“Can I? I thought the die was cast.”
“The worldly man in me echoes that hope, but I could get Atherton to take your place even now.”
“Even now?” echoed Philip Ogilvie.
“Even now it may be possible to manage it, although I” – Lord Grayleigh had a flashing memory of Sibyl’s face and the look in her eyes, when she spoke of her perfect father. Then he glanced at the man who, silent and with suppressed suffering in his face, stood before him. The irresolution in Ogilvie’s face took something from its character, and seemed to lower the man’s whole nature. Lord Grayleigh shivered; then the uncomfortable sensation which the memory of Sibyl gave him passed away.
“I shall regret it extremely if you cannot do what I want,” he said, with emphasis.
Ogilvie had a quick sensation of momentary relief. His wife owed another two thousand pounds. It would be bankruptcy, ruin if he did not go. He stood up.
“The time for discussing the thing is over,” he said. “I will go – and – do as you wish. The only thing to put straight is the price down.”
“What do you mean by the price down?”
“I want money.”
“Of course, you shall have it.”
“I want more than my expenses, and something to cover the loss to my business which my absence may create.”
“How much more?” Lord Grayleigh looked at him anxiously.
“Ten thousand pounds in cash now, to be placed to my credit in my bank.”
“Ten thousand pounds in cash! That is a big order.”
“Not too big for what you require me to do. You make hundreds of thousands by me eventually; what is one ten thousand? It will relieve my mind and set a certain matter straight. The fact is – I will confide in you so far – my own pecuniary affairs are anything but flourishing. I have had some calls to meet. What little property I own is settled on my wife. You know that a man cannot interfere with his marriage settlements. I have one child. I want to make a special provision for her.”
“I know your child,” said Lord Grayleigh, in a very grave tone; “she is out of the common.”
A spasm of pain crossed the father’s face.
“She is,” he answered slowly. “I wish to make a provision for her. If I die (I may die, we are all mortal; I am going to a distant place; possibilities in favor of death are ten per cent. greater than if I remain at home) – if I die, this will be hers. It will comfort me, and make it absolutely impossible for me to go back. You understand that sometimes a miserable starved voice within me speaks. I allude to the voice of conscience. However much it clamors, I cannot listen to it when that sum of money lies in the bank to my credit, with my last will and testament leaving it eventually to my daughter.”
“I would not give your daughter such a portion, if I were you,” thought Lord Grayleigh, but he did not say the words aloud. He said instead, “What you wish shall be done.”
The two men talked a little longer together. Certain necessary arrangements were concluded, and Ogilvie bore in his pocket before he left a check for ten thousand pounds on Lord Grayleigh’s private account.
“This clinches matters,” he said, and he gave a significant glance at Grayleigh.
“You will see Spielmann for all the rest,” was Grayleigh’s answer; “and now, if you must catch the train – ”
“Yes, I must; good-by.”
Lord Grayleigh walked with him as far as the porch.
“Have you seen your wife?” he asked. “Can we not induce you to wait for the next train and stay to lunch?”
“No, thanks; it is impossible. Oh, I see you have sent for the dog-cart; I will drive to the station.”
Just then Sibyl, Gus and Freda appeared in view. Sibyl was extremely dirty. She had been climbing trees to good effect that morning, and there was a rent in front of her dress and even a very apparent hole in one of her stockings. She and Gus were arguing somewhat fiercely, and the cap she wore was pushed back, and her golden hair was all in a tangle. Suddenly she raised her eyes, caught sight of her father, and, with a shout something between a whoop and a cry, flung herself into his arms.
“Daddy, daddy!” she cried.
He clasped her tightly to his breast. He did not notice the shabby dress nor the torn stocking; he only saw the eager little face, the eyes brimful with love; he only felt the beating of the warm, warm heart.
“Why, dad, now I shall be happy. Where are you, Gus? Gus, this is father; Gus, come here!”
But at a nod from Lord Grayleigh both Gus and Freda had vanished round the corner.
“I will say good-by, if you must go, Ogilvie,” said Grayleigh. He took his hand, gave it a sympathetic squeeze, and went into the house.
“But must you go, father? Why, you have only just come,” said Sibyl.
“I must, my darling, I must catch the next train; there is not ten minutes. Jump on the dog-cart, and we will drive to the station together.”
“Oh, ’licious!” cried Sibyl, “more than ’licious; but what will mother say?”
“Never mind, the coachman will bring you back. Jump up, quick.”
In another instant Sibyl was seated between her father and the coachman. The spirited mare dashed forward, and they bowled down the avenue. Ogilvie’s arm was tight round Sibyl’s waist, he was hugging her to him, squeezing her almost painfully tight. She gasped a little, drew in her breath, and then resolved to bear it.
“There’s something troubling him, he likes having me near him,” thought the child. “I wouldn’t let him see that he’s squeezing me up a bit too tight for all the world.”
The mare seemed to fly over the ground. Ogilvie was glad.
“We shall have a minute or two at the station. I can speak to her then,” he thought. “I won’t tell her that I am going, but I can say something.” Then the station appeared in view, and the mare was pulled up with a jerk; Ogilvie jumped to his feet, and lifted Sibyl to the ground.
“Wait for the child,” he said to the servant, “and take her back carefully to the house.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man, touching his hat.
Ogilvie went into the little station, and Sibyl accompanied him.
“I have my ticket,” he said, “we have three minutes to spare, three whole precious minutes.”
“Three whole precious minutes,” repeated Sibyl. “What is it, father?”
“I am thinking of something,” he said.
“What?” asked the girl.
“For these three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, you and I are to all intents and purposes alone in the world.”
“Father! why, so we are,” she cried. “Mother’s not here, we are all alone. Nothing matters, does it, when we are alone together?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t look quite well, dear father.”
“I have been having some suffering lately, and am worried about things, those sort of things that don’t come to little girls.”
“Of course they don’t, father, but when I’m a woman I’ll have them. I’ll take them instead of you.”
“Now listen, my darling.”
“Father, before you speak … I know you are going to say something very, very solemn; I know you when you’re in your solemn moments; I like you best of all then. You seem like Jesus Christ then. Don’t you feel like Jesus Christ, father?”
“Never, Sib, never; but the time is going by, the train is signalled. My dearest, what is it?”
“Mayn’t I go back to town with you? I like the country, I like Gus and Freda and Mabel, but there is no place like your study in the evening, and there’s no place like my bedroom at night when you come into it. I’d like to go back with you, wouldn’t it be fun! Couldn’t you take me?”
“I could, of course,” said the man, and just for a moment he wavered. It would be nice to have her in the house, all by herself, for the next two or three days, but he put the thought from him as if it were a temptation.
“No, Sib,” he said, “you must go back to your mother; it would not be at all right to leave your mother alone.”
“Of course not,” she answered promptly, and she gave a sigh which was scarcely a sigh.
“It would have been nice all the same,” said Ogilvie. “Ah! there is my train; kiss me, darling.”
She flung her arms tightly round his neck.
“Sibyl, just promise before I leave you that you will be a good girl, that you will make goodness the first thing in life. If, for instance, we were never to meet again – of course we shall, thousands of times, but just suppose, for the sake of saying it, that we did not, I should like to know that my little girl put goodness first. There is nothing else worth the while in life. Cling on to it, Sibyl, cling tight hold to it. Never forget that I – ”
“Yes, father, I will cling to it. Yes, father!”
“That I wish it. You would do a great deal for me?”
“For you and Lord Jesus Christ,” she answered softly.
“Then I wish this, remember, and whatever happens, whatever you hear, remember you promised. Now here’s my train, stand back. Good-by, little woman, good-by.”
“I’ll see you again very, very soon, father?”
“Very soon,” answered the man. He jumped into the carriage, the train puffed out of the station. A porter came up to Sibyl and spoke to her.
“Anybody come to meet you, Miss?”
“No, thank you,” she answered with dignity; “I was seeing my father off to town; there’s my twap waiting outside.”
The man smiled, and the little girl went gravely out of the station.
Sibyl went back to Lord Grayleigh’s feeling perplexed. There was an expression about her father’s face which puzzled her.
“He ought to have me at home with him,” she thought. “I have seen him like this now and then, and he’s mostly not well. He’s beautiful when he talks as he did to-day, but he’s mostly not well when he does it. I ’spect he’s nearer Lord Jesus when he’s not well, that must be it. My most perfect father wants me to be good; I don’t want to be good a bit, but I must, to please him.”
Just then a somewhat shrill and petulant voice called the child.
“My dear Sibyl, where have you been? What are you doing on the dog-cart? How unladylike. Jump down this minute.”
The man pulled up the mare, and Sibyl jumped to the ground. She met her mother’s angry face with a smile which she tried hard to make sweet.
“I didn’t do anything naughty, really, Mummy,” she said. “Father took me to the station to say good-by. He’s off back to town, and he took me with him, and I came back on the twap.”
“Don’t say twap, sound your ‘r’ – trap.”
“Tw-rap,” struggled Sibyl over the difficult word.
“And now you are to go into the house and ask Nurse to put on your best dress. I am going to take you to a garden party, immediately after lunch. Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen Douglas are coming with us. Be quick.”
“Oh, ’licious,” said Sibyl. She rushed into the house, and up to the nursery. Nurse was there waiting to deck her in silk and lace and feathers. The little girl submitted to her toilet, and now took a vast interest in it.
“You must make me quite my prettiest self,” she said to the nurse; “you must do your very best, ’cos mother – ”
“What about your mother now, missy?”
“’Cos mother’s just a little – Oh, nothing,” said Sibyl, pulling herself up short.
“She likes me best when I’m pretty,” continued the child; “but father likes me always. Nursie, do you know that my ownest father came down here to-day, and that I dwove to the station to see him off? Did you know it?”
“No, Miss Sibyl, I can’t say I did.”
“He talked to me in a most pwivate way,” continued Sibyl. “He told me most ’portant things, and I promised him, Nursie – I promised him that I’d – Oh, no! I won’t tell you. Perhaps I won’t be able to keep my promise, and then you’d – Nothing, Nursie, nothing; don’t be ’quisitive. I can see in your face that you are all bursting with ’quisitiveness; but you aren’t to know. I am going to a party with my own mother after lunch, and Lady Helen is coming, and Mr. Rochester. I like them both very much indeed. Lady Helen told me stories last night. She put her arm round my waist, and she talked to me; and I told her some things, too, and she laughed.”
“What did you tell her, Miss Sibyl?”
“About my father and mother. She laughed quite funnily. I wish people wouldn’t; it shows how little they know. It’s ’cos they are so far from being perfect that they don’t understand perfect people. But there’s the lunch gong. Yes, I do look very nice. Good-by, Nursie.”
Sibyl ran downstairs. The children always appeared at this meal, and she took her accustomed place at the table. Very soon afterwards, she, her mother, Lady Helen, and Mr. Rochester, started for a place about ten miles off, where an afternoon reception was being given.
Sibyl felt inclined to be talkative, and Mrs. Ogilvie, partly because she had a sore feeling in her heart with regard to her husband’s departure, although she would not acknowledge it, was inclined to be snappish. She pulled the little girl up several times, and at last Sibyl subsided in her seat, and looked out straight before her. It was then that Lady Helen once more put her arm round her waist.
“Presently,” said Lady Helen, “when the guests are all engaged, you and I will slip out by ourselves, and I will show you one of the most beautiful views in all England. We climb a winding path, and we suddenly come out quite above all the trees, and we look around us; and when we get there, you’ll be able to see the blue sea in the distance, and the ships, one of which is going to take your – ”
But just then Mrs. Ogilvie gave Helen Douglas so severe a push with her foot, that she stopped, and got very red.
“What ship do you mean?” said Sibyl, surprised at the sudden break in the conversation, and now intensely interested, “the ship that is going to take my – my what?”
“Did you never hear the old saying, that you must wait until your ship comes home?” interrupted Mr. Rochester, smiling at the child, and looking at Lady Helen, who had not got over her start and confusion.
“But this ship was going out,” said Sibyl. “Never mind, I ’spect it’s a secret; there’s lots of ’em floating round to-day. I’ve got some ’portant ones of my own. Never mind, Lady Helen, don’t blush no more.” She patted Lady Helen in a patronizing way on her hand, and the whole party laughed; the tension was, for the time, removed.
CHAPTER VIII
Ogilvie made a will leaving the ten thousand pounds which Lord Grayleigh had given him absolutely to Sibyl for her sole use and benefit. He also made all other preparations for his absence from home, and started for Queensland on Saturday. He wrote to his wife on the night before he left England, repeating his injunction that on no account was Sibyl to be yet told of his departure.
“When she absolutely must learn it, break it to her in the tenderest way possible,” he said; “but as Grayleigh has kindly invited you both to stay on at Grayleigh Manor for another week, you may as well do so, and while there I want the child to be happy. The country air and the companionship of other children are doing her a great deal of good. I never saw her look better than I did the other day. I should also be extremely glad, Mildred, if on your return to town you would arrange to send Sibyl to a nice day-school, where she could have companions. I have nothing to say against Miss Winstead, but I think the child would be better, less old-fashioned, and might place us more on the pedestal which we really ought to occupy, if she had other children to talk to and exchange thoughts with. Try to act, my dear wife, as I would like in this particular, I beg of you. Also when you have to let my darling know that I am away, you will find a letter for her in my left-hand top drawer in my study table. Give it to her, and do not ask to see it. It is just a little private communication from her father, and for her eyes alone. Be sure, also, you tell her that, all being well, I hope to be back in England by the end of the summer.”
Ogilvie added some more words to his letter, and Mrs. Ogilvie received it on Saturday morning. She read it over carelessly, and then turned to Jim Rochester who stood near. During her visit to Grayleigh Manor she had got to know this young man very well, and to like him extremely. He was good-looking, pleasant to talk to, well informed, and with genial, hearty views of life. He had been well brought up, and his principles were firm and unshaken. His notion of living was to do right on every possible occasion, to turn from the wrong with horror, to have faith in God, to keep religion well in view, and as far as in him lay to love his neighbor better than himself.
Rochester, it may be frankly stated, had some time ago lost his heart to Lady Helen Douglas, who, on her part, to all appearance returned his affection. Nothing had yet, however, been said between the pair, although Rochester’s eyes proclaimed his secret whenever they rested on Lady Helen’s fair face.
He watched Mrs. Ogilvie now with a sudden interest as she folded up her husband’s letter.
“Well,” she said, turning to him and uttering a quick sigh; “he is off, it is a fait accompli. Do you know, I am relieved.”
“Are you?” he answered. He looked at her almost wistfully. He himself was sorry for Ogilvie, he did not know why. He was, of course, aware that he was going to Queensland to assay the Lombard Deeps, for the talk of the great new gold mine had already reached his ears. He knew that Ogilvie, moreover, looked pale, ill at ease, and worried. He supposed that this uneasiness and want of alacrity in carrying a very pleasurable business to a successful issue was caused by the man’s great attachment to his wife and child. Mrs. Ogilvie must also be sorry when she remembered that it would be many months before she saw him again. But there was no sorrow now in the soft eyes which met his, nothing but a look of distinct annoyance.
“Really,” she said with an impatient movement, “I must confide in some one, and why not in you, Mr. Rochester, as well as another? I have already told you that my husband is absolutely silly about that child. From her birth he has done all that man could do to spoil her.”
“But without succeeding,” interrupted Jim Rochester. “I am quite friendly with your little Sibyl now,” he added, “and I never saw a nicer little girl.”
“Oh, that is what strangers always say,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie, shrugging her shoulders, “and the child is nice, I am not denying it for a moment, but she would be nicer if she were not simply ruined. He wants her to live in an impossible world, without any contradictions or even the smallest pain. You will scarcely believe it, but he would not allow me, the other day, to tell her such a very simple, ordinary thing as that he was going to Queensland on business, and now, in his letter, he still begs of me to keep it a secret from her. She is not to know anything about his absence until she returns to London, because, forsooth, the extra week she is to spend in the country would not do her so much good if she were fretting. Why should Sibyl fret? Surely it is not worse for her than for me; not nearly as bad, for that matter.”
“I am glad you feel it,” said Rochester.
“Feel it? What a strange remark! Did you think I was heartless? Of course I feel it, but I am not going to be silly or sentimental over the matter. Philip is a very lucky man to have this business to do. I would not be so foolish as to keep him at home; but he is ruining that child, ruining her. She gets more spoilt and intolerable every day.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Ogilvie,” said Lady Helen, who came upon the scene at that moment, “I heard you talking of your little daughter. I don’t think I ever met a sweeter child.”
Mrs. Ogilvie threw up her hands in protest.
“There you go,” she said. “Mr. Rochester has been saying almost the very same words, Lady Helen. Now let me tell you that Sibyl is not your child; no one can be more charming to strangers.”
As Mrs. Ogilvie spoke she walked a few steps away; then she turned and resumed her conversation.
“The annoying part of this letter,” she said, “is that Philip has written a private communication to Sibyl, and when she hears of his absence she is to be given this letter, and I am not even to see it. I don’t think I shall give it to her; I really must now take the management of the child into my own hands. Her father will be absent – Oh, there you are, Sibyl. What are you doing, loitering about near windows? Why don’t you play with your companions?” For Sibyl had burst in by the open window, looking breathless.
“I thought – I thought,” she began; “I thought, mother, that I heard you – ” her face was strangely white, and her wide-open eyes looked almost wild in expression.
“It’s not true, of course; but I thought I heard you say something about father, and a – a letter I was to have in his absence. Did you say it, mother?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie, flushing red, and almost pushing Sibyl from the room, “nothing of the sort; go and play.”
Sibyl gave her an earnest and very penetrating look. She did not glance either at Mr. Rochester or Lady Helen.
“It’s wicked for good people to tell lies, isn’t it?” she said then, slowly.
“Wicked,” cried her mother; “it’s shamefully wicked.”
“And you are good, mother, you don’t ever tell lies; I believe you, mother, of course.” She turned and went out of the room. As she went slowly in the direction of the field where the other children were taking turns to ride bareback one of the horses, her thoughts were very puzzled.
“I wish things would be ’splained to me,” she said, half aloud, and she pushed back her curls from her forehead. “There are more and more things every day want ’splaining. I certainly did hear her say it. I heard them all talking, and Lady Helen said something, and Mr. Rochester said something, and mother said that father wished me not to know, and I was to have a letter, and then mother said ‘in his absence.’ Oh, what can it mean?”
The other children shouted to her from the field, but she was in no mood to join them, and just then Lord Grayleigh, who was pacing up and down his favorite walk, called her to his side.
“What a puzzled expression you are wearing, my little girl,” he said. “Is anything the matter?”
Sibyl skipped up to him. Some of the cloud left her face. Perhaps he could put things straight for her.
“I want to ask you a question,” she said.
“You are always asking questions. Now ask me something really nice; but first, I have something to say. I am in a very giving mood this morning. Sometimes I am in a saving mood, and would not give so much as a brass farthing to anybody, but I am in the other sort of mood to-day. I am in the mood to give a little golden-haired girl called – ”
“Sibyl,” said the child, beginning to laugh; “if she is golden-haired it must be me. What is it you want to give me?”
Her attention was immediately arrested; her eyes shone and her lips smiled.
“What would you like best in the world?”
“Oh, best in the whole world? But I cannot have that, not for a week – we are going home this day week.”
“And what will you have when you go home?”
“Father’s kiss every night. He always comes up, Lord Grayleigh, and tucks me in bed, and he kisses me, and we have a cozy talk. He never misses, never, when he is at home. I am lonesome here, Lord Grayleigh, because mother does not think it good for me that she should come; she would if she thought it good for me.”
“Well,” said Lord Grayleigh, who for some reason did not feel quite comfortable as Sibyl talked of her father’s kisses, “we must find something for you, not quite the best thing of all. What would be the next best?”
“I know,” said Sibyl, laughing, “a Shetland pony; oh, I do want one so badly. Mother sometimes rides in the Park, and I do so long to go with her, but she said we couldn’t afford it. Oh, I do want a pony.”
“You shall have one,” said Lord Grayleigh; “it shall be my present to a very good, charming little girl.”
“Do you really think I am good?”
“Good? Excellent; you are a pattern to us all.”
“Wouldn’t father like to hear you. It’s wonderful how he talked to me about being good. I am not really good, you know; but I mean to try. If you were to look into my heart, you would see – oh, but you shan’t look.” She started back, clasped her hands, and laughed. “But when father looks next, he shall see, oh, a white heart with all the naughtiness gone.”
“Tell me exactly what sort of pony you would like,” said Lord Grayleigh, who thought it desirable to turn the conversation.
“It must have a long mane, and not too short a tail,” said Sibyl; “and be sure you give me the very nicest, newest sort of side-saddle, same as mother has herself, for mother’s side-saddle is very comfy. Oh, and I’d like a riding habit like mother’s, too. Mother will be sure to say she can’t ’ford one for me, but you’ll give me one if you give me the pony and the side-saddle, won’t you?”
“I’ll give you the pony and the side-saddle, and the habit,” said Lord Grayleigh. “I’ll choose the pony to-morrow, and bring him back with me. I am going to Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, where they are going to have a big horse fair. You will not mind having a New Forest pony instead of a Shetland?”
“I don’t mind what sort my darling pony is,” answered the child. “I only want to have it. Oh, you are nice. I began by not liking you, but I like you awfully now. You are very nice, indeed.”
“And so are you. It seems to me we suit each other admirably.”
“There are lots of nice people in the world,” said Sibyl. “It’s a very pleasant place. There are two quite perfect, and there are others very nice; you and Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen. But, oh, Lord Grayleigh, I know now what I wanted to say. A perfect person couldn’t never tell a lie, could she?”
“Oh, it’s the feminine gender,” said Lord Grayleigh softly, under his breath.
“It’s a she,” said Sibyl; “could she; could she?”
“A perfect person could not, little girl.”
“Now you have made me so happy that I am going to kiss you,” said Sibyl. She made a spring forward, flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him twice on his rough cheek. The next instant she had vanished out of sight and joined her companions.
“It’s all right,” she said to Gus, who looked at her in some amazement. “It’s all right; I got a fright, but there wasn’t a word of it true. Come, let’s play. Oh, do you know your father is going to give me a pony? I am so happy.”
In a week’s time Mrs. Ogilvie and Sibyl returned to town. Sibyl was intensely joyful on this occasion, and confided in everyone what a happy night she would have.
“You don’t know what father is,” she said, looking full up into Rochester’s eyes. He was standing on the terrace, and the little girl went and stood by his side. Sibyl was in her most confiding mood. She considered Lord Grayleigh, Mr. Rochester, Lady Helen, and the children were all her special friends. It was impossible to doubt their entire sympathy and absolute ability to rejoice in her joy.
“I have had a good time here,” she said, “very good. Lord Grayleigh has been nice; I began by not liking him, but I like him now, and I like you awfully, but after all there’s no place for me like my own, own home. It’s ’cos of father.”
“Yes,” said Rochester. He looked anxiously, as Sibyl spoke, towards the house. Everyone at Grayleigh Manor now knew that Sibyl was not to be told of her father’s absence during her visit. No one approved of this course, although no one felt quite towards it with the same sense of irritation that Mrs. Ogilvie herself did. Rochester wished at this instant that Lord Grayleigh or someone else would appear. He wanted anything to cause a diversion, but Sibyl, in happy ignorance of his sentiments, talked on.
“It is at night that my father is the most perfect of all,” she said. “I wish you could see him when he comes into my room. I am in bed, you know, lying down flat on my back, and mostly thinking about the angels. I do that a lot at night, I have no time in the day; I think of the angels, and Lord Jesus Christ, and heaven, and then father comes in. He opens the door soft, and he treads on tiptoe for fear I’m asleep, as if I could be! And then he kisses me, and I think in the whole of heaven there can never be an angel so good and beautiful as he is, and he says something to me which keeps me strong until the next night, when he says something else.”
“But your mother?” stammered Rochester. He was about to add, “She would go to your room, would she not?” when he remembered that she herself had told him that nothing would induce her to adopt so pernicious a course.
“Oh, you’re thinking about my perfect mother, too,” said Sibyl. “Yes, she is perfect, but there are different sorts in the world. My own mother thinks it is not good for me to lie awake at night and think of the angels and wait for father. She thinks that I ought to bear the yoke in my youth. Solomon, the wise King Solomon – you have heard of him, haven’t you?”
Rochester nodded.
“He wrote that verse about bearing the yoke when you are young. I learnt it a week ago, and I felt it just ’splained about my mother. It’s really very brave of mother; but, you see, father thinks different, and, of course, I nat’rally like father’s way best. Mother’s way is the goodest for me, p’waps. Don’t you think mother’s way is the goodest for me, Mr. Rochester?”
“I dare say it is good for you, Sibyl. Now, shall we go and find Lady Helen?”
“Seems to me,” said Sibyl, “I’m always looking for Lady Helen when I’m with you. Is it ’cos you’re so desperate fond of her?”
“Don’t you like her yourself?” said the young man, reddening visibly.
“Like her? I like her just awfully. She’s the most ’licious person to tell stories I ever comed across in all my borned days. She tells every sort of story about giants and fairies and adventures, and stories of little girls just like me. Does she tell you stories about men just like you, and is that why you like to be with her?”
“Well, I can’t honestly say that she has ever yet told me a story, but I will ask her to do so.”
“Do,” said Sibyl; “ask her to tell you a story about a man like yourself. Make him rather pwoper and stiff and shy, and let him blush sometimes. You do, you know you do. Maybe it will do you good to hear about him. Now come along and let’s find her.”
So Sibyl and Rochester hunted all over the place for Lady Helen, and when they found her not, for she had gone to the nearest village on a commission with one of the children, Rochester’s face looked somewhat grave, and his answers to the child were a little distrait. Sibyl said to him in a tone of absolute sympathy and good faith —