Daddy's Girl

“I must do something better than that for my little daughter,” thought the man. “I will not go to Australia until I have decided that point. If I go, I shall make terms, and it will be for Sibyl’s sake.”

But again that uncomfortable, tiresome conscience of his began to speak; and that conscience told him that if he went to Australia for the purpose of blinding the eyes of possible shareholders in London, he would in reality be doing the very worst possible thing for his child.

He tossed about between one temptation and another for the remainder of the night, and arose in the morning unrefreshed. As he was dressing, however, a thought came to him which he hailed as a possible relief. Why not do the right thing right from the beginning; tell Grayleigh that the proposed commission to visit Australia was altogether distasteful to him; that he washed his hands of the great new syndicate; that they might sweep in their gold, but he would have nothing to say to it? At the same time he might insure his life for ten thousand pounds. It would be a heavy interest to pay, no doubt, and they would probably have to live in a smaller house, and he and his wife would have to put down their expenses in various ways, but he would have the comfort of knowing that whatever happened Sibyl would not be without means of subsistence.

“When I have done that, and absolutely provided for her future, I shall have a great sense of rest,” thought the man. “I will go and see Dr. Rashleigh, of the Crown and Life Insurance Company, as soon as ever I get to the City. That is a happy thought.”

He smiled cheerfully to himself, ran downstairs, and ate a hearty breakfast. A letter from his wife lay upon his plate. He did not even open it. He thrust it into his pocket and went off to the City, telling his servant as he did so that he would be back to dinner.

As soon as he got to his office he read his letters, gave his clerks directions, and went at once to see Dr. Rashleigh, of the Insurance Company.

Rashleigh happened to be one of his special friends, and he knew his hours. It was a little unusual to expect him to examine him for an insurance without an appointment; but he believed, in view of his possible visit to Australia, that Rashleigh would be willing to overlook ceremony.

He arrived at the office, saw one of the clerks downstairs, heard that Rashleigh was in and would soon be disengaged, and presently was shown into the doctor’s consulting room.

Rashleigh was a grey-haired man of about sixty years of age. He spent a couple of hours every day in the consulting room of the Crown and Life Insurance Company. He rose now, and extended his hand with pleasure when Ogilvie appeared.

“My dear Ogilvie, and what do you want with me? Have you at last listened to my entreaties that you should insure your life in a first-class office?”

“Something of the kind,” said Ogilvie, forcing a smile, for again that agony which had come over him yesterday assailed him. He knew that his heart was throbbing faintly, and he remembered once more that his father had died of heart disease. Oh, it was all nonsense; of course he had nothing to fear. He was a man in his prime, not much over thirty – he was all right.

Rashleigh asked him a few questions.

“I may have to go to Australia rather suddenly,” said Ogilvie, “and I should like first to insure my life. I want to settle the money on my child before I leave home.”

“How large a sum do you propose to insure for?” asked the doctor.

“I have given the particulars to the clerk downstairs. I should like to insure for ten thousand pounds.”

“Well, I daresay that can be managed. You are an excellent client, and quite a young man. Now just let me sound your lungs, and listen to your heart.”

Ogilvie removed his necktie, unbuttoned his shirt, and placed himself in the doctor’s hands.

Dr. Rashleigh made his examination without comment, slowly and carefully. At last it was over.

“Well?” said Ogilvie, just glancing at him. “It’s all right, I suppose.”

“It is not the custom for a doctor at an insurance office to tell his patient anything about the result of the examination,” was Rashleigh’s answer. “You’ll hear all in good time.”

“But there really is no time to lose, and you are an old friend. You look grave. If it cannot be done, of course it cannot, but I should like to know.”

“When do you propose to go to Australia?”

“I may not go at all. In fact if – ” Ogilvie suddenly leaned against the table. Once again he felt faint and giddy. “If this is all right, I shall probably not go.”

“But suppose it is not all right?”

“Then I sail on Saturday.”

“I may as well tell you the truth,” said Rashleigh; “you are a brave man. My dear fellow, the office cannot insure you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Heart,” said Rashleigh.

“Heart! Mine? Not affected?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“It is hard to answer that question. The heart is a strange organ, and capable of a vast amount of resuscitation; nevertheless, in your case the symptoms are grave; the aortic valve is affected. It behooves you to be very careful.”

“Does this mean that I – ” Ogilvie dropped into a chair. “Rashleigh,” he said suddenly, “I had a horrible attack last night. I forgot it this morning when I came to you, but it was horrible while it lasted. I thought myself, during those moments of torture, within a measurable – a very measurable distance of the end.”

“Describe your sensations,” said Rashleigh.

Ogilvie did so.

“Now, my dear fellow, I have a word to say. This insurance cannot be done. But, for yourself, you must avoid excitement. I should like to prescribe a course of living for you. I have studied the heart extensively.”

“Will nothing put me straight? Cure me, I mean?”

“I fear not.”

“Well, good-by, Rashleigh; I will call round to see you some evening.”

“Do. I should like you to have the advice of a specialist, Anderson, the greatest man in town on the heart.”

“But where is the use? If you cannot cure me, he cannot.”

“You may live for years and years, and die of something else in the end.”

“Just what was said to my father, who did not live for years and years,” answered the man. “I won’t keep you any longer, Rashleigh.”

He left the office and went down into the street. As he crossed the Poultry and got once more into the neighborhood of his own office, one word kept ringing in his ears, “Doomed.”

He arrived at his office and saw his head clerk.

“You don’t look well, Mr. Ogilvie.”

“Never mind about my looks, Harrison,” replied Ogilvie. “I have a great deal to do, and need your best attention.”

“Certainly, sir; but, all the same, you don’t look well.”

“Looks are nothing,” replied Ogilvie. “I shall soon be all right. Harrison, I am off to Australia on Saturday.”

CHAPTER VI