“Cheer up, won’t you? She is quite certain to marry you in the long run.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Rochester in a voice of pain.
“Don’t what? You do want to marry Lady Helen. I heard mother say so yesterday. I heard her say so to Hortense. Hortense was brushing her hair, and mother said, ‘It would be a good match on the whole for Lady Helen, ’cos she is as poor as a church mouse, and Jim Rochester has money.’ Is my darling Lady Helen as poor as a church mouse, and have you lots of money, Mr. Rochester?”
“I have money, but not lots. You ought not to repeat what you hear,” said the young man.
“But why? I thought everybody knew. You are always trying to make her marry you, I see it in your eyes; you don’t know how you look when you look at her, oh – ever so eager, same as I look when father’s in the room and he is not talking to me. I hope you will marry her, more especial if she’s as poor as a church mouse. I never knew why mice were poor, nor why mother said it, but she did. Oh, and there is mother, I must fly to her; good-by – good-by.”
Rochester concealed his feelings as best he could, and hurried immediately into a distant part of the grounds, where he cogitated over what Sibyl, in her childish, way, had revealed.
The pony had been purchased, and Sibyl had ridden it once. It was a bright bay with a white star on its forehead. It was a well-groomed, well-trained little animal, and Lord Grayleigh had given Sibyl her first riding lesson, and had shown her how to hold the reins, and how to sit on her saddle, and the riding habit had come from town, and the saddle was the newest and most comfortable that money could buy.
“It is my present to you,” said Lord Grayleigh, “and remember when you ride it that you are going to be a good girl.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Sibyl, “I don’t want everyone to tell me that I am to be a good girl. If it was father; but – don’t please, Lord Grayleigh; I’ll do a badness if you talk to me any more about being so good.”
“Well, I won’t,” said Lord Grayleigh, laughing.
“I ’spect father will write you a most loving letter about this,” said Sibyl. “Won’t he be ’sprised? And did you tell mother about me having a ride every morning?”
“I did.”
“And did you speak to her about the food for my pony all being paid for?”
“Yes, everything is arranged. Your pony shall be the best cared for in all London, and you shall ride him every day for half-an-hour before you go to school.”
“Oh, I never go to school,” said Sibyl in a sorrowful voice. “I have a Miss Winstead to teach me. She is the sort that – oh, well, no matter; she means all right, poor thing. She wants the money, so of course she has to stay. She doesn’t suit me a bit, but she wants the money. It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“So it seems, little girl; and now here is the carriage, and the pony has gone off to London already, and will be ready to take you on his back to-morrow morning. Be sure you think of a nice name for him.”
“Father will tell me a name. I won’t let anybody else christen my ownest pony. Good-by, Lord Grayleigh. I like you very much. Say good-by to Mr. Rochester for me – oh, and there is Lady Helen; good-by, Lady Helen – good-by.”
They all kissed Sibyl when they parted from her, and everyone was sorry at seeing the last of her bright little face, and many conjectures went forth with regard to the trouble that was before the child when she got to London. One and all thought that Ogilvie had behaved cruelly, and that his wife was somewhat silly to have yielded to him.
Sibyl went up to town in the highest spirits. She chatted so much on the road that her mother at last told her to hold her tongue.
“Sit back in your seat and don’t chatter,” she said, “you disturb other people.”
The other people in the carriage consisted of a very old gentleman and a small boy of Sibyl’s own age. The small boy smiled at Sibyl and she smiled back, and if her mother had permitted it would have chatted to him in a moment of her hopes and longings; but, when mother put on that look, Sibyl knew that she must restrain her emotions, and she sat back in her seat, and thought about the children who bore the yoke in their youth, and how good it was for them, and how rapidly she was growing into the sort of little girl her father most liked.
“Mother,” she said, as they got towards the end of the journey, “I’m ’proving, aren’t I?”
“Proving, what do you mean?”
“Improving, mother.”
“I can’t say that I see it, Sibyl; you have been very troublesome for the last few days.”
“Oh!” said the child, “oh!”
Sibyl changed seats from the one opposite, and nestled up close to her mother, she tucked her hand inside her arm, and then began to talk in a loud, buzzing whisper.
“It’s ’cos of father,” she said; “he begged me so earnest to be a good girl, and I have tried, haven’t you noticed it, mother? Won’t you tell him when we get home that I have tried?”
“Don’t worry me, Sibyl, you know my views. I want you to be just a sensible, good child, without any of those high-flown notions. When we return to town you must make up for your long holiday. You must do your lessons with extreme care, and try to please Miss Winstead.”
“And to please father and Lord Jesus.”
“Yes, yes, child.”
“And to have a ride every morning on my darling pony?”
“We will try and manage that. Lord Grayleigh has been almost silly over that pony; I doubt whether it is wise for you to have it.”
“Oh, mother, he did say he would buy everything – the pony, the saddle, the habit, and he would ’ford the food, too. You have not got to pay out any money, mother, have you?”
“Hush, don’t talk so loud.”
The old gentleman buried himself in The Times in order not to hear Sibyl’s distressed voice, and the little boy stared out of the window and got very red.
“Take up your book and stop talking,” said Mrs. Ogilvie.
Sibyl took up a book which she already knew by heart, and kept back a sorrowful sigh.
“But it don’t matter,” she said to herself; “when I see father, he’ll understand.”
They got to town, where a carriage was waiting for them. Sibyl could scarcely restrain her eagerness.
“Mother, may I ask John if father’s likely to be at home? Sometimes he comes home earlier than usual. P’waps he came home to lunch and is waiting for us. Can I call out to John through the window, mother?”
“No, sit still, you do fidget so.”
“I’ll try to be quiet, mother; it’s only ’cos I’m so incited.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie to herself, “what an awful evening I am likely to have! When the silly child really finds out that her father has gone, she will burst into hysterics, or do something else absurd. I really wish it had been my luck to marry a husband with a grain of sense. I wonder if I had better tell her now. No, I really cannot. Miss Winstead must do it. Miss Winstead has been having a nice holiday, with no fuss or worry of any sort, and it is quite fair that she should bear the burden of this. But why it should be regarded as a burden or a trial is a puzzle. Philip goes on a sort of pleasure expedition to Queensland, and the affair is treated almost as if – as if it were a death. It is positively uncanny.”
Sibyl noticed that her mother was silent, and that she looked worried. Presently she stretched out her hand and stroked her mother’s.
“What are you doing that for?”
“’Cos I thought I’d rub you the right way,” said Sibyl. “You are like a poor cat when it is rubbed the wrong way, aren’t you, just now, mother?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Mrs. Ogilvie snatched her hand away.
They soon reached the house. The footman, Watson, sprang down and lowered the steps. Sibyl bounded out and flew into the hall.
“Father, father!” she called. “I’m back. Are you in, father? Here I are – Sibyl. I’m home again, father. The Angel is home again, father.”
She did not often call herself the Angel, the name seemed to have more or less slipped out of sight, but she did on this occasion, and she threw back her pretty head and looked up the wide staircase, as if any moment she might see her father hurrying down to meet her.
Mrs. Ogilvie turned to one of the servants, who was watching the child in astonishment.
“She does not know yet,” whispered Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am going into the library; don’t tell her anything, pray, but send Miss Winstead to me immediately.”
Mrs. Ogilvie entered the library. Sibyl danced in after her.
“I can’t see father anywhere,” she said: “I ’spect he’s not back yet.”
“Of course he is not back so early. Now run upstairs and ask Nurse to make you ready for tea. Leave me, I have something to say to Miss Winstead.”
Miss Winstead appeared at that moment. She had enjoyed her holiday, and looked the better for it. Though she understood Sibyl very little, yet at this moment she gazed at the child almost with alarm, for Mrs. Ogilvie had written to her telling her that Mr. Ogilvie’s absence had not been alluded to in the child’s presence.
Sibyl rushed to her and kissed her.
“I am back, and I am going to be good,” she said. “I really, truly am; aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Yes, Sibyl.”
“Go upstairs now, Sibyl,” said her mother. Sibyl obeyed somewhat unwillingly, some of the laughter went out of her eyes, and a little of the excitement faded from her heart. She went up the wide stairs slowly, very slowly. Even now she hoped that it might be possible for her father to appear, turning the angle of the winding stairs, coming out of one of the rooms. He always had such a bright face, there was an eagerness about it. He was tall and rather slender, and that bright look in his eyes always caused the child’s heart to leap; then his mouth could wear such a beautiful smile. It did not smile for many people, but it always did for Sibyl. She wanted to see him, oh, so badly, so badly.
“Well, never mind,” she said to herself, “he can’t help it, the darling; but he’ll be back soon,” and she tripped into her nursery and sat down; but she did not ask Nurse any questions, she was too busy with her own thoughts.
CHAPTER IX
“Miss Winstead,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “this is all most unpleasant.”
“What do you mean?” asked the governess.
“Why, this whim of my husband’s. He has been away for over a week, and the child imagines that he is still in London, that he will return at any instant and spoil her, after his usual injudicious fashion.”
“Oh, I don’t quite think that Mr. Ogilvie spoils your little Sibyl,” said Miss Winstead; “he has peculiar ideas, that’s all.”
“We need not discuss that point,” said Mrs. Ogilvie in an irritated tone. “We are back later than I thought, and I have to dine out to-night. I want you, Miss Winstead, to break the tidings to the child that her father has gone to Queensland.”
“I?” said Miss Winstead; “I would really rather – ”
“I fear your likes or dislikes with regard to the matter cannot be considered. I cannot tell her, because I should not do it properly; and also, a more serious reason, I really have not the time. You can give Sibyl a treat, if you like, afterwards. Take her out for a walk in the Park after tea, she always likes that; and you can take her to a shop and buy her a new toy – any toy she fancies. Here’s a sovereign; you can go as far as that, you ought to get her something quite handsome for that; and you might ask the little Leicesters next door to come to tea to-morrow. There are a hundred ways in which the mind of a child can be diverted.”
“Not the mind of Sibyl with regard to her father,” interrupted Miss Winstead.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t make too much of it. You know how peculiar he is, and how peculiar she is. Just tell her that he has gone away for a couple of months – that he has gone on an expedition which means money, and that I am pleased about it, that he has done it for my sake and for her sake. Tell her he’ll be back before the summer is over. You can put it any way you like, only do it, Miss Winstead – do it!”
“When?” asked Miss Winstead. She turned very pale, and leant one hand on the table.
“Oh, when you please, only don’t worry me. You had better take her off my hands at once. Just tell her that I am tired and have a headache, and won’t see her until the morning; I really must lie down, and Hortense must bathe my forehead. If I don’t I shall look a perfect wreck to-night, and it is going to be a big dinner; I have been anxious for some time to go. And afterwards there is a reception at the Chinese Embassy; I am going there also. Please ask Watson, on your way through the hall, to have tea sent to my boudoir. And now you quite understand?”
“But, please, say exactly what I am to tell your little girl.”
“Don’t you know? Say that her father has gone – oh, by the way, there’s a letter for her. I really don’t know that she ought to have it. Her father is sure to have said something terribly injudicious, but perhaps you had better give it to her. You might give it to her when you are telling her, and tell her to read it by-and-by, and not to be silly, but to be sensible. That is my message to her. Now pray go, Miss Winstead. Are you better? Have you had a nice time while we were away?”
“I still suffer very badly with my head,” said Miss Winstead, “but the quiet has done me good. Yes, I will try and do my best. I saw Mr. Ogilvie the day he left; he did not look well, and seemed sorrowful. He asked me to be kind to Sibyl.”
“I sincerely trust you are kind to the child; if I thought you did not treat her with sympathy and understanding I should be obliged – ”
“Oh, you need not go on,” said Miss Winstead, coloring, and looking annoyed. “I know my duty. I am not a woman with very large sympathies, or perhaps very wide views, but I try to do my duty; I shall certainly do my utmost for your dear little daughter. There is something very lovable about her, although sometimes I fear I do not quite understand her.”
“No one seems to understand Sibyl, and yet everyone thinks her lovable,” said the mother. “Well, give her my love; tell her I will ride with her in the morning. She has had a present of a pony, quite a ridiculous present; Lord Grayleigh was determined to give it to her. He took an immense fancy to the child, and put the gift in such a way that it would not have been wise to refuse. Don’t forget, when you see Watson, to tell him to bring tea to my boudoir.”
Miss Winstead slowly left the room. She was a very quiet woman, about thirty-five years of age. She had a stolid manner, and, as she said herself, was a little narrow and a little old-fashioned, but she was troubled now. She did not like the task set her. As she went upstairs she muttered a solitary word.
“Coward!” she said, under her breath.
“I wish I was well out of this,” thought the governess. “The child is not an ordinary one, and the love she bears her father is not an ordinary love.”
Miss Winstead’s schoolroom looked its brightest and best. The days were growing quite long now, and flowers were plentiful. A large basket of flowers had been sent from Grayleigh Manor that morning, and Miss Winstead had secured some of the prettiest for her schoolroom. She had decorated the tea-table and the mantelpiece, but with a pain at her heart, for she was all the time wondering if Sibyl knew or did not know. She could not quite understand from Ogilvie’s manner whether she knew or not. He was very reserved about her just at the last, he evidently did not like to talk of her.
Miss Winstead entered the schoolroom. She sat down for a moment near the open window. The day was still in its prime. She looked at the clock. The under-housemaid, who had the charge of the schoolroom tea, now came in with the tray. She laid the cloth and spread the tea-things. There was a plate of little queen-cakes for Sibyl.
“Cook made these for Miss Sibyl,” she said. “Does she know yet, Miss Winstead, that the master has gone?”
“No,” said Miss Winstead; “and I have got to tell her, Anne, and it is a task I anything but like.”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a deal, Miss,” replied Anne, in a sympathetic voice.
Just then a light, childish step was heard in the passage, and Sibyl burst into the room.
“Here I am. Oh, I am so glad tea is ready. What’s the hour, please, Miss Winstead? How are you, Anne; is your toothache better?”
“I have not had any toothache to mention since you left, Miss Sibyl.”
“I am glad to hear that. You used to suffer awful pain, didn’t you? Did you go to Mr. Robbs, the dentist, and did he put your head between his knees and tug and tug to get the tooth out? That’s the way Nurse’s teeth were taken out when she was a little girl. She told me all about it. Did Mr. Robbs pull your tooth out that way, Anne?”
“No, Miss, the tooth is better and in my head, I’m thankful to say.”
“And how is cook? How are her sneezing fits?”
“All the servants are very well, I thank you, Miss.”
“Don’t make any more enquiries now, Sibyl, sit down and begin your tea,” said her governess.
Sibyl made an effort to suppress the words which were bubbling to her lips. Anne had reached the door, when she burst out with —
“I do just want to ask one more question. How is Watson, Anne, and how is his sweetheart? Has she been kinder to him lately?”
“Sibyl, I refuse to allow you to ask any further questions,” interrupted Miss Winstead. She was so nervous and perplexed at the task before her that she was glad even to be able to find fault with the child. It was really reprehensible of any child to take an interest in Watson’s sweetheart.
Anne, smiling however, and feeling also inclined to cry, left the room. She ran down to the servants’ hall.
“Of all the blessed angel children, Miss Sibyl beats ’em,” she cried. “Not one of us has she forgot; dear lamb, even to my tooth and your sneezing fits, cook; and Watson, most special did she inquire for Mary Porter, the girl you’re a-keeping company with. It’s wonderful what a tender heart she do have.”
“That she have truly,” said the cook, “and I’ll make her some more queen-cakes to-morrow, and ice them for her, that I will. It’s but to look at her to see how loving she is,” continued the good woman. “How she’ll live without the master beats me. The missus ain’t worthy of her.”
This remark was followed by a sort of groan which proceeded from each servant’s mouth. It was evident that Mrs. Ogilvie was not popular in the servants’ hall.
Sibyl meanwhile was enjoying her tea.
“It’s nearly five o’clock,” she said, “father is sure to be in at six, don’t you think so, Miss Winstead?”
“He often doesn’t come home till seven,” answered Miss Winstead in a guilty voice, her hand shaking as she raised the teapot.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Winnie dear,” said Sibyl – this was her pet name for the governess; “you have got a sort of palsy, you ought to see a doctor. I asked Nurse what palsy was, and she said ‘a shaking,’ and you are all shaking. How funny the teapot looks when your hand is bobbing so. Do, Winnie, let me pour out tea.”
“Not to-night. I was thinking that after tea you and I might go for a little walk.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, really, truly; I must wait in till father comes.”
“It is such a fine evening, that perhaps – ”
“No, no, I don’t want to go.”
“But your mother has given me money; you are to buy anything you please at the toy-shop.”
This was a very great temptation, for Sibyl adored toys.
“How much money?” she asked in a tentative voice.
“Well, a good deal, a whole sovereign.”
“Twenty shillings,” said Sibyl, “I could get a lovely doll’s house for that. But I think sometimes I am getting tired of my dolls. It’s so stupid of ’em not to talk, and never to cry, and not to feel pain or love. But, on the whole, I suppose I should like a new doll’s house, and there was a beauty at the toy-shop for twenty shillings. It was there at Christmas-time. I expect it’s a little dusty now, but I dare say Mr. Holman would let me have it cheap. I am very fond of Mr. Holman, aren’t you, Winnie? Don’t you love him very, very much? He has such kind, sorrowful eyes. Don’t you like him?”
“I don’t know that I do, Sibyl. Come, finish your tea, my dear.”
“Have you been trying to ’prove yourself very much while I was away?” said Sibyl, looking at her now in a puzzled way.
“Prove myself?”
“I can never say that whole word. Improve is what I mean. Have you been trying?”
“I always try, Sibyl.”
“Then I think Lord Jesus is helping you, for you are ’proved, you’re quite sympathisy. I like you when you’re sympathisy. Yes, I have finished my tea, and, if you wish it, I’ll go out just as far as Mr. Holman’s to buy the doll’s house. He is poor, and he’ll be real glad to sell it. He has often told me how little money he makes by the toys, and how they lose their freshness and get dusty, and children toss ’em. Some children are so careless. Yes, I’ll go with you, and then we’ll come straight home. Father will be back certain to-night at six. He’ll know that I’ll be wanting him.”
“Sibyl, I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
There was a tremulous note in Miss Winstead’s voice which arrested the gay, careless chatter. The child looked at her governess. That deep, comprehensive, strange look visited her eyes. Miss Winstead got up hastily and walked to the window, then she returned to her seat.
“What is it?” said Sibyl, still seated at the tea-table, but turning round and watching her governess.
“It is something that will pain you, dear.”
“Oh!” said Sibyl, “go on, please. Out with it! plump it out! as Gus would say. Be quick. I don’t like to be kept in ’spense.”
“I am afraid, Sibyl, that you will not see your father to-night.”
Sibyl jumped up just as if someone had shot her. She stood quite still for a moment, and a shiver went through her little frame; then she went up to Miss Winstead.
“I can bear it,” she said; “go on. Shall I see father to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next.”
“Go on; I am bearing it,” said Sibyl.
She stood absolutely upright, white as a sheet, her eyes queerly dilated, but her lips firm.
“It’s a great shock, but I am bearing it,” she said again. “When will I see him?”
Miss Winstead turned now and looked at her.
“Child,” she said, “don’t look like that.”
“I’m looking no special way; I’m only bearing up. Is father dead?”
“No; no, my dear. No, my poor little darling. Oh, you ought to have been told; but he did not wish it. It was his wish that you should have a happy time in the country. He has gone to Queensland; he will be back in a few months.”
“A few months,” said Sibyl. “He’s not dead?” She sat down listlessly on the window seat. She heaved a great sigh.
“It’s the little shots that hurt most,” she said after a pause. “I wouldn’t have felt it, if you had said he was dead.”
“Come out, Sibyl, you know now he won’t be back by six.”
“Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
She turned and walked very gravely out of the room.
“I’d rather she cried and screamed; I’d rather she rushed at me and tried to hurt me; I’d rather she did anything than take it like that,” thought the governess.
Sibyl went straight into the nursery.
“Nursie,” she said, “my father has gone. He is in Queensland; he did not wish me to be told, but I have been told now. He is coming back in a few months. A few months is like for ever, isn’t it, nursie? I am going out with Miss Winstead for a walk.”
“Oh, my darling,” said nursie, “this has hurt you horribly.”
“Don’t,” said Sibyl, “don’t be sympathisy.” She pushed nurse’s detaining hand away.
“It’s the little shots that tell,” she repeated. “I wouldn’t have felt anything if it had been a big, big bang; if he had been dead, I mean, but I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to let anybody think that I care anything at all. Give me my hat and gloves and jacket, please, nurse.”
She went to Miss Winstead, put her hand in hers, and the two went downstairs. When they got into the street Sibyl looked full at her, and asked her one question.
“Was it mother said you was to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Then mother did tell me a – ” Sibyl left off abruptly, her poor little face quivered. The suffering in her eyes was so keen that Miss Winstead did not dare to meet them. They went for a walk in the park, and Sibyl talked in her most proper style, but she did not say any of the nice, queer, interesting things she was, as a rule, noted for. Instead, she told Miss Winstead dry, uninteresting little facts, with regard to her visit to the country.
“I hear you have got a pony,” said Miss Winstead.
“I don’t want to talk about my pony, please,” interrupted Sibyl. “Let me tell you just what were the most perfect views near the place we were in.”
“But why may we not talk about your pony?”
“I don’t want to ride my pony now.”
Miss Winstead was alarmed about the child.
“You have walked quite far enough to-night,” she said, “you look very white.”
“I’m not a scrap tired, I never felt better in my life. Do let us go to the toy-shop.”
“A good idea,” said the governess, much cheered to find Sibyl, in her opinion, human after all. “We will certainly go there and will choose a beautiful toy.”
“Well, this is the turning, come along,” said Sibyl.
“But why should we go to Holman’s, there is a splendid toy-shop in this street.”
“I’d much rather go to Mr. Holman’s.”
Miss Winstead did not expostulate any further. Presently they reached the shabby little shop. Mr. Holman, the owner of the shop, was a special friend of the child’s. He had once or twice, charmed by her sympathetic way, confided some of his griefs to her. He found it, he told her, extremely difficult to make the toy-shop pay; and Sibyl, in consequence, considered it her bounden duty to spend every half-penny she could spare at this special shop. She entered now, went straight up to the counter and held out her hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Holman,” she said; “I hope I find you quite well.”
“Thank you, Missy; I am in the enjoyment of good health,” replied the shopman, flushing with pleasure and grasping the little hand.
“I am glad of that,” answered Sibyl. “I have come, Mr. Holman, to buy a big thing, it will do your shop a lot of good. I am going to spend twenty shillings in your shop. What would you like me to buy?”
“You thought a doll’s house,” interrupted Miss Winstead, who stood behind the child.
“Oh, it don’t matter about that,” said Sibyl, looking gravely back at her; “I mean it don’t matter now. Mr. Holman, what’s the most dusty of your toys, what’s the most scratched, what’s the toy that none of the other children would like?”
“I have a whole heap of ’em,” said Holman, shaking his head sadly.
“That he have, poor dear,” here interrupted Mrs. Holman. “How do you do, Missy, we are both glad to see you back again; we have had a dull season, very dull, and the children, they didn’t buy half the toys they ought to at Christmas time. It’s because our shop is in a back street.”
“Oh, but it’s a very nice street,” said Sibyl; “it’s retired, isn’t it? Well, I’ll buy twenty shillings’ worth of the most dusty of the toys, and please send them home to-morrow. Please, Miss Winstead, put the money down.”
Miss Winstead laid a sovereign on the counter.
“Good-by, Mr. Holman; good-by, Mrs. Holman,” said Sibyl. She shook hands solemnly with the old pair, and then went out of the shop.
“What ails her?” said Holman. “She looks as if something had died inside her. I don’t like her looks a bit.”
Mrs. Ogilvie enjoyed herself very much that evening. Her friends were glad to see her back. They were full of just the pleasant sympathy which she liked best to receive. She must be lonely without her husband. When would he return? When she said in a few months’ time, they congratulated her, and asked her how she had enjoyed herself at Grayleigh Manor. In short, there was that sort of fuss made about her which most appealed to her fancy. She forgot all about Sibyl. She looked at other women of her acquaintance, and thought that when her husband came home she would wear just as dazzling gems and just as beautiful dresses, and she, too, might talk about her country place, and invite her friends down to this rural retreat at Whitsuntide, and make up a nice house-party in the autumn, and again in the winter. Oh, yes, the world with its fascinations was stealing more and more into her heart, and she had no room for the best of all. She forgot her lonely child during these hours.
Mrs. Ogilvie returned from a fashionable reception between twelve and one in the morning. Hortense was up and tired. She could scarcely conceal her yawns as she unstitched the diamonds which she had sewn on her mistress’s dress earlier in the evening, and put away the different jewels. At last, however, her duties were over, and she went away to her room.
Mrs. Ogilvie got into bed, and closing her eyes, prepared to doze off into delicious slumber. She was pleasantly tired, and no more. As she sank into repose, the house in the country and the guests who would fill it mingled with her dreams. Suddenly she heard a clear voice in her ears. It awoke her with a sort of shock. She raised herself on her elbow, and saw her little daughter standing in her white nightdress by the bedside.
“Mother,” said Sibyl.
“What are you doing there, Sibyl? Go back to bed directly.”
“Please, mother, I can’t sleep. I have got a sort of up-and-down and round-and-round feeling. I don’t know what it is, but it’s worse when I put my head on my pillow. I ’spect I’m lonesome, mother. Mother, I really, truly, am going to be sensible, and I know all about father; but may I get into your bed just at the other side. I will lie as still as a mouse; may I, mother?”
“Oh dear, how you tremble,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “how more than annoying this is! You certainly are not a sensible child at the present moment. If you felt so strange and nervous, why didn’t you ask Nurse or Miss Winstead to sleep in the room with you?”
“But, mother, that wouldn’t have done me any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“They wouldn’t be you. I’ll be quite happy if I can get into bed alongside of you, mother.”
“Of course you may, child, but please don’t disturb me. I am very tired, and want to sleep.”
Sibyl ran round to the other side of the bed, slipped in, and lay as quiet as a mouse.
Mrs. Ogilvie curled up comfortably, arranged her pillows, and closed her eyes. She was very sleepy, but what was the matter with her? She could not lose herself in unconsciousness. Was the perfectly still little figure by her side exercising some queer power over her, drawing something not often stirred within her heart to the surface? She turned at last and looked at the child. Sibyl was lying on her back with her eyes wide open.