CHAPTER XXI
Ogilvie went straight to town. When he arrived at Victoria he took a hansom and drove to the house of the great doctor who had last seen Sibyl. Sir Henry Powell was at home. Ogilvie sent in his card and was admitted almost immediately into his presence. He asked a few questions, they were straight and to the point, and to the point did the specialist reply. His last words were:
“It is a question of time; but the end may come at any moment. There never was any hope from the beginning. From the first it was a matter of days and weeks, I did not know when I first saw your little daughter that she could live even as long as she has done, but the injury to the spine was low down, which doubtless accounts for this fact.”
Ogilvie bowed, offered a fee, which Sir Henry refused, and left the house. Although he had just received the blow which he expected to receive, he felt strangely quiet, his troublesome heart was not troublesome any longer. There was no excitement whatever about him; he had never felt so calm in all his life before. He knew well that, as far as earthly success and earthly hope and earthly joy went, he was coming to the end of the ways. He knew that he had strength for the task which lay before him.
He went to the nearest telegraph office and sent three telegrams to Lord Grayleigh. He pre-paid the answers of each, sending one to Grayleigh’s club, another to his house in town, and another to Grayleigh Manor. The contents of each were identical.
“Wire immediately the next meeting of the directors of the Lombard Deeps.”
He gave as the address to which the reply was to be sent his own house in Belgrave Square.
Having done this he paid a visit to his solicitor, Mr. Acland. Acland did not know that he had come back, and was unfeignedly glad to see him, but when he observed the expression on his friend’s face, he started and said:
“My dear fellow, you don’t look the better for your trip; I am sorry to see you so broken down.”
“I have a good deal to try me,” said Ogilvie; “please do not discuss my looks. It does not matter whether I am ill or well. I have much to do and must do my work quickly. You have heard, of course, about the child?”
“Of her accident?” exclaimed Acland; “yes, her mother wrote to me some time ago – she had a fall from her pony?”
“She had.”
“Take a chair, won’t you, Ogilvie?”
Ogilvie dropped into one. Acland looked at him and then said, slowly:
“I judged from Mrs. Ogilvie’s note that there was nothing serious the matter. I hope I am not mistaken.”
“You are mistaken,” replied Ogilvie; “but I cannot quite bear to discuss this matter. Shall we enter at once on the real object of my visit?”
“Certainly,” said Acland.
A clerk entered the room. “Leave us,” said Acland to the man, “and say to any inquirers that I am particularly engaged. Now, Ogilvie,” he added as the clerk withdrew, “I am quite at your service.”
“Thank you. There is a little business which has just come to my ears, and which I wish to arrange quickly. My wife tells me that she has borrowed two thousand pounds from you in order to pay a deposit on the place on the Thames called Silverbel.”
“Yes, the place where your wife is now staying.”
“Exactly.”
“I hope you approve of Silverbel, Ogilvie; it is really cheap at the price; and, of course, everyone knows that you have returned a very rich man. It would have been pleasanter for me had you been at home when the purchase was made, but Mrs. Ogilvie was insistent. She had taken a strong fancy to the place. There were several other less expensive country places in the market, but the only one which would please her was Silverbel. I cabled to you, but got no reply. Your wife implored me to act, and I lent her the deposit. The purchase must be completed at the end of October, in about a month from now. I hope you don’t blame me, Ogilvie?”
“I don’t blame you – I understand my wife. It would have been difficult to refuse her. Of course, had you done so matters might have been a little easier for me now. As it is, I will pay you back the deposit. I have my cheque-book with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I should like to write a cheque for you now. I must get this matter put straight, and, Acland, you must find another purchaser.”
“Not really!” cried Mr. Acland. “The place is beautiful, and cheap at the price, and you have come back a rich man.”
“On the contrary, I have returned to England practically a pauper.”
“No!” cried Mr. Acland; “but the report of the Lombard Deeps – ”
“Hush, you will know all soon. It is sufficient for you at present to receive the news in all confidence that I am a ruined man. Not that it matters. There will be a trifle for my wife – nothing else concerns me. May I fill in this cheque?”
“You can do so, of course,” replied Acland. “I shall receive the money in full sooner or later from the other purchaser, and then you can have it back.”
“It would be a satisfaction to me, however, to pay you the deposit you lent my wife at once.”
“Very well.”
Ogilvie filled in a cheque for two thousand pounds.
“You had better see Mrs. Ogilvie with regard to this,” he said, as he stood up. “You transacted the business with her, and you must break to her what I have already done, but what I fear she fails to believe, that the purchase cannot possibly go on. It will not be in my power, Acland, to complete it, even if I should be alive at the time.”
“I know another man only too anxious to purchase,” said Acland; “but I am deeply sorry for you – your child so ill, your own mission to Queensland a failure.”
“Yes, quite a failure. I won’t detain you any longer now. I may need your services again presently.”
Ogilvie went from the lawyer’s house straight to his own in Belgrave Square. It was in the hands of a caretaker. A seedy-looking man in a rusty black coat opened the door. He did not know Ogilvie.
“I am the master,” said Ogilvie; “let me in, please.”
The man stood aside.
“Has a telegram come for me?”
“Yes, sir, five minutes ago.”
Ogilvie tore it open, and read the contents.
“Meeting of directors at one o’clock to-morrow, at Cannon Street Hotel. Not necessary for you to be present unless you wish. GRAYLEIGH.”
Ogilvie crushed up the telegram, and turned to the man.
“I shall sleep here to-night,” Ogilvie said, “and shall be back in the course of the evening.”
He then went to his bank. It was within half-an-hour of closing. He saw one of the managers who happened to be a friend of his. The manager welcomed him back with effusion, and then made the usual remark about his changed appearance.
Ogilvie put his troublesome questions aside.
“I had an interview with you just before I went to Queensland,” he said, “and I then placed, with a special note for your instructions in case anything happened to me, a sum of money in the bank.”
“A large sum, Ogilvie – ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, ten thousand pounds,” repeated Ogilvie. “I want to withdraw the money.”
“It is a considerable sum to withdraw at once, but as it is not on deposit you can have it.”
“I thought it only fair to give you a few hours’ notice. I shall call for it to-morrow about ten o’clock.”
“Do you wish to take it in a cheque?”
“I think not, I should prefer notes.” Ogilvie added a few more words, and then went back to his own house.
At last everything was in train. He uttered a sigh of relief. The house looked gloomy and dismantled, but for that very reason it suited his feelings. Some of the furniture had been removed to Silverbel, and the place was dusty. His study in particular looked forbidding, some ashes from the last fire ever made there still remained in the grate. He wondered if anyone had ever entered the study since he last sat there and struggled with temptation and yielded to it.
He went up to his own room, which had been hastily prepared for him, and looked around him in a forlorn way. He then quickly mounted another flight of stairs, and found himself at last in the room where his little daughter used to sleep. The moment he entered this room he was conscious of a sensation of comfort. The worldliness of all the rest of the house fell away in this sweet, simply furnished chamber. He sat down near the little empty bed, pressed his hand over his eyes, and gave himself up to thought.
Nobody knew how long he sat there. The caretaker and his wife took no notice. They were busy down in the kitchen. It mattered nothing at all to them whether Ogilvie were in the house or not. He breathed a conscious sigh of relief. He was glad to be alone, and the spirit of his little daughter seemed close to him. He had something hard to go through, and terrible agony would be his as he accomplished his task. He knew that he should have to walk through fire, and the fire would not be brief nor quickly over. Step by step his wounded feet must tread. By no other road was there redemption. He did not shirk the inevitable. On the contrary, his mind was made up.
“By no other road can I clasp her hand in the Eternity which lies beyond this present life,” he thought. “I deserve the pain and the shame, I deserve all. There are times when a man comes face to face with God. It is fearful when his God is angry with him. My God is angry – the pains of hell take hold of me.”
He walked to the window and looked out. It is doubtful if he saw much. Suddenly beside the little empty bed he fell on his knees, buried his face in his hands and a sob rose to his throat.
On the following day, shortly before one o’clock, the directors of the Lombard Deeps Company assembled in one of the big rooms of the Cannon Street Hotel. Lord Grayleigh, the Chairman, had not yet arrived. The rest of the directors sat around a long, green baize table and talked eagerly one to the other. They formed a notable gathering, including many of the astutest financiers in the city. As they sat and waited for Grayleigh to appear, they eagerly discussed the prospects of the new venture. While they talked their spirits rose, and had any outside spectator been present he would have guessed that they had already made up their minds to an enormous success.
Just on the stroke of one Grayleigh, carrying a roll of documents in his hand, entered the room. There was a lull in the conversation as he nodded to one and another of his acquaintances, went quickly up the room and took his seat at the head of the table. Here he arranged his papers and held a short consultation with the secretary, a tall man of about fifty years of age. There was a short pause and then Lord Grayleigh rose to his feet.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “although, as you know, I have been and am still chairman of several companies, I can say without hesitation that never have I presided at a meeting of the directors of any company before which had such brilliant prospects. It is my firm conviction, and I hope to impress you all with a similar feeling, that the Lombard Deeps Mining Company has a great career before it.”
Expressions of satisfaction rose from one or two present.
Lord Grayleigh proceeded: “This I can frankly say is largely due to our having secured the services of Mr. Philip Ogilvie as our assayer, but I regret to have to tell you all that, although he has returned to England, he is not likely to be present to-day. A very serious domestic calamity which ought to claim your deepest sympathy is the cause of his absence, but his report in detail I shall now have the pleasure of submitting to you.”
Here Lord Grayleigh took up the document which had been signed by Ogilvie and Rycroft at the Waharoo Hotel at Brisbane. He proceeded to read it aloud, emphasizing the words which spoke of the value of the veins of gold beneath the alluvial deposit.
“This report,” he said in conclusion, “is vouched for by the signatures of my friend Ogilvie and also by James Rycroft, who is nearly as well known in Queensland as Ogilvie is in London.”
As detail after detail of the brilliantly worded document which Ogilvie and Rycroft had compounded with such skill, fell upon the ears of Lord Grayleigh’s audience, satisfaction not unmixed with avarice lit up the eyes of many. Accustomed as most of these men were to assayers’ reports, what they now listened to unfeignedly astonished them. There was a great silence in the room, and not the slightest word from Lord Grayleigh’s clear voice was lost.
When he had finished he laid the document on the table and was just about, as he expressed it, to proceed to business when a movement at the door caused all to turn their heads. Ogilvie had unexpectedly entered the room.
Cries of welcome greeted him and many hands were stretched out. He contented himself, however, with bowing slightly, and going up the room handed Lord Grayleigh a packet.
“Don’t open it now,” he said in a low voice, “it is for yourself, and carries its own explanation with it.”
He then turned and faced the directors. There was something about his demeanor and an indescribable look on his face, which caused the murmurs of applause to die away and silence once more to fill the room.
Lord Grayleigh slipped the small packet into his pocket and also rose to his feet.
Ogilvie’s attitude and manner disturbed him. A sensation as though of coming calamity seemed to weigh the air. Lord Grayleigh was the first to speak.
“We are all glad to welcome you back, Ogilvie,” he said. “In more senses than one we are pleased that you are able to be present just now. I have just been reading your report to these gentlemen. I had finished it when you entered the room.”
“It is an admirable and brilliant account of the mine, Mr. Ogilvie,” said a director from the far end of the table. “I congratulate you not only on the good news it contains, but on the excellent manner in which you have put details together. The Lombard Deeps will be the best thing in the market, and we shall not need for capital to work the mine to the fullest extent.”
“Will you permit me to look at my report for a moment, Lord Grayleigh?” said Ogilvie, in a grave tone.
Grayleigh gave it to him. Ogilvie took it in his hand.
“I have come here to-day,” he said, “to speak for a moment” – his voice was husky; he cleared his throat, and went on – “to perform a painful business, to set wrong right. I am prepared, gentlemen, for your opprobrium. You think well of me now, you will not do so long. I have come here to speak to you of that – ”
“Sit down,” said Grayleigh’s voice behind him. “You must be mad. Remember yourself.” He laid his hand on Ogilvie’s arm. Ogilvie shook it off.
“I can tell you, gentlemen, what I have come to say in a few words,” he continued. “This report which I drew up, and which I signed, is as false as hell.”
“False?” echoed a voice in the distance, a thin voice from a foreign-looking man. “Impossible!”
“It is false,” continued Ogilvie. “I wrote the report and I ought to know. I spent three weeks at the Lombard Deeps Mine. There were no rich veins of gold; there was a certain alluvial deposit, which for a time, a few months, might yield five ounces to the ton. I wrote the report for a motive which no longer exists. God Himself smote me for my infamous work. Gentlemen, you can do with me exactly as you think fit, but this report, signed by me, shall never go before the world.”
As he said the last words he hastily tore away his own signature, crushed it in his hands and, crossing the room, threw it into a small fire which was burning in the grate.
This action was the signal for great excitement on the part of most of the directors. Others poured out floods of questions. Lord Grayleigh alone remained quietly seated in his chair, but his face was white, and for the time he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing.
“I have no excuse to offer,” continued Ogilvie, “and I refuse to inculpate anyone with myself in this matter. This was my own concern; I thought out the report, I worded it, I signed it. Rycroft was more or less my tool. In the moment of my so-called victory God smote me. You can do with me just as you please, but the Lombard Deeps Company must collapse. I have nothing further to say.”
He left the room, dropping the now worthless document on to the table as he did so. No one interrupted him or prevented his exit. As his footsteps died away on the stairs the discomfited and astonished directors looked one at the other.
“What is the meaning of it all?” said one, going up to Grayleigh; “you are chairman, and you ought to know.”
Grayleigh shook himself and stood up.
“This must be a brief madness,” he said; “there is no other way to account for it. Ogilvie, of all men under the sun! Gentlemen, you know his character, you know what his name was worth as our engineer, but there is one other thing you do not know. The poor fellow has a child, only one, to whom he is devoted. I heard this morning that the child is dying. Under such circumstances his mind may have been unhinged. Let me follow him. I will return after I have said a word to him.”
The chairman left the room, ran quickly downstairs and out into the street. Ogilvie had hailed a hansom and was getting into it.
“One moment first,” said Grayleigh.
“What do you want?” asked Ogilvie.
“An explanation.”
“I gave it upstairs.”
“You are mad – you are mad.”
“On the contrary, I believe that I am sane – sane at last. I grant you I was mad when I signed the report, but I am sane now.”
“What packet was that you gave me?”
“Your money back.”
“The ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes; I did not want it. I have delivered my soul, and nothing else matters.”
“Tell me at least one thing. Is this strange action on your part owing to the child’s accident?”
“It is. I was going headlong down to hell, but God, through her, has pulled me up short. Gold is utterly valueless to me now. The child is dying, and I cannot part with her for all eternity. You can draw your own conclusions.”
As Ogilvie spoke he shook Grayleigh’s detaining hand from his arm. The chairman of the Lombard Deeps Company stood still for a moment, then returned to the directors.
As Grayleigh walked slowly upstairs he had a moment’s conflict with his own conscience. In one thing at least Ogilvie was generous. He had not dragged Lord Grayleigh to the earth in his own fall. The affair of the ten thousand pounds was known to no one else.
“He fell, and I caused him to fall,” thought Lord Grayleigh. “In the moment of his fall, if I were even half a man, I would stand by him and acknowledge my share in the matter. But no; where would be the use? I cannot drag my children through the mire. Poor Ogilvie is losing his child, and for him practically life is over.”
Grayleigh re-entered the room where the directors waited for him.
“I saw Ogilvie just now,” he said, “and he sticks to his story. I fear, too, that I was wrong in my conjecture with regard to his madness. He must have had a temporary madness when he drew up and signed the false report. I suppose we ought to consider ourselves lucky.”
“At least the widows and orphans won’t be ruined,” said one of the directors, a thin-faced anxious-looking man. “Well, of course, Lord Grayleigh, we must all wash our hands of this.”
“We must do so advisedly,” was Grayleigh’s remark; “remember, we have gone far. Remember, the cablegram was not kept too secret, and the knowledge of the excellent report sent by Ogilvie has got to the ears of one or two city editors. He must give out that there was a misunderstanding as to the value of the mine.”
“And what of Ogilvie himself?” said an angry-looking man. “Such infamous conduct requires stringent measures. Do you gentlemen share my views?”
One or two did, but most protested against dragging Ogilvie’s story too prominently into the light of day.
“It may reflect on ourselves,” said one or two. “It is just possible there may be some people who will not believe that he was alone in this matter.”
Lord Grayleigh was the last to speak.
“If I were you, gentlemen,” he said, moodily, “I would leave Ogilvie to his God.”
CHAPTER XXII
“Philip!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, as he re-entered pretty Silverbel about four o’clock that afternoon, “I have just had an extraordinary telegram from our lawyer, Mr. Acland.”
Ogilvie looked full at her but did not speak.
“How strangely tired and worn you look,” she replied; “what can be the matter with you? Sometimes, when I think of you and the extraordinary way in which you are acting, I come to the conclusion that your brain cannot be right.”
“You are wrong there, Mildred. There was a time when not only my brain but all my moral qualities were affected, but I believe these things are put right at last.”
He gave a hollow laugh.
“I am enjoying, for the first time for many months, the applause of an approving conscience,” he continued; “that is something to live for.”
“Have you done anything rash, Philip?”
“I have done something which my conscience justifies. Now, what about the telegram from Acland?”
“He is coming here this evening to have a talk with me. What can he have to say?”
“Doubtless his visit is accounted for by an interview I had with him yesterday. I asked him to explain matters to you, as you and he conducted the business with regard to this place together. Mildred, Silverbel must be given up.”
Her face grew red with passion, she felt inclined to stamp her foot.
“It cannot be,” she cried, “we have already paid two thousand pounds deposit.”
“That money was returned by me to Acland yesterday. He has doubtless heard of another purchaser. It will be a lucky thing for us, Mildred, if he takes the furniture as well as the place. Pray don’t keep me now.”
She gave a sharp cry and flung herself into a chair. Ogilvie paused as if to speak to her, then changed his mind and went slowly upstairs. On the landing outside Sibyl’s door he paused for a moment, struggling with himself.
“The bitterness of death lies before me,” he muttered, for he knew that difficult as was the task which he had accomplished that morning at the Cannon Street Hotel, terrible as was the moment when he stood before his fellow men and branded himself as a felon, these things were nothing, nothing at all to that which now lay before him, for God demanded something more of the man – he must open the eyes of the child who worshipped him. The thought of this awful task almost paralyzed him; his heart beat with heavy throbs and the moisture stood on his forehead. One look at Sibyl, however, lying whiter and sweeter than ever in her little bed, restored to him that marvellous self-control which love alone can give.
Nurse was in the room, and it was evident that nurse had been having a bout of crying. Her eyelids were red. She turned when she saw her master, went up to him and shook her head.
“Leave us for a little, nurse,” said Ogilvie.
She went away at once.
Ogilvie now approached the bed, dropped into a chair and took one of Sibyl’s hands.
“You have been a long time away, father,” said the child.
“I have, my darling, I had a great deal to do.”
“Business, father?”
“Yes, dearest, important business.”
“You don’t look well,” said Sibyl. She gazed at him, apprehensively, her blue eyes opened wide, and a spasm of pain flitted across her brow.
“I have had a hard time,” said the man, “and now, my little girl, I have come to you, to you, my dearest, to perform the hardest task of my life.”
“To me, father? The hardest task of your life?”
“Yes, my little daughter, I have something to say to you.”
“Something bad?” asked Sibyl.
“Something very bad.”
Sibyl shut her eyes for a minute, then she opened them and looked steadily at her father, her childish lips became slightly compressed, it was as if a world of strength suddenly entered her little frame, as though, dying as she was, she was bracing herself to endure.
“I am very sorry,” she said. “I love you so much. What is it, darlingest father?”
“Let me hold your hand,” he said. “It will be easier for me to tell you something then.”
She gave it to him. He clasped it in both of his, bent forward, and began to speak.
“At the moment, little Sibyl, when the cablegram which told me of your accident was put into my hand, I had just done something so wicked, so terrible, that God Himself, God Almighty, rose up and smote me.”
“I don’t understand,” said the child.
“I will explain. The cablegram told me that you were ill, very ill. I wanted to undo what I had done, but it was too late. I hurried back to you. God came with me on board the ship. God came, and He was angry; I had a terrible time.”
“Still I do not understand,” repeated Sibyl.
“Let me speak, my dear girl. I reached home, and I saw you, and then a temptation came to me. I wanted us both, you and I, to be happy together for two days. I knew that at the end of that time I must open your eyes.”
“Oh, we were happy!” said the child.
“Yes, for those two days we had peace, and we were, as you say, happy. I put away from me the thought of that which was before me, but I knew that it must come. It has come, Sibyl. The peace has been changed to storm; and now, little girl, I am in the midst of the tempest; the agony I feel in having to tell you this no words can explain.”
“I wish you would try and ’splain, all the same,” said Sibyl, in a weak, very weak voice.
“I will, I must; it is wrong of me to torture you.”
“It’s only ’cos of you yourself,” she murmured.
“Listen, my darling. You have often given thoughts to the Lombard Deeps Mine?”
“Oh, yes.” She raised herself a little on her pillow, and tried to speak more cheerfully. “I have thought of it, the mine full, full of gold, and all the people so happy!”
Her voice grew quite animated.
“Any special people, dearest?”
“So many,” she replied. “I told Lord Grayleigh, and he put their names in his note-book. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Holman, the people who keep the toy-shop; she has a hundred pounds, and she wants to buy some of the gold.”
“The old pair I saw coming to see you yesterday? Are they the Holmans? Yes, I remember they told me that was their name.”
“They came, father. I love ’em so much; and there’s Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen, they want to marry. It’s a secret, but you may know. And nurse, she wants some of the gold, ’cos her eyes ache, and you sent a cablegram, father, and said the gold was there; it’s all right.”
“No, Sibyl, it is all wrong; the gold is not in the mine.”
“But you sent a cablegram.”
“I did.”
“And you said it was there.”
“I did.”
She paused and looked at him; her eyes grew full of pain; the pain reached agony point.
“You said it?”
“I did worse,” said the man. He stood up, folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at her. “I did worse, and to tell you is my punishment. I not only sent that cablegram, but I wrote an account of the mine, a false account, false as my false heart was, Sibyl, and I signed it with my name, for the gold I said was in the mine was not there.”
“Why did you do it, father?”
“Because I was a scoundrel.”
“What’s that?” asked Sibyl.
“A bad man.”
“No,” said the child, “no, you was always my most perfect – ”
“You thought so, darling; you were wrong. Even when I went to Queensland I was far from that. I could not bid you good-by before I went, because of the sin which I was about to commit. I committed the sin, I dropped away from honor, I let goodness go. I did that which could never, never, under any circumstances, be worth doing, for there is nothing worth evil, there is nothing worth sin, I see it now.”
“Then you are sorry?”
“I have repented,” he cried; “my God, I have repented,” and he fell on his knees and covered his face. For the child’s sake he kept back the sobs which rose to his throat.
Sibyl looked at the bent head, at the dark hair already sprinkled with gray. She lay quite still, there was not the slightest doubt that the shock was great. Ogilvie waited, longing, wondering if the little hand would touch his head, if the child would forgive him.
“She is so holy, so heavenly herself,” he murmured; “is it possible that she can forgive? It must be a cruel shock to her.”
The little, white hand did not touch him. There was complete stillness in the room. At last he raised his eyes and looked at her. She looked steadily back at him.
“And so you was never perfect?” she said.
“Never.”
“And was mother never perfect?”
“Not as you think of perfection, Sibyl, but we need not talk of her now. I have sinned far more deeply than your poor mother has ever done.”
The puzzled expression grew deeper on Sibyl’s face. An old memory of her mother returned to her. She saw again the scene, and recalled her mother’s words, the words she had overheard, and which the mother had denied. She was quite still for a full moment, the little clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, then she said slowly:
“And Lord Jesus, isn’t He perfect?”
Ogilvie started when he heard her words.
“Aye, He is perfect,” he answered, “you are safe in trusting to Him. He is all that your dreams and all that your longings desire.”
She smiled very faintly.
“Why did He come into the world?” was her next question.
“Don’t you know that old story? Has no one told you?”
“Won’t you tell me now, father?”
“The old story was that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”
“Sinners,” repeated Sibyl, “’cos He loved ’em?”
“Would He have done that for anything else, do you think?”
“I ’spect not,” she replied, and again the faint smile filled her eyes.
“Then He loves you,” she said, after a moment. “He came from heaven ’cos of you.”
“It seems like it, my little girl, and yet I cannot bring myself to believe that He can love me.”
“Don’t speak to me, father, for a minute; go away, and look out of the window, and come back when I call you.”
He rose at once, crossed the room, and stood looking out. In a short time the feeble voice called him back.
“Father!” There was a change in the face, the look of pain had vanished, the sweet eyes were as peaceful as ever, and more clearly than ever did that amazing knowledge and comprehension fill them, which never belonged to this earth.
“Kneel down, father,” said Sibyl.
He knelt.
Now she laid her little hand in his, and now she smiled at him, and now, as if she were strong and well again, she stroked his hand with her other hand, and at last she feebly raised the hand and pressed it to her lips.