Daddy's Girl. Meade L. T.
and asked nurse to take off her pink frock. She felt quite cheerful and happy again. She knelt down in her white nightdress and said her prayers. She always prayed for her father and mother in a peculiar way. She never asked God to give them anything, they had already got all that heart could wish. They were beautiful in person, they were lovely in character, they were perfect in soul. She could only thank God for them. So she thanked God now as usual.
“Thank You, Jesus, for giving me father and mother,” said Sibyl, “and in especial for making my mother just so truly perfect that she is humble. She does not like me to think too much of her. It is because she is humble, and You give grace to the humble. It is a great comfort to me, Jesus, to know that, because I could not quite understand my mother afore dinner. Good-night, Jesus, I am going to sleep now; I am quite happy.”
Sibyl got into bed, closed her eyes, and was soon sound asleep.
On the following Monday Lord Grayleigh went to town, and there he had a rather important interview with Philip Ogilvie.
“I failed to understand your letter,” he said, “and have come to you for an explanation.”
Ogilvie was looking worried and anxious.
“I thought my meaning plain enough,” he replied, “but as you are here, I will answer you; and first, I want to put a question to you. Why do you wish me to be the assayer?”
“For many reasons; amongst others, because I wish to do you a good turn. For your position you are not too well off. This will mean several thousands a year to you, if the vein is as rich as we hope it will be. The alluvial we know is rich. It has washed at five ounces to the ton.”
“But if there should not happen to be a rich vein beneath?” queried Ogilvie, and as he spoke he watched his companion narrowly.
Lord Grayleigh shrugged his shoulders. The action was significant.
“I see,” cried Ogilvie. He was silent for a moment, then he sprang to his feet. “I have regarded you as my friend for some time, Grayleigh, and there have been moments when I have been proud of your acquaintanceship, but in the name of all that is honorable, and all that is virtuous, why will you mix up a pretended act of benevolence to me with – you know what it means – a fraudulent scheme? You are determined that there shall be a rich vein below the surface. In plain words, if there is not, you want a false assay of the Lombard Deeps. That is the plain English of it, isn’t it?”
“Pooh! my dear Ogilvie, you use harsh words. Fraudulent! What does the world – our world I mean – consist of? Those who make money, and those who lose it. It is a great competition of skill – a mere duel of wits. All is fair in love, war, and speculation.”
“Your emendation of that old proverb may be fin de siècle, but it does not suit my notions,” muttered Ogilvie, sitting down again.
Grayleigh looked keenly at him.
“You will be sorry for this,” he said; “it means much to you. You would be quite safe, you know that.”
“And what of the poor country parson, the widow, the mechanic? I grant they are fools; but – ”
“What is the matter with you?” said Lord Grayleigh; “you never were so scrupulous.”
“I don’t know that I am scrupulous now. I shall be very glad to assay the mine for you, if I may give you a – ”
“We need not enter into that,” said Grayleigh, rising; “you have already put matters into words which had better never have been uttered. I will ask you to reconsider this: it is a task too important to decline without weighing all the pros and cons. You shall have big pay for your services; big pay, you understand.”
“And it is that which at once tempts and repels me,” said Ogilvie. Then he paused, and said abruptly, “How is Sibyl? Have you seen much of her?”
“Your little daughter? I saw her twice. Once, when she was very dirty, and rather rude to me, and a second time, when she was the perfection of politeness and good manners.”
“Sibyl is peculiar,” said Ogilvie, and his eyes gleamed with a flash of the same light in them which Sibyl’s wore at intervals.
“She is a handsome child, it is a pity she is your only one, Ogilvie.”
“Not at all,” answered Ogilvie; “I never wish for another, she satisfies me completely.”
“Well, to turn to the present matter,” said Lord Grayleigh; “you will reconsider your refusal?”
“I would rather not.”
“But if I as a personal favor beg you to do so.”
“There is not the slightest doubt that the pay tempts me,” said Ogilvie; “it would be a kindness on your part to close the matter now finally, to relieve me from temptation. But suppose I were to – to yield, what would the shareholders say?”
“They would be managed. The shareholders will expect to pay the engineer who assays the mine for them handsomely.”
Ogilvie stood in a dubious attitude, Grayleigh went up and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“I will assume,” he said, “that you get over scruples which after all may have no foundation, for the mine may be all that we wish it to be. What I want to suggest is this. Someone must go to Australia to assay the Lombard Deeps. If you will not take the post we must get someone else to step into your shoes. The new claim was discovered by the merest accident, and the reports state it to be one of the richest that has ever been panned out. Of course that is as it may be. We will present you, if you give a good assay, with five hundred shares in the new syndicate. You can wait until the shares go up, and then sell out. You will clear thousands of pounds. We will also pay your expenses and compensate you handsomely for the loss of your time. This is Monday; we want you to start on Saturday. Give me your decision on Wednesday morning. I won’t take a refusal now.”
Ogilvie was silent; his face was very white, and his lips were compressed together. Soon afterward the two men parted.
Lord Grayleigh returned to Grayleigh Manor by a late train, and Ogilvie went back to his empty house. Amongst other letters which awaited him was one with a big blot on the envelope. This blot was surrounded by a circle in red ink, and was evidently of great moment to the writer. The letter was addressed to “Philip Ogilvie, Esq.,” in a square, firm, childish hand, and the great blot stood a little away from the final Esquire. It gave the envelope an altogether striking and unusual appearance. The flap was sealed with violet wax, and had an impression on it which spelt Sibyl. Ogilvie, when he received this letter, took it up tenderly, looked at the blot on the cover of the envelope, glanced behind him in a shamefaced way, pressed his lips to the violet seal which contained his little daughter’s name, then sitting down in his chair, he opened the envelope.
Sibyl was very good at expressing her feelings in words, but as yet she was a poor scribe, and her orthography left much to be desired. Her letter was somewhat short, and ran as follows: —
“Daddy Dear, – Here’s a blot to begin, and the blot means a kiss. I will put sum more at the end of the letter. Pleas kiss all the kisses for they com from the verry botom of my hart. I have tried Daddy to be good cos of you sinse I left home, but I am afraid I have been rather norty. Mother gets more purfect evry day. She is bewtiful and humbel. Mother said she wasn’t purfect but she is, isn’t she father? I miss you awful, speshul at nights, cos mother thinks its good for me not to lie awake for her to come and kiss me. But you never think that and you always com, and I thank God so much for having gived you to me father. Your Sibyl.”
“Father, what does ‘scroopolus’ mean? I want to know speshul. – Sib.”
The letter finished with many of these strange irregular blots, which Ogilvie kissed tenderly, and then folded up the badly-spelt little epistle, and slipped it into his pocket-book. Then he drew his chair forward to where his big desk stood, and, leaning his elbows on it, passed his hands through his thick, short hair. He was puzzled as he had never been in all his life before. Should he go, or should he stay? Should he yield to temptation, and become