IX
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,