On the Monday morning, after a night of broken sleep, she received a letter from her mother.
“MY DEAR CHILD,” Mrs. Percival wrote, “I met Nevile Ingram, quite unexpectedly, on Saturday evening. Yesterday he called here, after he had seen you in the house where you choose to remain. Our interview was naturally distressing, and I should be glad to feel sure that you could spare me a third. I need not remind you of the first.
“But I feel bound to own, from what I could learn from him of his discussion (as I must call it) with you, that I am most uneasy. If I were to say unhappy, tho' it would be less than the truth, you might accuse me of exaggeration. That I could not bear. Therefore, let 'uneasy' be the word. Is it possible, I ask myself, that my youngest child—my latest-born—can find it in her heart to torture the already agonised heart of her mother? I put the question to you, Sanchia, for I am incapable myself of finding the answer. I blush to write it—but such is the terrible fact. I can only beg you to put me out of suspense as gently as may be. I am growing old. There are limits to what a grey-haired mother's heart can bear.
“Mr. Ingram's proposals towards a settlement of the untold ruin he has wrought in a once smiling and contented household were (I must say) liberal. That they were all that they should be, I must not declare—for how could that ever be? He put himself, however, and his extremely handsome fortune unreservedly in my hands and those of your father, who was not present at our interview. He was resting, I believe—his own phrase. Philippa came in to tea, with her trusty, honourable Tertius, and was more than gracious to N. You know her way. She stoops more charmingly than any woman I have ever met. Her manners, certainly, are to be copied.
“His position in the county—I return to Nevile—I need not dwell upon. It may be brilliant. A Justice of the Peace at thirty-two! I leave you to imagine what he might become, building upon that, if he were blessed with the loving companionship of a tender, chaste and Xtian wife. Such an one could guide him into Green Pastures—and such an one only. Secure in the gratitude of his inferiors, the respect of his peers, reconciled to the Altar, and his God, one sees before Nevile the upright, prosperous, honoured career of an English Gentleman. There is no higher, I believe. But it is clear to all of those who truly love you, my child, that you only can ensure him these advantages. He is sincerely penitent now—of that I am sure. Who can tell, however, what relapse there may be unless he is taken in hand?
“You have been his curse, but may be his Blessing. You have my prayers.
“I beg my compliments to Lady Maria Wenman if she condescends to recognise the existence of—Your affect. Mother,
“P.S.—Nevile assures me that his cousin, the Bishop, would perform the rite. This would be a great thing. One must think of N's position in the county.”
“Venus, wounded in the side ...” is the opening line of an old poem of Senhouse's, one of those “Greek Idylls” with which he made his bow to the world—old placid stories illuminated by modern romantic fancy; nursery-rhyme versions, we may call them, of the myths. “Venus, wounded in the side,” recounts how the Dame, struck by a shaft of her son's, ran moaning from one ally to another seeking Pity, the only balm that could assuage her wound. To the new lover, to the old, to the fresh-wedded, to the long-mated: from one to the other she ran—hand clapt to throbbing heart. None could help her. “Pity! What's that?” cried the first. “I triumph: rejoice with me. Is she not like the sun in a valley?” The second cursed her for a procuress. The bride stirred in her sleep, and whispered, “Kiss me again, Beloved.” As for the fourth, he said, “All my Pity was for myself. It is gone; now I am frost-bound.” Venus wept: Adonis healed the wound.
Sanchia, reading long afterwards, saw in it a parallel to her case, when she, stricken deep, ran about London ways for a soothing lotion. She saw herself trapped; felt the steel bite to the bone. Tears might have helped her, but she had none: pray she could not, nor crave mercy. It was not Ingram who held her caged, but Destiny; and there's no war with him.
She thought of Vicky, of Melusine. Their kisses would have been sweet, but she knew what they would say. Melusine's sideways head, her sighed, “Dearest, how sad! But life is so serious, isn't it?” She saw the gleam in Vicky's eyes, and heard her “Dear old Sancie, how splendid! Now you'll be all right.” Then she would clasp her round the neck and whisper in her ear, “Do make me an aunt—I shall adore your baby. Quick, darling!” She turned her back on Kensington and Camberley, and went into the City, to The Poultry, with her griefs.
Poor Mr. Percival's rosy gills and white whiskers, his invariable, “Well, Sancie—well, my dear, well, well—” called her home. She ran forward, clung to him, and lay a while in his arms, short-breathing, breathless for the advent of peace. To his, “What is it, my love? Tell your old father all about it,” she could only murmur, “Oh, dearest, what shall I do?” He urged her again to tell him what the matter was—“What has hurt you? Who has dared to hurt my darling? Show me that scoundrel—” but she was luxuriating in new comfort and would say nothing. Into her false peace she snuggled and lay still; and the honest man, loving her to be there, let her be.
Presently she opened her weary eyes, looked up, and smiled, then snuggled again. He led her to his office chair, and took her on his knee. “Lie here, my bird, make your pillow of my shoulder. That's more comfortable, I hope. Why, Sancie, you've not been here, in my arms, since you hurt your foot at Sidmouth deuce knows how long ago—and I kissed it well! Do you remember that? Ah, but I do. I'm a foolish old chap, with nothing else to think about but my girls. And you're the only one left—the only one, Sancie. And I always loved you best—and behaved as if you were the worst—God forgive me!” She put her hand up and touched his cheek. “Hush, dearest. We don't talk about that.”
“No, no, my darling—that's over, thank God. You have forgiven me, I know—my great-hearted Sancie. Now, if you feel stronger, tell me all your troubles.” She murmured what follows.
“He came to see me. Nevile came.”
“I know, my love. Your mother told me.”
“She wrote to me. Rather a dreadful letter. She's on his side—she talks about his position in the county.”
“I daresay, I daresay. But you know, your mother thinks a great deal of that kind of thing. She says we owe a deal to our station, you know. There's something in it, my dear. I'm bound to say that.”
“Papa, he—wants me again. He thinks he does.”
“Oh, my dear, there's no doubt about that—none at all. He proposes—well, it's carte blanche; there's no other word for it. A blank cheque, you know. We must do Master Nevile justice. It is the least he can do; but he does it.”
“What am I to do, Papa?” The poor gentleman looked rather blank.
“Do, my dear? Do?” He puzzled; then, as the light broke on him, could not help showing his dismay. “Why, you don't mean to say—Oh, my child, is that what you mean?”
She clung to him convulsively, buried her face.
“God help us all!” His thought, his pity, his love whirled him hither and thither. He shivered in the blast. “'Pon my soul, I don't know how we shall break it to your mother. I don't, indeed.” He stared miserably, then caught her to him. “It breaks my heart to see you like this—my child; it cuts me to the heart. Sancie, what are we to do?”
She sat up and brushed her dry eyes with her handkerchief. “I know. There's nothing to do. It's my fate.”
This was rather shocking to old Mr. Percival, who shared the common opinion of matrimony, that it should be marked by champagne at luncheons. It was a signal for rejoicing—therefore you must rejoice. White stood for a wedding all the world over, black for a funeral. To go scowling to church, or tearless to the cemetery, was to fail in duty.
“We mustn't look at it like that, my darling. I don't think we ought, indeed. Fate, you know! That's a gloomy view of an affair of the sort. I don't pretend to understand you, quite, my love. You see, a year or two ago, you would have asked nothing better—and now you call it fate. Oh, my dear—”
She could not have hoped that he would understand, and yet she felt more like crying than at any time yet. “My heart is cold,” she said. “It's dead, I think.”
He echoed her, whispering, “Not dead, Sancie, not dead, my child. Numbed. He'll warm it asleep, he'll kiss it awake. He loves you.”
She moaned as she shook her head. “No, no. He wants me—that's all.”
“Well, my dear,” pleaded good Mr. Percival, “and so he may. We do want what we love, don't we now? He's come to his senses by this time, found out the need of you. And I don't wonder at it. You're a beautiful girl, my dear—you're the pick of my bevy. But I must bring back the roses to those cheeks—Mildred Grant, eh? Jack Etherington used to call you that: he was a great rose-fancier—old Jack. Do you remember our tea-party last summer? And how happy we were? Let's be happy again, my lamb! Come, my child, can't you squeeze me out one little smile? You'll make the sun shine in this foggy old den of mine.” He pinched her cheek, peered for the dimple which a smile must bring; then he drew her closer to him and whispered his darling thought: “Shall I tell you something, Sancie? What your old dad prays for when he's by himself? I want another grandchild, my dear—one I can spoil. I ought to be a happy man with what I've got—I know that. But you were always the pet, my love; you know you were—until, until—ah, Sancie! And one of yours! Aren't you going to indulge your old father? He's only got a few years left, mind you. Don't want any more. To see his darling happy, smiling down on her baby—bless me, I'm getting foolish.” He blinked his did not leave till she could leave him at ease.
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