CHAPTER XI
About this time Mrs. Ogilvie was subjected to a somewhat severe form of temptation. It had been one of the biggest dreams of her life to possess a country place. She had never been satisfied with the fact that she and her husband must live in town except when they went to lodgings at the seaside, or were on visits to their friends. She wanted to have their own country place to go to just when she pleased, a place where she could invite her friends whenever the whim seized her. In an evil moment, almost immediately after Ogilvie had gone to Australia, she had visited a house agent and told him some of her desires.
“My husband is not prepared to buy a place now,” she said in conclusion, “but he soon will be in a position to do so, and I want you to look round for me and tell me if anything nice happens to come into the market.”
The agent had replied that he would be sure to let his client know if anything suitable came his way. Very soon places, apparently quite to Mrs. Ogilvie’s heart, did come in the agent’s way, and then somehow, in some fashion, other house agents got wind of Mrs. Ogilvie’s desire, and now scarcely a post came that did not bring her most tempting prospectuses with regard to country places. There was one in particular which so exactly pleased her that she became quite distrait and restless except when she was talking of it. She went to see this special place several times. It was on the Thames just above Richmond. The grounds sloped down to the water. The house itself was built in a low, rambling, eccentric fashion. It covered a considerable extent of ground; there were several gardens, and they were all nicely kept and were bright with flowers, and had many overhanging trees. The house itself, too, had every modern comfort. There were many bedrooms and several fine reception rooms, and there were tennis and croquet lawns in the grounds, all smooth as velvet and perfectly level. There were also kitchen-gardens, and some acres of land, as yet undevoted to any special purpose, at the back of the house. It was just the sort of place which a man who was in a nice position in society might be glad to own. Its late owner had given it the somewhat eccentric title of Silverbel, and certainly the place was as bright and charming as its name.
This desirable little property was to be obtained, with its surrounding acres, for the modest sum of twenty thousand pounds, and Mrs. Ogilvie was so fascinated by the thought of being mistress of Silverbel, on the lovely winding River Thames, that she wrote to her husband on the subject.
“It is the very best place of its kind in the market,” she wrote. “It was sold to its present owner for thirty thousand pounds, but he is obliged to live abroad and is anxious to sell it, and would give it for twenty thousand. I want you, when you receive this, to wire to me to carry on negotiations in your absence. I have already consulted our lawyer, Mr. Acland. He says the house is drained, and the air of the place would be just the kind to suit Sibyl. She would enjoy so much her row on the river, and all our friends would like it. With the money you must now have at your disposal you can surely gratify me with regard to Silverbel.”
Mrs. Ogilvie had, of course, not yet received any answer to her letter, but she visited Silverbel twice a week, and took Sibyl also to see the beautiful place.
“It will be yours when father comes home,” she said to the child.
Sibyl skipped about madly.
“It’s just too ’licious!” she said. “Is this one of the things God gives us because we are rich? Isn’t it kind of Lord Jesus to make us rich? Don’t you love Him very, very much, mother?”
Mrs. Ogilvie always turned aside when Sibyl spoke to her about her love for the Lord Jesus. Not that she considered herself by any means an irreligious woman. She went to church always once, and sometimes twice on Sunday. She subscribed to any number of charities, and as the little girl now spoke her eyes became full of a soft light.
“We can have a bazaar here,” she said, “a bazaar for the Home for Incurables at Watleigh. Lady Severn was talking to me about it last night, and said how terribly it needed funds. Sibyl, when father comes back we will have a great big bazaar here at lovely Silverbel, and a marquee on the lawn, and we will ask all the most charitable people in London to take stalls; some of the big-wigs, you know.”
“Big-wigs?” said Sibyl, “what are they?”
“People, my dear child, who are high up in the social scale.”
“I don’t understand, mother,” answered Sibyl. “Oh, do look at this rose, did you ever see such a perfect beauty? May I pick it, mother? It is just perfect, isn’t it, not quite full out and yet not a bud. I’d like very much to send it to my ownest father.”
“Silly child! Yes, of course you may pick it, but it will be dead long before it reaches him.”
“It’s heart won’t be dead,” said Sibyl. She did not know why she made the latter remark. She often did say things which she but half understood. She carefully picked the rose and fastened it into the front of her white dress. When she returned to town that evening she put the rose in water and looked at it with affectionate interest.
“What a pretty flower! Where did my darling get it?” said nurse.
“At Silverbel, the beautiful, beautiful place that father is going to buy when he is rich. You can’t think how good mother is growing, nursie; she is getting better and better every day.”
“H’m!” said nurse.
“Why do you make those sort of noises when I speak of my mother? I don’t like it,” said the child. “But I must tell you about Silverbel. Mother says it is practicalically ours now. I don’t quite know what she means by practicalically, but I suppose she means that it is almost our place. Anyhow, when my dearest rich father comes back it will be ours, and we are going to make poor Mr. Holman quite rich, and you, darling nursie, quite rich, and – and others quite rich. We are going to have a great big bazaar at Silverbel, and the big-wigs are coming to it. Isn’t it a funny word! perhaps you don’t know what big-wigs are, but I do.”
Nurse laughed.
“Eat your supper and go to bed, Miss Sibyl. You are staying up a great deal too late, and you are learning things you had better know nothing about.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Ogilvie downstairs was having a consultation with her lawyer.
“I don’t want to lose the place,” she said. “My husband is safe to be satisfied with my decision.”
“If you have really made up your mind to pay twenty thousand pounds for the place, and I cannot say that I think it at all dear,” replied the lawyer, “I have no objection to lending you a couple of thousand pounds to pay a deposit. You need not complete the purchase for at least three months, and I have not the slightest doubt I can further arrange that you may go into possession, say – well, any time you like after the deposit money is paid.”
“Can you really?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, her eyes growing dark and almost passionate in their eagerness.
“At the worst it could be taken off your hands,” he answered; “but doubtless, from what you tell me, Ogilvie will be well able to complete the thing; only remember, pray remember, Mrs. Ogilvie, that this is rather a big matter, and if by any chance your husband does not find the Lombard Deeps all that Lord Grayleigh expects” – he paused and looked thoughtful. “I can lend you the money if you wish it,” he said then abruptly.
“The money to enable me to pay a deposit?” she said.
“Yes; two thousand pounds; I believe the owners will take that on condition that the purchase is completed, say, in October.”
“My husband will be back by then. I have a great mind to agree,” she said. She almost trembled in her eagerness. After a moment’s pause she spoke.
“I will accept your offer, Mr. Acland. I don’t know where to go in August and September, and Silverbel will be the very place. Mr. Ogilvie will thank you most heartily for your generous trust in us both when he comes back.”
“I have plenty of funds to meet this loan,” thought the lawyer. “I am safe so far.” Aloud he said, “Then I will go and see the owners to-morrow.”
“This clinches the matter,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I will begin ordering the furniture immediately.”
The lawyer and the lady had a little further conversation, and then Mrs. Ogilvie dressed and went out to dine, and told many of her friends of her golden dreams.
“A place in the country, a place like Silverbel, has always been the longing of my life,” she said, and she looked pathetic and almost ethereal, as she spoke, and as though nothing pleased her more than a ramble through country lanes with buttercups and daisies within reach.
On the following Sunday, Rochester happened to lunch with Mrs. Ogilvie and her little daughter. Mrs. Ogilvie talked during the entire meal of the beautiful place which was soon to be hers.
“You shall come with Sibyl and me to see it to-morrow,” she said. “I will ask Lady Helen to come, too. I will send her a note by messenger. We might meet at Victoria Station at eleven o’clock, and go to Silverbel and have lunch at the little inn on the river.”
Rochester agreed somewhat eagerly. His eyes brightened. He looked at Sibyl, who gave him a meaning, affectionate, sympathetic glance. She would enjoy very much seeing the lovers wandering through beautiful Silverbel side by side.
“It’s the most darling, lovely place,” she said; “nobody knows how beautiful it is. I do hope it will soon be ours.”
“When our ship comes in, it will be ours,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, and she laughed merrily and looked full of happiness.
When the servants left the room, however, Rochester bent forward and said something to Mrs. Ogilvie which did not please that good lady quite so much.
“Have you heard the rumors with regard to the Lombard Deeps Gold Mine?” he asked.
“What rumors?” Mrs. Ogilvie looked anxious. “I know nothing whatever about business,” she said, testily, “I leave all that absolutely to my husband. I know that he considers the mine an excellent one, but his full report cannot yet have reached England.”
“Of course it has not. Ogilvie’s report in full cannot come to hand for another six weeks. I allude now to a paragraph in one of the great financial papers, in which the mine is somewhat depreciated, the gold being said to be much less to the ton than was originally supposed, and the strata somewhat shallow, and terminating abruptly. Doubtless there is no truth in it.”
“Not a word, not a word,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; “but I make a point of being absolutely ignorant with regard to gold mines. I consider it positively wrong of a woman to mix herself up in such masculine matters. All the sweet femininity of character must depart if such knowledge is carried to any extent.”
“Lady Helen knows about all these sort of things, and yet I think she is quite feminine,” said Rochester; and then he colored faintly and looked at Sibyl, whose eyes danced with fun.
Mrs. Ogilvie slowly rose from the table.
“You will find cigars in that box,” she said. “No, Sibyl, you are not to stay with Mr. Rochester; come to the drawing-room with me.”
“Oh, do let her stay,” earnestly pleaded the young man, “she has often sat with me while I smoked before.”
“Well, as you please, but don’t spoil her,” said the mother. She left the room, and Sibyl curled herself up luxuriously in a deep armchair near Mr. Rochester.
“I have a lot of things to ask you,” she said; “I am not going to be like my ownest mother, I am going to be like Lady Helen. I want to understand about the gold mine. I want to understand why, if you give your money to a certain thing, you get back little bits of gold. Can you make the gold into sovereigns, is that what happens?”
“It is extremely difficult for me to explain,” said Rochester, “but I think the matter lies in a nutshell. If your father gives a good report of the mine there will be a great deal of money subscribed, as it is called, by different people.”
“What’s subscribed?”
“Well, given. You know what it means when people ask your mother to subscribe to a charity?”
“Oh, yes, I know quite well; and Mr. and Mrs. Holman, they may subscribe, may they?”
“Yes, whoever they may be. I don’t know Mr. and Mrs. Holman, but of course they may intend to subscribe, and other people will do the same, and if we give, say, a hundred pounds we shall get back perhaps one hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred.”
“Oh, that’s very nice,” said Sibyl; “I seem to understand, and yet I don’t understand.”
“You understand enough, my dear little girl, quite enough. Don’t puzzle your poor little brain. Your mother is right, these are matters for men.”
“And you are quite certain that my father will say that the beautiful mine is full of gold?” said Sibyl.
“He will say it if the gold is there.”
“And if it is not?”
“Then he will tell the truth.”
“Of course,” said Sibyl, proudly. “My father couldn’t tell a lie if he was even to try. It would be impossible, wouldn’t it, Mr. Rochester?”
“I should say quite impossible,” replied Rochester firmly.
“You are awfully nice, you know,” she said; “you are nice enough even for Lady Helen. I do hope father will find the mine full up to the brim with gold. Such a lot of people will be happy then.”
“So they will,” replied Rochester.
“And darlingest mother can have the beautiful place. Hasn’t the new place got a lovely name – Silverbel?”
“It sounds very pretty, Sibyl.”
“And you will come to-morrow and see it, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you will bring Lady Helen?”
“Your mother will bring Lady Helen.”
“It’s all the same,” replied Sibyl. “Oh, I am so glad.”
She talked a little longer, and then went upstairs.
Miss Winstead often spent Sunday with her friends. She was not in the schoolroom now as Sibyl entered. Sibyl thought this was a golden opportunity to write to her father. She sat down and prepared to write a letter. This was always a somewhat laborious task. Her thoughts flowed freely enough, but her hand could not wield the pen quite quick enough for the eager thoughts, nor was her spelling perfect, nor her written thoughts quite so much to the point as her spoken ones. Nevertheless, it was full time for her father to hear from her, and she had a great deal to say. She took a sheet of paper, dipped her pen in the ink, and began:
“Darlingist Father, – Yesterday I picked a rose at Silverbel, the place that mother wants us to have when you com bak rich. Here’s the rose for you. Pwaps it will be withered, father, but its hart will be alive. Kiss it and think of Sibyl. It’s hart is like my hart, and my hart thinks of you morning, noon, and night, evry night, father, and evry morning, and allways, allways during the hole of the day. It’s most portant, father, that you should come back rich. It’s most solum nesesarey. I do so hope the mine will be full up to the brim with gold, for if it is a lot of people here will be made happy. Have you found the mine yet, father, and is it ful to the brim of gold? You don’t know how portant it is. It’s cos of Mr. and Mrs. Holman, father, and their dusty broken toys, and cos of nursie and her spectakles, and cos of one who wants to marry another one, and I mustn’t tell names, and cos of the big-wigs, father. Oh, it is portant.
“Your lovin“Sibyl.”
“He’ll understand,” thought Sibyl; “he’s wonderful for seeing right through a thing, and he’ll quite know what I mean by the ‘heart of the rose,’” and she kissed the rose passionately and put it inside the letter, and nurse directed the letter for her, and it was dropped into the pillar-box that same night.
The letter was not read by the one it was intended for until – but that refers to another part of the story.
CHAPTER XII
The next day was a glorious one, and Lady Helen, Mr. Rochester, Mrs. Ogilvie, and Sibyl all met at Victoria Station in time to catch the 11.20 train to Richmond, the nearest station to Silverbel. There a carriage was to meet them, to take them to the house. They were to lunch at a small inn close by, and afterwards have a row on the river; altogether a very delightful day was planned.
It was now the heart of a glorious summer – such a summer as does not often visit England. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone, but the great heat was tempered by a soft, delicious breeze.
Sibyl, all in white, with a white shady hat making her little face even more lovely than usual, stood by her mother’s side, close to a first-class carriage, to await the arrival of the other two.
Lady Helen and Rochester were seen walking slowly down the platform. Sibyl gave one of her gleeful shouts, and ran to meet them.
“Here you both is!” she said, and she looked full up at Lady Helen, with such a charming glance of mingled affection and understanding, that Lady Helen blushed, in spite of herself.
Lady Helen Douglas was a very nice-looking girl, not exactly pretty, but her gray eyes were capable of many shades of emotion. They were large, and full of intelligence. Her complexion was almost colorless. She had a slim, graceful figure. Her jet-black hair, which she wore softly coiled round her head, was also thick and beautiful. Sibyl used to like to touch that hair, and loved very much to nestle up close to the graceful figure, and take shy peeps into the depths of the eyes which seemed to hold secrets.
“You do look nice,” said Sibyl, speaking in a semi-whisper, but in a tone of great ecstasy, “and so does Mr. Rochester. Do you know, I always call him nice Mr. Rochester. Watson is so interested in him.”
“Who is Watson?” asked Lady Helen.
“Don’t you know, he is our footman. He is very nice, too; he is full of impulses, and they are all good. I expect the reason he is so awfully interested in dear Mr. Rochester is because they are both having love affairs. You know, Watson has a girl, too, he is awfully fond of; I ’spect they’ll marry when father comes back with all the gold. You don’t know how fond I am of Watson; he’s a very great, special friend of mine. Now here’s the carriage. Let’s all get in. Aren’t you both glad you’re coming, and coming together, both of you together, to visit Silverbel. It’s a ’licious place; there are all kinds of little private walks and shrubberies, and seats for two under trees. Two that want to be alone can be alone at Silverbel. Now let’s all get into the carriage.”
Poor Rochester and Lady Helen at that moment thought Sibyl almost an enfant terrible. However, there was no help for it. She would have her say, and her words were bright and her interest of the keenest. It mattered nothing at all to her that passers-by turned to look and smiled in an amused way.
Mrs. Ogilvie was in an excellent humor. All the way down she talked to Lady Helen of the bazaar which she had already arranged was to take place at Silverbel during the last week in August.
“I had meant to put it off until my husband returned,” she remarked finally, “but on reflection that seemed a pity, for he is scarcely likely to be back before the end of October, and by then it would be too late; and, besides, the poor dear Home for Incurables needs its funds, and why should it languish when we are all anxious, more than anxious, to be charitable? Mr. Acland, my lawyer, is going to pay a deposit on the price of the estate, so I can enter into possession almost immediately. I am going to get Morris & Liberty to furnish the place, and I shall send down servants next week. But about the bazaar. I mean it to be perfect in every way. The stalls are to be held by unmarried titled ladies. Your services, Lady Helen, must be secured immediately.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Sibyl, “you are to have a most beautiful stall, a flower stall: what do you say?”
“If I have a stall I will certainly choose a flower stall,” replied Lady Helen, and she smiled at Sibyl, and patted her hand.
They soon arrived at Richmond, and got into the carriage which was waiting for them, and drove to Silverbel. They had lunch at the inn as arranged, and then they wandered about the grounds, and presently Sibyl had her wish, for Rochester and Lady Helen strolled away from her mother and herself, and walked down a shady path to the right of the house.
“There they go!” cried the child.
“There who go, Sibyl?” asked Mrs. Ogilvie.
“The one who wants to marry the other,” replied Sibyl. “Hush, mother, we are not to know, we are to be quite blind. Aren’t you awfully incited?”
“You are a very silly, rude little girl,” replied the mother. “You must not make the sort of remarks you are always making to Mr. Rochester and Lady Helen. Such remarks are in very bad form. Now, don’t take even the slightest notice when they return.”
“Aren’t I to speak to them?” asked Sibyl, raising her eyes in wonder.
“Of course, but you are not to say anything special.”
“Oh, nothing special. Am I to talk about the weather?”
“No; don’t be such a little goose.”
“I always notice,” replied Sibyl, softly, “that when quite strangers meet, they talk about the weather. I thought that was why. Can’t I say anything more – more as if they were my very dear old friends? I thought they’d like it. I thought they’d like to know that there was one here who understanded all about it.”
“About it?”
“Their love, mother, their love for – for each other.”
“Who may the one be who is supposed to understand?”
“Me, mother,” said Sibyl.
Mrs. Ogilvie burst into a ringing laugh.
“You are a most ridiculous little girl,” she said. “Now, listen; you are not to take any notice when they come back. They are not engaged; perhaps they never will be. Anyhow, you will make yourself an intensely disagreeable child if you make such remarks as you have already made. Do you understand?”
“You has put it plain, mother,” replied Sibyl. “I think I do. Now, let’s look at the flowers.”
“I have ordered the landlord of the inn to serve tea on the lawn,” continued Mrs. Ogilvie. “Is it not nice to feel that we are going to have tea on our own lawn, Sibyl?”
“It’s lovely!” replied Sibyl.
“I am devoted to the country,” continued the mother; “there is no place like the country for me.”
“So I think, too,” replied Sibyl. “I love the country. We’ll have all the very poorest people down here, won’t we, mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“All the people who want to be made happy; Mr. and Mrs. Holman, and the other faded old people in the almshouses that I went to see one time with Miss Winstead.”
“Now you are talking in your silly way again,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie. “You make me quite cross when you talk of that old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Holman.”
“But, mother, why aren’t they to be rich if we are to be rich? Do you know that Mrs. Holman is saving up her money to buy some of the gold out of father’s mine. She expects to get two hundred pounds instead of one. It’s very puzzling, and yet I seem to understand. Oh, here comes Mr. Landlord with the tea-things. How inciting!”
The table was spread, and cake, bread and butter, and fruit provided. Lady Helen and Rochester came back. They both looked a little conscious and a little afraid of Sibyl, but as she turned her back on them the moment they appeared, and pretended to be intensely busy picking a bouquet of flowers, they took their courage in their hands and came forward and joined in the general conversation.
Lady Helen elected to pour out tea, and was extremely cheerful, although she could not help reddening when Sibyl brought her a very large marguerite daisy, and asked her to pull off the petals and see whether the rhyme came right.
“What rhyme?” asked Lady Helen.
“I know it all, shall I say it to you?” cried Sibyl. She began to pull off the different petals, and to repeat in a childish sing-song voice: —
“One he loves, two he loves, three he loves they say,
Four he loves with all his heart, five he casts away,
Six he loves, seven she loves, eight they both love,
Nine he comes, ten he tarries,
Eleven he woos, twelve he marries.”
Sibyl repeated this nonsense with extreme gusto, and when the final petal on the large daisy proclaimed that “twelve he marries,” she flung the stalk at Rochester and laughed gaily.
“I knew you’d have luck,” she said. Then she caught her mother’s warning eye and colored painfully, thus making the situation, if possible, a little more awkward.
“Suppose we go for a row on the river this lovely afternoon,” said Lady Helen, starting up restlessly. She had talked of the coming bazaar, and had wandered through the rooms at Silverbel, and had listened to Mrs. Ogilvie’s suggestions with regard to furniture and different arrangements until she was almost tired of the subject.
Rochester sprang to his feet.
“I can easily get a boat,” he said; “I’ll go and consult with mine host.”
He sauntered across the grounds, and Sibyl, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him. A boat was soon procured, and they all found themselves on the shining silver Thames.
“Is that why our house is called Silverbel?” asked Sibyl. “Is it ’cos we can see the silver shine of the river, and ’cos it is belle, French for beautiful?”
“Perhaps so,” answered the mother with a smile.
The evening came on, the heat of the day was over, the sun faded.
“What a pity we must go back to London,” said Sibyl. “I don’t think I ever had such a lovely day before.”
“We shall soon be back here,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie. “I shall see about furnishing next week at the latest, and we can come down whenever we are tired of town.”
“That will be lovely,” said Sibyl. “Oh, won’t my pony love cantering over the roads here!”
When they landed at the little quay just outside the inn, the landlord came down to meet them. He held a telegram in his hand.
“This came for you, madam, in your absence,” he said, and he gave the telegram to Mrs. Ogilvie. She tore it open. It was from her lawyer, Mr. Acland, and ran as follows:
“Ominous rumors with regard to Lombard Deeps have reached me. Better not go any further at present with the purchase of Silverbel.”
Mrs. Ogilvie’s face turned pale. She looked up and met the fixed stare of her little daughter and of Rochester. Lady Helen had turned away. She was leaning over the rails of the little garden and looking down into the swiftly flowing river.
Mrs. Ogilvie’s face grew hard. She crushed up the telegram in her hand.
“I hope there is nothing wrong?” asked Rochester.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. “Yes, we will come here next week. Sibyl, don’t stare in that rude way.”
The return journey was not as lively as that happy one in the morning.
Sibyl felt through her sensitive little frame that her mother was worried about something. Rochester also looked anxious. Lady Helen alone seemed unconscious and distrait. When the child nestled up to her she put her arm round her waist.
“Are you sad about anything, darling Lady Helen?” whispered Sibyl.
“No, Sibyl; I am quite happy.”
“Then you are thinking very hard?”
“I often think.”
“I do so want you to be awfully happy.”
“I know you do, and I think I shall be.”
“Then that is right. Twelve he marries. Wasn’t it sweet of the marguerite daisy to give Mr. Rochester just the right petal at the end; wasn’t it luck?”
“Yes; but hush, don’t talk so loud.”
Mr. Rochester now changed his seat, and came opposite to where Lady Helen and the child had placed themselves. He did not talk to Lady Helen, but he looked at her several times. Presently he took one of Sibyl’s hands, and stroked it fondly.
“Does Lady Helen tell you beautiful stories too?” asked Sibyl, suddenly.
“No,” he answered; “she is quite naughty about that. She never tells me the charming stories she tells you.”
“You ought to,” said Sibyl, looking at her earnestly; “it would do him good. It’s an awfully nice way, if you want to give a person a home truth, to put it into a story. Nurse told me about that, and I remembered it ever since. She used to put her home truths into proverbs when I was quite young, such as, ‘A burnt child dreads the fire,’ or ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ or – ”
“Oh, that will do, Sibyl.” Lady Helen spoke; there was almost a piteous appeal in the words.
“Well,” said Sibyl, “perhaps it is better to put home truths into stories, not proverbs. It’s like having more sugar. The ‘home truth’ is the pill, and when it is sugared all over you can swallow it. You can’t swallow it without the sugar, can you? Nursie begins her stories like this: ‘Miss Sibyl, once upon a time I knew a little girl,’ and then she tells me all about a horrid girl, and I know the horrid girl is me. I am incited, of course, but very, very soon I get down to the pill. Now, I am sure, Mr. Rochester, there are some things you ought to be told, there are some things you do wrong, aren’t there, Mr. Rochester?”
“Oh, Sibyl, do stop that ceaseless chatter,” cried her mother from the other end of the carriage; “you talk the most utter nonsense,” and Sibyl for once was effectually silenced.
The party broke up at Victoria Station, and Mrs. Ogilvie and her little daughter drove home. As soon as ever they arrived there Watson informed Mrs. Ogilvie that Mr. Acland was waiting to see her in the library.
“Tiresome man!” she muttered, but she went to see him at once. The electric light was on; the room reminded her uncomfortably of her husband. He spent a great deal of time in his library, more than a very happy married man would have done. She had often found him there with a perplexed brow, and a heart full of anxiety. She had found him there, too, in his rare moments of exultation and happiness. She would have preferred to see the lawyer in any room but this.
“Well,” she said, “why did you send me that ridiculous telegram?”
“You would not be surprised if you had read the article which appeared to-day in The Financial Enquirer.”
“I have never heard of The Financial Enquirer.”
“But City men know it,” replied Mr. Acland, “and to a great extent it governs the market. It is one of our leading financial papers. The rumors it alludes to may be untrue, but they will influence the subscriptions made by the public to the share capital. In fact, with so ominous an article coming from so first-rate a source, nothing but a splendid report from Ogilvie can save the mine.”
Mrs. Ogilvie drummed with her delicate taper fingers on the nearest table.