L. Meade - Daddy's Girl

He smiled cheerfully to himself, ran downstairs, and ate a hearty breakfast. A letter from his wife lay upon his plate. He did not even open it. He thrust it into his pocket and went off to the City, telling his servant as he did so that he would be back to dinner.

As soon as he got to his office he read his letters, gave his clerks directions, and went at once to see Dr. Rashleigh, of the Insurance Company.

Rashleigh happened to be one of his special friends, and he knew his hours. It was a little unusual to expect him to examine him for an insurance without an appointment; but he believed, in view of his possible visit to Australia, that Rashleigh would be willing to overlook ceremony.

He arrived at the office, saw one of the clerks downstairs, heard that Rashleigh was in and would soon be disengaged, and presently was shown into the doctor’s consulting room.

Rashleigh was a grey-haired man of about sixty years of age. He spent a couple of hours every day in the consulting room of the Crown and Life Insurance Company. He rose now, and extended his hand with pleasure when Ogilvie appeared.

“My dear Ogilvie, and what do you want with me? Have you at last listened to my entreaties that you should insure your life in a first-class office?”

“Something of the kind,” said Ogilvie, forcing a smile, for again that agony which had come over him yesterday assailed him. He knew that his heart was throbbing faintly, and he remembered once more that his father had died of heart disease. Oh, it was all nonsense; of course he had nothing to fear. He was a man in his prime, not much over thirty – he was all right.

Rashleigh asked him a few questions.

“I may have to go to Australia rather suddenly,” said Ogilvie, “and I should like first to insure my life. I want to settle the money on my child before I leave home.”

“How large a sum do you propose to insure for?” asked the doctor.

“I have given the particulars to the clerk downstairs. I should like to insure for ten thousand pounds.”

“Well, I daresay that can be managed. You are an excellent client, and quite a young man. Now just let me sound your lungs, and listen to your heart.”

Ogilvie removed his necktie, unbuttoned his shirt, and placed himself in the doctor’s hands.

Dr. Rashleigh made his examination without comment, slowly and carefully. At last it was over.

“Well?” said Ogilvie, just glancing at him. “It’s all right, I suppose.”

“It is not the custom for a doctor at an insurance office to tell his patient anything about the result of the examination,” was Rashleigh’s answer. “You’ll hear all in good time.”

“But there really is no time to lose, and you are an old friend. You look grave. If it cannot be done, of course it cannot, but I should like to know.”

“When do you propose to go to Australia?”

“I may not go at all. In fact if – ” Ogilvie suddenly leaned against the table. Once again he felt faint and giddy. “If this is all right, I shall probably not go.”

“But suppose it is not all right?”

“Then I sail on Saturday.”

“I may as well tell you the truth,” said Rashleigh; “you are a brave man. My dear fellow, the office cannot insure you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Heart,” said Rashleigh.

“Heart! Mine? Not affected?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“It is hard to answer that question. The heart is a strange organ, and capable of a vast amount of resuscitation; nevertheless, in your case the symptoms are grave; the aortic valve is affected. It behooves you to be very careful.”

“Does this mean that I – ” Ogilvie dropped into a chair. “Rashleigh,” he said suddenly, “I had a horrible attack last night. I forgot it this morning when I came to you, but it was horrible while it lasted. I thought myself, during those moments of torture, within a measurable – a very measurable distance of the end.”

“Describe your sensations,” said Rashleigh.

Ogilvie did so.

“Now, my dear fellow, I have a word to say. This insurance cannot be done. But, for yourself, you must avoid excitement. I should like to prescribe a course of living for you. I have studied the heart extensively.”

“Will nothing put me straight? Cure me, I mean?”

“I fear not.”

“Well, good-by, Rashleigh; I will call round to see you some evening.”

“Do. I should like you to have the advice of a specialist, Anderson, the greatest man in town on the heart.”

“But where is the use? If you cannot cure me, he cannot.”

“You may live for years and years, and die of something else in the end.”

“Just what was said to my father, who did not live for years and years,” answered the man. “I won’t keep you any longer, Rashleigh.”

He left the office and went down into the street. As he crossed the Poultry and got once more into the neighborhood of his own office, one word kept ringing in his ears, “Doomed.”

He arrived at his office and saw his head clerk.

“You don’t look well, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“Never mind about my looks, Harrison,” replied Ogilvie. “I have a great deal to do, and need your best attention.”

“Certainly, sir; but, all the same, you don’t look well.”

“Looks are nothing,” replied Ogilvie. “I shall soon be all right. Harrison, I am off to Australia on Saturday.”

On that same Tuesday Lord Grayleigh spent a rather anxious day. For many reasons it would never do for him to press Ogilvie, and yet if Ogilvie declined to go to Queensland matters might not go quite smoothly with the new Syndicate. He was the most trusted and eminent mine assayer in London, and had before now done useful work for Grayleigh, who was chairman of several other companies. Up to the present Grayleigh, a thoroughly worldly and hard-headed man of business, had made use of Ogilvie entirely to his own benefit and satisfaction. It was distinctly unpleasant to him, therefore, to find that just at the most crucial moment in his career, when everything depended on Ogilvie’s subservience to his chief’s wishes, he should turn restive.

“That sort of man with a conscience is intolerable,” thought Lord Grayleigh, and then he wondered what further lever he might bring to bear in order to get Ogilvie to consent to the Australian visit.

He was thinking these thoughts, pacing up and down alone in a retired part of the grounds, when he heard shrill screams of childish laughter, and the next moment Sibyl, in one of her white frocks, the flounces badly torn, her hat off and hair in wild disorder, rushed past. She was closely followed by Freda, Mabel and Gus being not far behind.

“Hullo!” said Lord Grayleigh; “come here, little woman, and account for yourself.”

Sibyl paused in her mad career. She longed to say, “I’m not going to account for myself to you,” but she remembered her mother’s injunction. She had been on her very best behavior all Sunday, Monday, and up to now on Tuesday, but her fit of goodness was coming to an end. She was in the mood to be obstreperous, naughty, and wilful; but the thought of her mother, who was so gently following in the path of the humble, restrained her.

“If mother, who is an angel, a perfect angel, can think herself naughty and yet wish me to be good, I ought to help her by being as good as I possibly can,” she thought.

So she stopped and looked at Lord Grayleigh with the wistful, puzzled expression which at once repelled and attracted him. His own daughters also drew up, panting.

“We were chasing Sib,” they said; “she challenged us. She said that, although she does live in town, she could beat us.”

“And it looked uncommonly like it when I saw you all,” was Grayleigh’s response. “Sibyl has long legs for her age.”