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 bravest, but had to wipe his glasses. She rewarded him with a kiss, and did not leave till she could leave him at ease.