Part 23 (2/2)

”Ah, but I must, you know,” he vowed. ”What! A d.a.m.ned unnatural father!...” And then he held her closely, while he whispered his anxiety.

”Sancie--tell me, my lamb--put my mind at rest. He--that fellow--that Ingram--he was good to you, hey? He didn't--hey?”

She vowed in her turn. ”Oh, yes, dearest, yes. Of course he was. I was very happy, except for--what couldn't be helped, you know.”

”Yes, yes--it couldn't be helped. I know that you felt that. I was bound-- for the others, don't you see?--sake of example. That sort of thing, don't you see?” He shook his head. ”We can't have that, you know. It don't do-- in the long run. Very irregular, hey? And your mother, you know--she takes these things to heart. Goes too far, _I_ say. Sometimes goes a little to extremes, you know.” He grew quite scared as he recalled the scene. ”I shall never forget”--shuddering, he clasped her close. ”My darling girl, let's be happy again! It shall be right as--well, as rain, you know--now.

We'll have you with a child on your knee in no time,--hey?” He seemed to think that marriage alone could work this boon. Again--as before with Vicky--Sanchia had not the heart to gainsay him. She allowed him to speculate as he would; and her mother, returning, found the pair, one on the other's knee, with the future cut and dried.

But Sanchia rose at her entry.

”Dearest, I must go now,” she told him, ”but I'll see you again very soon.”

He urged her to stay and dine. ”We're quite alone, you know! No ceremony with our child, hey!”

But she smilingly refused. ”No, darling, I won't stop now. I'll come again--” her mother's stretched lips, stomaching what she could not sanction, stood, as it were, before the home doors.

He looked wistfully at her--aware, he too, of the sentries at the gate.

”You might--we are pretty lonely here, we old people--I should have said you might come back--there's your old room, you know--eating its head off, hey?”

Sanchia kissed him. ”Darling--we'll see. We'll talk about it soon. But I must go now--to my books. I'm working very hard, at my Italian. I've forgotten--lots.”

He had to let her go--but, manlike, he must relieve himself in a man's way. He drew her into his study, bade her ”see what she should see.” He went to his desk and sat to his cheque-book. He returned with the slip wet in his hand. ”There, my child, there. That will keep the wolf from the door, I hope. For a day or two, you know.” She read, ”Miss Sanchia Percival--two hundred pounds sterling.” It brought the tears to her eyes again. It was so exactly like him.

”You darling--how ridiculous of you--but how sweet!”

He glowed under her praises. ”Plenty more where that came from, Sancie,”-- then piously added, ”Thank G.o.d, of course.”

Sanchia, in the hall, turned to her mother. ”Good-bye, mother,” she said, and held her hand out. Her mother took it, drew her in, and kissed her forehead. ”Good-bye, my child”; she could not, for her life, be more cordial than that. The offence itself seemed a pinp.r.i.c.k beside the rankle of the wound to her pride. This child had set up for herself, and was now returned--without extenuation, without plea for mercy. Mrs. Percival was one of those people who cannot be happy unless their right to rule be unquestioned. Had the girl humbled herself to the dust, grovelled at her feet, she would have taken her to her breast. But Sanchia stood upright, and Mrs. Percival felt the frost gripe at her heart. It must be so.

Her father went with her to the door--his arm about her waist. ”Come soon,” he pleaded, and when she promised, whispered in her ear--”Come to The Poultry, if you'd rather: I'm always there--as you know. Come, and we'll lunch together. You'll be like a nosegay in the dusty old place.”

”Yes, yes, I shall come--often,” she told him, and nestled to his side.

Then she put up her cheek for his kiss. ”Good-night, Papa dear,” He wept over her, and let her go. Then he returned to his hearth and his wife. In his now exalted mood he was really master of both, and Mrs. Percival knew it. ”You gave her the money, I suppose?” she said; and he, ”Yes, my dear, I gave her two hundred pounds.” He had doubled the sum agreed, but Mrs.

Percival let it pa.s.s.

III

Upon this footing her affairs now stood; she was to be one of the family, with two hundred pounds a year to her credit, the run of her teeth in the house, and (by a secret arrangement) as often in her father's company as she could find time to be. Meantime, by her own deliberate choice, she maintained her lodging in Pimlico, and read at the Museum most days of the week. She prepared herself to be happy, and under a buoyant impulse, due to the softening of her affections, wrote to her friend Mr. Chevenix, and asked him to come to see her. That he briskly did.

She received him cordially. It was good to see the cheerful youth again, and to be able to rejoice in the man of the world he affected to be. A man of the world--throned, at it were, upon the brows of a suckling.

Wisdom was justified of her child. ”So you cut it? Thought you would.

Wanless Hall is all very well in its little way--when the rainbows are jumping, what? D'you remember that fish? And old Devereux--_Salmo deverox_? My certy, what a lady! But Nevile--” he shook his head. ”No, no.

Some devil had entered into him: he was a gloomy kind of tyrant. I don't know, by the way, what's happened to him. Travelling, or something, I fancy. He was always a rolling stone, as you know. But he'll come round, you'll see. Oh, Lord, yes. He'll sulk out his devil--and be the first to apologise. Well--never mind old Nevile. You'll see, one of these days.

Now, I say, what are you doing with yourself up here? Any good?”

She named her Italian studies, and made him open his eyes.

<script>