L. Meade - Daddy's Girl

“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?”