told her to do a hard thing. She, Sibyl, was to be polite to Lord Grayleigh; she was to be polite to that dreadful, smiling man, with the fair hair and the keen eyes, who had spoken against her father. It was unfair, it was dreadful, to expect this of her.

“And mother would not even let me ’splain,” thought the child.

“Hullo!” cried a gay voice; “hullo! and what’s the matter with little Miss Beauty?” And Sibyl raised her eyes, with a start, to encounter the keen, frank, admiring gaze of Gus.

“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed, “aren’t we fine! I say! you’ll knock Freda and Mabel into next week, if you go on at this rate. But, come to the schoolroom; we want a game, and you can join.”

“I can’t, Gus,” replied Sibyl.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t feel like playing games.”

“You are quite white about the gills. I say! has anybody hurt you?”

“No, not exactly, Gus; but I want to be alone. I’ll come by-and-by.”

“Somebody wasn’t square with her,” thought Gus, as Sibyl turned away. “Queer little girl! But I like her all the same.”