Daddy's Girl

Sibyl, quite happy, her heart beating high with excitement, poked her radiant little face round the schoolroom door. There were three children already in the room – Mabel, Gus, and Freda St. Claire. They were Lord Grayleigh’s children, and were handsome, and well cared for, and now looked with curiosity at Sibyl.

“Oh, you’re the little girl,” said Mabel, who was twelve years of age. She raised her voice in a languid tone.

“Yes, I are the little girl,” said Sibyl. She came forward with bold, confident steps, and looked at the tea table.

“Where is my place?” she said. “Is it laid for me? I am the visitor.”

Gus, aged ten, who had been somewhat inclined to sulk when Sibyl appeared, now smiled, and pulled out a chair.

“Sit down,” he said; “you had better sit there, near Mabel; she’s pouring out tea. She’s the boss, you know.”

“What’s a boss?” said Sibyl.

“You must be a silly not to know what a boss is.”

“I aren’t no more silly than you are,” said Sibyl. “May I have some bread and butter and jam? I’ll ask you some things about town, and perhaps you can’t answer me. What’s a – what’s a – oh, I’ll think of something real slangy presently; but please don’t talk to me too much while I’m eating, or I’ll spill jam on my money frock.”

“You are a very queer little girl,” said Mabel; but she looked at her now with favor. A child who could talk like Sibyl was likely to be an acquisition.

“What a silly you are,” said Gus. “What did you put on that thing for? We don’t want frilled and laced-up frocks, we want frocks that girls can wear to climb trees in, and – ”

“Climb trees! Oh,” cried Sibyl, “are you that sort? Then I’m your girl. Oh, I am glad! My ownest father would be pleased. He likes me to be brave. I’m a hoyden – do you know what a hoyden is? If you want to have a few big larks while I am here, see to ’em quick, for I’m your girl.”

Gus burst into a roar of laughter, and Mabel smiled.

“You are very queer,” she said. “I don’t know whether our governess will like our being with you. You seem to use strange words. We never get into scrapes – we are quite ladylike and good, but we don’t wear grand frocks either. Can’t you take that thing off?”

“I wish I could. I hate it myself.”

“Well, ask your servant to change it.”

“But my nurse hasn’t brought a single shabby frock with me.”

“Are all your frocks as grand as that?”

“Some of ’em grander.”

“We might lend her one of our own brown holland frocks,” said Freda.

“Oh, do!” said Sibyl; “that will be lovely.”

“We are going to do some climbing this afternoon, so you may as well put it on,” continued Freda.

Sibyl clapped her hands with delight. “It’s a great comfort coming down to this place,” she said finally, “’cos I can give way a little; but with my father and mother I have to keep myself in.”

“Why?”

“It’s mostly on account of my most perfect of fathers.”

“But isn’t Philip Ogilvie your father?” said Gus.

“Mr. Ogilvie,” corrected Sibyl, in a very proud tone.

“Oh, fudge! I heard father call him Philip Ogilvie. He’s not perfect.”

Sibyl’s face turned white; she looked full at Gus. Gus, not observing the expression in her eyes, continued, in a glib and easy tone:

“Father didn’t know I was there; he was talking to another man. I think the man’s name was Halkett. I’m always great at remembering names, and I heard him say ‘Philip Ogilvie will do what we want. When it comes to the point he’s not too scrupulous.’ Yes, scrupulous was the word, and I ran away and looked it out in the dictionary, and it means – oh, you needn’t stare at me as if your eyes were starting out of your head – it means a person who hesitates from fear of acting wrongly. Now, as your father isn’t scrupulous, that means that he doesn’t hesitate to act wrong.”

Sibyl with one swift, unerring bang struck Gus a sharp blow across the cheek.

“What have you done that for, you little beggar?” he said, his eyes flashing fire.

“To teach you not to tell lies,” answered Sibyl. She turned, went up the room, and stood by the window. Her heart was bursting, and tears were scorching her eyeballs. “But I won’t shed them,” thought the child, “not for worlds.”

Sibyl’s action was so unexpected that there was a silence in the room for a few moments, but presently Freda stole softly to Sibyl’s side and touched her on her arm.

“Gus is sorry he said anything to hurt you,” she said; “we didn’t understand that you would feel it as you do, but we are all sorry, and we like you all the better for it. Won’t you shake hands with Gus and be friends?”

“And I’ll never say a word against your father again,” said Gus.

“You had better not,” answered Sibyl. “No, I won’t shake hands; I won’t make friends with you till I know something more about you. But I’d like to climb trees, and to get into a holland frock.”

CHAPTER IV

It was great fun getting into the holland frock, more particularly when it was discovered to be too short, and also very dirty. It had a great ink-stain in front, and the sleeves were tight and showed a good bit of Sibyl’s white arms. She looked at herself in the glass and danced about in her excitement.

“You can have this old sailor hat to match the frock,” said Freda in conclusion. “Now no one will say you are too fine. Come out now, Gus and the others are waiting.”

Yes, the sun shone once more for Sibyl, and she forgot for a time Gus’s cruel words about her father. He was most attentive to her now, and initiated her into the mystery of climbing. Screams of laughter followed her valiant efforts to ascend the leafy heights of certain beech trees which grew not far from the house. This laughter attracted the attention of a lady and gentleman who were pacing the leafy alley not far away.

“What a noise those children make,” said Lord Grayleigh to his companion.

“How many children have you, Lord Grayleigh?” asked Mrs. Ogilvie. She looked full at him as she spoke.

“I have three,” he replied; “they are great scamps, and never for a single moment fit to be seen. Since their mother died” – he sighed as he uttered these words, he was a widower of over two years’ standing – “I have kept them more or less with myself. There is no harm in them, although they are pickles. Come, I will introduce you to them. That reminds me, I have not yet seen your own little daughter.”

Mrs. Ogilvie was very proud of Sibyl, but only when she looked her best. The mother now contemplated, with a feeling of satisfaction, the nice dresses which she had secured for the child before she came into the country. No one could look more lovely than this little daughter of hers, when dressed suitably, so abundant was her golden brown hair, and so blue were her eyes, so straight the little features, so soft the curves of the rosy lips. It is true those blue eyes had an expression in them which never in this world could Mrs. Ogilvie understand, nevertheless, the child’s beauty was apparent to the most superficial observer; and Mrs. Ogilvie turned and accompanied Lord Grayleigh in the direction of the merry sounds willingly enough.

“I see four little figures dancing about among those trees,” said Lord Grayleigh. “We will see them all together.”

They turned down a side walk, and came face to face with Sibyl herself. Now, at that instant the little girl certainly did not look at her best. The holland frock, short and shabby, had a great rent above the knee, her soft cheek was scratched and bleeding slightly, and there was a smudge across her forehead.

Sibyl, quite unconscious of these defects, flew to her mother’s side.

“Oh, Mummy,” she cried, “I’m so happy. Gus has been teaching me to climb. Do you see that beech tree? I climbed as far as the second branch, and Gus said I did it splendid. It’s lovely to sit up there.”

Sibyl did not even notice Lord Grayleigh, who stood and watched this little scene with an amused face. Mrs. Ogilvie was by no means pleased.