Daddy's Girl. Meade L. T.
certainly have a vast weight of years on your head,” he replied, looking at her gravely.
She did not see the sarcasm, she was thinking of something else. Suddenly she looked him full in the face.
“You called me away from the other children ’cos you wanted to speak about father, didn’t you? Please tell me all about him. Is he quite well?”
“Of course he is.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“Yes, he asked me how you were.”
“And what did you say?”
“I replied, with truth, that I had twice had the pleasure of seeing you; once when you were very rude to me, once when you were equally polite.”
Sibyl’s eyes began to dance.
“What are you thinking of, eight-year-old?” asked Lord Grayleigh.
“Of you,” answered Sibyl with promptitude.
“Come, that’s very interesting; what about me? Now, be quite frank and tell me why you were rude to me the first time we met?”
“May I?” said Sibyl with great eagerness. “Do you really, truly mean it?”
“I certainly mean it.”
“You won’t tell – mother?”
“I won’t tell – mother,” said Lord Grayleigh, mimicking her manner.
Sibyl gave a long, deep sigh.
“I am glad,” she said with emphasis. “I don’t want my ownest mother to be hurt. She tries so hard, and she is so beautiful and perfect. It’s most ’portant that I should speak to you, and if you will promise – ”
“I have promised; whatever you say shall be secret. Now, out with it.”
“You won’t like it,” said Sibyl.
“You must leave me to judge of that.”
“I am going to be fwightfully rude.”
“Indeed! that is highly diverting.”
“I don’t know what diverting is, but it will hurt you.”
“I believe I can survive the pain.”
Sibyl looked full at him then.
“Are you laughing at me?” she said, and she jumped down from her high chair.
“I would not dream of doing so.”
The curious amused expression died out of Lord Grayleigh’s eyes. He somehow felt that he was confronting Sibyl’s father with all those unpleasant new scruples in full force.
“Speak away, little girl,” he said, “I promise not to laugh. I will listen to you with respect. You are an uncommon child, very like your father.”
“Thank you for saying that, but it isn’t true; for father’s perfect, and I’m not. I will tell you now why I was rude, and why I am going to be rude again, monstrous rude. It is because you told lies.”
“Indeed!” said Lord Grayleigh, pretending to be shocked. “Do you know that that is a shocking accusation? If a man, for instance, had said that sort of thing to another man a few years back, it would have been a case for swords.”
“I don’t understand what that means,” said Sibyl.
“For a duel; you have heard of a duel?”
“Oh, in history, of course,” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling, “and one man kills another man. They run swords through each other until one of them gets killed dead. I wish I was a man.”
“Do you really want to run a sword through me?”
Sibyl made no answer to this; she shut her lips firmly, her eyes ablaze.
“Come,” said Lord Grayleigh, “it is unfair to accuse a man and not to prove your accusation. What lies have I told?”
“About my father.”
“Hullo! I suppose I am stupid, but I fail to understand.”
“I will try and ’splain. I didn’t know that you was stupid, but you do tell lies.”
“Well, go on; you are putting it rather straight, you know.”
“I want to.”
“Fire away then.”
“You told someone – I don’t know the name – you told somebody that my father was unscroopolus.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Grayleigh. He colored, and looked uneasy. “I told somebody – that is diverting.”
“It’s not diverting,” said Sibyl, “it’s cruel, it’s mean, it’s wrong; it’s lies – black lies. Now you know.”
“But whom did I tell?”
“Somebody, and somebody told me – I’m not going to tell who told me.”
“Even suppose I did say anything of the sort, what do you know about that word?”
“I found it out. An unscroopolus person is a person who doesn’t act right. Do you know that my father never did wrong, never from the time he was borned? My father is quite perfect, God made him so.”
“Your father is a very nice fellow, Sibyl.”
“He is much better than nice, he is perfect; he never did anything wrong. He is perfect, same as Lord Jesus is perfect.”
The little girl looked straight out into the summer landscape. Her lips trembled, on each cheek there flushed a crimson rose.
Lord Grayleigh shuffled his feet. Had anyone in all the world told him that he would have listened quietly, and with a sense of respect, to such a story as he was now hearing, he would have roared with laughter. But he was not at all inclined to laugh now that he found himself face to face with Sibyl.
“And mother is perfect, too,” she said, turning and facing him.
Then he did laugh; he laughed aloud.
“Oh, no,” he said.
“So you don’t wonder that I hate you,” continued Sibyl, taking no notice of that last remark. “It’s ’cos you like to tell lies about good people. My father is perfect, and you called him unscroopolus. No wonder I hate you.”
“Listen now, little girl.” Lord Grayleigh took the hot, trembling hand, and drew the child to his side.
“Don’t shrink away, don’t turn from me,” he said; “I am not so bad as you make me out. If I did make use of such an expression, I have forgotten it. Men of the world say lots of things that little girls don’t understand. Little girls of eight years old, if they are to grow up nice and good, and self-respecting, must take the world on trust. So you must take me on trust, and believe that even if I did say what you accuse me of saying, I still have a great respect for your father. I think him a right down good fellow.”
“The best in all the world?” queried Sibyl.
“I am sure at least of one thing, that no little girl ever had a fonder father.”
“And you own up you told a lie? You do own up that father’s quite perfect?”
“Men like myself don’t care to own themselves in the wrong,” said Lord Grayleigh, “and the fact is – listen, you queer little mortal – I don’t like perfect people. It is true that I have never met any.”
“You have met my father and my mother.”
“Come, Sibyl, shall we make a compromise? I like you, I want you to like me. Forget that I said what I myself have forgotten, and believe that I have a very great respect for your father. Come, if he were here, he would ask you to be friendly with me.”
“Would he?” said the child. She looked wistful and interested. “There are lots of things I want to be ’splained to me,”