“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.