Between midnight and sunrise a slight shower had fallen, scarcely damping the ground, but sufficient to draw out the perfume of the young flowers. The promise of spring was fulfilled, and tender bloom peeped up in places, and in others showed itself more boldly. About the trunks of ancient trees the sweet woodruff lurked; in sunny hedges the "cuckoo buds of yellow hue" proclaimed themselves; the heart-shaped leaves of the Irish shamrock were slowly unfolding; species of wild geranium and the strangely shaped orchises were abundant, the general commonwealth being represented by myriads of golden buttercups. Nansie and Kingsley stood near a great hawthorn, not yet in full bud, but already emitting a deliciously fine fragrance born of the light rain which had fallen during the night.
"Why, Nansie," Kingsley was saying to her, "I never suspected you had gypsy blood in you."
"I have none, as you know," was her response. "It was my father's whim, for which, I dare say, if he were here and was inclined to do so, he could give you several reasons. You can guess some of them, Kingsley."
"The first and foremost is that he wished to keep us apart. He has not succeeded. I would hunt you all over the world, Nansie."
"You must not be unjust to my father," said Nansie, "He was always full of fancies, Kingsley, but never harbored a bad one; and you must remember he does not know our secret yet. I love and honor him; he is a good man."
"Or you could not have been his daughter. Full of fancies, indeed!" And Kingsley turned his head in the direction of the caravan. "Surely this is the strangest that ever entered the head of man! A gentleman and a scholar--for he is both, Nansie, and I suppose it was partly through your breeding that I was drawn to you--to go wandering through the land with his daughter, as though they belonged to the lost tribes! But there is an odd pleasantry about it that tickles one, after all."
"You would enjoy it, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a delicious laugh, nestling close to him; "it has really been delightful."
"Ah, you said that last night, and I asked you, in surprise, how it could have been, without me?"
"And I did not have wit enough to answer you properly. Think of the hour! I was scarcely half awake. And Kingsley, having the fullest trust in you, which nothing ever can shake, you would not wish me to be unhappy even when we are parted. I can think of you in a happy mood when you are not with me, if only by looking forward to the time when we shall always be together. It will be soon, will it not?"
"It must, it shall, either way," he replied; "but I do not think I was wrong in asking you to wait a little while."
"You have done everything for the best, so far as I am concerned-- But for yourself!" Nansie paused and sighed.
"But for myself," he said, taking up her words, "I have done that which is happiest and best, and that which falls to the lot of few men."
"Ah, Kingsley?" she said, hiding her face on his shoulder.
"I have won a faithful heart. What more could I desire?"
"It is sweet to hear you say so; but if your father should be angry--"
"What then? We are young and strong and willing, and shall be able to manage. I have friends who will give me a helping hand, as I would give them were our places changed. New men spring up every day, Nansie; the ladder is full of them, rising higher and higher. Why should I not be one of them? Why should I not be fortunate--in money, I mean; I am content with everything else--as my father was? When he was my age he had little more than I have. See what he is now. A power, mixing with those who bear historic names. And there are others as he is. The old ranks are widening, new men creep in, hold their heads high, and occupy positions of power and profit. The question will presently be, who are the masters? No, no, Nansie, I don't despair. I should not be worthy of you if I did. What ennobles a man? Rank? Hardly. He can prove himself worthy of it--that is all; then he may consider himself truly distinguished. Rank is mortal. Love is immortal. Ask the poets. Not that they know much better than any one else. After all, it is the heart that should be followed."
"I have followed mine," said Nansie, looking fondly at him.
She did not understand the drift of all he said, nor, indeed, did he himself, nor was he aware that his speech was of a wandering nature. He spoke enthusiastically, and sometimes he ran his fingers through his hair; and although he did this rather perplexedly, there was no indication in his manner of any want of confidence in himself or his opinions. When Nansie said she had followed her heart, he kissed her and said:
"And I followed mine; it led me here to your side, my dearest, and I am happy. This is the loveliest morning! The rain has sweetened everything--for us! You are teaching me things, Nansie. I had no idea the early morning was so beautiful. The flowers, the dew--it is wonderful. If I were a poet I should say the earth was covered with jewels."
"You are a poet, Kingsley."
"No, no; I see things through your eyes. It is you who are the poet. But I have written verses, too. The fellows say poetry doesn't pay, and you must not encourage me. We must be sensibly worldly. What some of the fellows used to say was that I was prone to be discursive, but they were not judges. Between you and me, they were a little jealous because I could talk. Well, the gift of oratory is not a bad one--I don't say I have it, but I am seldom at a loss for words. It may not be a gift--it may be an art which a man may cultivate. That brings me back to my father. He was always fond of hearing me talk. He has often said, 'Talk away, Kingsley; you shall be in the House one day.' You know what I mean by the House, Nansie?--Parliament."
"I like to hear you speak of your father, Kingsley, and that he loves you."
"He does, sincerely. He says I am to do great things, and that all his hopes are centred in me. Why do you sigh, Nansie?"
"Did I sigh, Kingsley?" she asked, with feminine duplicity. "It must be because I am overjoyed that we are together."
"Dear girl! The reason I ramble on so about my father is because I wish you to know him thoroughly. He is very practical--so am I. Sentiment does not run in our family. Only he must be humored, because everything depends upon him. He is rather proud; he has a right to be so, being a self-made man. And obstinate; so am I. You do not know all sides of me yet, Nansie. I have heard it said of a man who has raised himself by his own exertions: 'Oh, he is only a man who has made money!' Now that is an exhibition of ignorance. For a man who was once poor to become a magnate--well, there is an element of romance in it. Look at Whittington. My father was a poor boy; his parents were poor, and could not afford to give him a good education. What he knows he has learned since he became a man. That opens up the question whether it was of any use sending me to college; whether a mistake was not made in not throwing me upon the world, as he was thrown? He has spoken to me of the philosopher's stone, and said he found it when he was young. 'Make use of others,' he says, and has furnished illustrations. 'Take a thousand workingmen,' he says, 'bricklayers, stonemasons, carpenters, anything. They work a certain number of hours per day for a certain number of shillings per week. So manage that from their labor you reap a profit of half an hour a day out of each man. That is a profit of five hundred hours per day for the organizer. At eight working hours per day you thus put, roughly speaking, into your pocket the earnings of sixty men out of the thousand.' That is the way in which my father became a contractor. Bridges, canals, foreign railways, he has made them all, and has had as many as eight thousand men working for him at one time. And all out of nothing. But this is prosaic stuff. Let us talk of ourselves. Your father is ill, you said. What is the matter with him?"
"He suffers from his heart, Kingsley; I am in deep distress about him."
"Perhaps he is frightening himself unnecessarily, my dear. He must consult the best physicians. Thorough rest, freedom from anxiety, a warmer climate--leave it to me, Nansie. It is only a matter of money."
Nansie thought with sadness of the disclosure made by her father of the extent of his worldly resources, and at that moment the subject of her thoughts made his appearance. Mr. Loveday did not betray surprise at finding his daughter with Kingsley, but she blushed scarlet when she saw him, and Kingsley was not free from a certain embarrassment.
"You rose before me this morning," said Mr. Loveday to Nansie. "Have you been out long?"
"About half an hour, father," she replied.
"You have not met Mr. Manners by accident," he observed.
"No, father; Kingsley and I made the appointment last night."
"Last night! At what strange hour, then, and where?" Kingsley looked at her encouragingly, and whispered: "Be brave. I will tell him all."
This gave her courage.
"The appointment, father," she said, archly, "was made last night when the nightingale was singing."
He allowed his eyes to rest for a brief space upon hers, and he saw truth and innocence so clearly depicted therein that a deep breath escaped him, as though a weight had been lifted off his heart. But this assurance of his daughter's guilelessness was another argument against the man who, in the father's opinion, was playing upon her feelings.
"Go and prepare breakfast, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday. "I will join you presently."
"And Kingsley?" she asked. "He will also come?"
"We shall see, we shall see," said Mr. Loveday, fretfully. "He and I have much to say to each other."
"But I shall expect him," she said, kissing her father; then, with a bright look at Kingsley, she departed.
"It was the only way to get rid of her," said Mr. Loveday, with a look of displeasure at the young man. "Even a father is compelled sometimes to practise deceit in his dealings with his children."
The implied accusation in this remark was acknowledged by Kingsley in silence. Impulsive and wayward as he was, he was apt to resent an imputation reflecting upon his honor.
"But then," continued Mr. Loveday, "a father is often justified in his deceit, especially in such a case as this, when he has to deal with a young and inexperienced girl."
His manner was as unfortunate as his matter, and it was impossible to mistake his meaning; but Kingsley exhibited no resentment.
"You are bringing an accusation against me, sir," he said. "The least you can do is to set it forth in plain terms."
"I will do so. Were I disposed to be lenient--which I am not, because the welfare of my daughter is too near to my heart--I should call your conduct rash and inconsiderate. As it is, I have no hesitation in declaring it to be criminal."
"I am glad Nansie is not present to hear you, sir."
"I, also, am glad. You know as well as I do that I would not dare to speak so plainly were she here. I should have to temporize with her--in plainer terms, to use some of the arts you have used to entangle her."
"Have I used such arts to such a purpose?" asked Kingsley. He was not accustomed to be addressed in such a manner and to be misjudged so promptly. "You make me aware of it for the first time."
"Use none with me; be straightforward, if it is in your power. I am my daughter's protector, and I intend to protect her with firmness and authority." And yet as he spoke he pressed his hand to his heart, and looked before him apprehensively for a moment with the manner of a man to whom a spiritual warning had presented itself. Firm and confident as he endeavored to make his speech, he felt his powerlessness. He was a beggar, and the shadow of death hovered over him. Nevertheless he bravely pursued what he conceived to be his duty. "I have called your conduct criminal. You have some knowledge of the world. In what other words would you describe the behavior of a young man of fashion--you see I do you justice--"
"You do not," interrupted Kingsley, "you do me a gross injustice, as you will be compelled to acknowledge before we have done."
"How other than criminal is the conduct of a young man of fashion when he makes an appointment with a pure and innocent girl such as this in which I have surprised you? What construction would the world place upon it?"
"I care little for the world, sir, where my affections are concerned."
"That is to say, that you care little for the consequences of wrong-doing. I know, I know; it is the fashion of your set."
"Upon my honor, sir," said Kingsley, warmly, "I cannot make up my mind how to take you. The attitude you have assumed rather puts me on my mettle, and though I could easily disarm you, perhaps it is as well that I should first hear you out."
"The attitudeyouassume, young gentleman, is an utterly unwarrantable one. I am speaking strongly, I admit, but I am justified by my duty as a parent."
"And yet, sir, I may have equal justice on my side."
"There can be no question of equality in this matter."
"Pardon me, sir," said Kingsley--hurt as he was, his bearing towards Nansie's father was, if not deferential, respectful--"I thought this was a matter of the affections." And, conscious of his integrity, he could not help adding: "Shall your daughter be the judge, sir, between us?"
In Mr. Loveday's eyes this was an added offence.
"It is an unworthy challenge, Mr. Manners. It is not difficult for an inexperienced girl to choose between a lover and a father. Old affections, old ties, all records of a parent's anxious care, fade into nothingness when her heart is touched by the new love." He spoke now plaintively, and he noted the sympathizing look in Kingsley's face. It inspired him with hope; his voice became more gentle, his manner more appealing. "Mr. Manners, have pity on me. Let us speak as honest man to honest man."
"Agreed, sir," said Kingsley, heartily.
"My daughter is a poor girl; I am a poor man, and have been so all my life. There is no great misfortune in this; as much happiness is to be found in the ranks of the poor as in the ranks of the rich. When, some short time since, it first came to my knowledge that my daughter entertained an affection for you, there was but one course open to me--to effect a separation between you, in the hope that time and distance might work a healthful cure, and cause her to forget you."
"But why, sir?" asked Kingsley, with smiling eyes.
"You ask why? Surely you can yourself supply the answer. There is between you a disparity which renders it impossible that any good can spring from such an affection."
"No, no, sir; not impossible. Pardon me for interrupting you."
"I, as a matter of course, can form some reasonable conception of the future that lies before my child. She is poor; she will live among the poor; it is her lot, and not a hard one. It is only temptation, it is only a longing for what is out of her reach, that is likely to spoil her life, as it has spoiled the lives of many who have not had the strength to resist. Will you help to spoil the life of a child who is very dear to me?"
"No," said Kingsley, fervently, "as Heaven is my judge, no!"
"Mr. Manners," said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to the young man, "you said a moment or two since that I was doing you an injustice, and that I should be compelled to acknowledge it. I acknowledge it now, and I ask your pardon. You have been simply thoughtless. The time may come when, with children of your own to protect, you will look back to this meeting with satisfaction."
"I shall always do that, sir. And now, sir, as we are on better terms, I may ask what it is you expect of me."
"That you never see my daughter more; that you give me your promise not to intrude yourself upon her, nor write to her, and in that way help her in the task that lies before her, the task of forgetfulness."
"A hard task, sir."
"It may be, and all the sweeter when it is accomplished, because of the dangers from which its performance saves her. You promise me this?"
"A moment, sir. If your daughter and I had been equal in station--which we are not; she is far above me." Being more at his ease, he relapsed now into his old manner of discursiveness. "If you knew me better you would excuse me for flying off at a tangent. It is a butterfly habit of mine, though I hope there is something of the grub in me! It may be needed by and by. If, as I was about to say, your daughter and I were equal in worldly station, both being equally poor or equally rich, and I asked you for her hand, would you refuse it to me?"
"I think not," replied Mr. Loveday. "But knowing so little of you it would be necessary that I should know more, that I should be to some extent satisfied as to your past life."
"And your inquiries in that respect being satisfactory," interrupted Kingsley, "you would not refuse?"
"My daughter's heart should decide for me."
"Let it decide for you now, sir," said Kingsley, in a tone both light and earnest. "No, do not take it amiss that I make this proposition, but listen to me a moment. Hitherto I have been pretty well thrust aside in this matter, as if I were a bit of stone, without feelings, or something very nearly resembling a monster with them. I am quite conscious that I am of an erratic disposition, flying hither and thither as the whim seizes me--almost as bad, my dear sir, as your eccentric wanderings in a caravan--but I am not at all conscious that I have any very distinct vice in me; the explanation of which may be that I lack strength of character, a proof that it is as undesirable in one man as it is desirable in another. I am not speaking in praise of myself, except perhaps in a negative way, which is not much to one's credit. Though I may tell you, sir, that I have not unfrequently been called a radical, and a radical is a personage. What I am endeavoring to express is that I have feelings, and that I should prefer rather to be happy than miserable. There is nothing unreasonable in that, I hope."
As he paused for a reply, Mr. Loveday, somewhat mystified, said: "No, there is nothing unreasonable in such a desire."
"That much being admitted," continued Kingsley, "I repeat my request that your daughter's heart should decide for you, as you would allow it to decide for you if you supposed me to be a poor man. And this sends me flying off again. My father is a rich man; I am nothing but what he makes me. If he were to turn me off, my entire worldly wealth would consist of an inconsiderable sum of six hundred pounds, the whole of which would be swallowed up in paying my debts. Give me credit for frankness, sir."
"I do. Your frankness convinces me that for your own sake, as well as for my daughter's, it is best that you and she should not meet again."
"But she expects me, sir, and in your company. I would wager that she has prepared breakfast for me-- There, sir, don't turn impatiently away; it is the fault of my temperament that I can be light and serious in a breath, that I can mean much and seem to mean little. This I promise. If you will allow me to accompany you to the caravan, where your daughter is waiting for us, I will abide by your decision, to be arrived at within five short minutes after we are together, as to whether I shall remain to breakfast or bid you farewell. Come, sir, I can't speak fairer."
There was an irresistible ingenuousness in Kingsley's voice and manner, and Mr. Loveday led the way to the caravan. Breakfast was laid, and Nansie, busy within the dwelling-house on wheels, cried out in the cheerfullest of voices:
"Is that you, father?"
"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.
"And Kingsley?"
"Yes, Nansie," said the young man. "Never mind the teapot. Come out at once; I have only five minutes' grace."
Nansie immediately ran down the little flight of wooden steps, and looked from one to the other of the men, both so dear to her.
"Nansie," said Kingsley, "I said that I would tell your father all. Forgive me; I have not done so."
"Why, Kingsley?"
"Because I left it to you."
"I may speak, then?"
"Yes."
And now there were tears in Nansie's eyes, happy tears. She approached closer to her father and took his hand.
"You said last night, father, that you thought I had a secret which I was keeping from you."
"Yes, child."
"I had; but I had given Kingsley a promise not to reveal it without his permission. I have his permission now, and I will tell it." Her bosom heaved, her lips trembled; she gazed fondly at her father.
"Well, child?"
"You will not be angry, father?"
"I do not know, Nansie."
"Father," said Nansie--her arms were round his neck, and her face half hidden on his breast--"Kingsley and I are married."
"Married!" cried Mr. Loveday, in a tone of wondering happiness.
"Yes, dear, married. Kingsley thought it best to wait until his father, who has been for some time abroad, returned home before we made it known; but I am glad that you know it earlier--glad and happy, my dear father. I wrote to Kingsley--I could not help it, father; I was afraid of losing him, we were wandering about so--and he came last night, when you were asleep. I was awake, listening to the nightingale. Kingsley being outside and I in, we could not talk comfortably together; that is how we met this morning at sunrise. You will forgive us, father, will you not?"
"Forgive you, dear child!" said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to Kingsley, who took it and pressed it warmly. "What can I have to forgive, seeing you and Kingsley so happy, and knowing that you have a protector? It is I who should ask forgiveness of him."
"Not at all, my dear sir, not at all," cried Kingsley, hastily. "I was to blame for allowing you to labor a moment under a misapprehension."
"My dear Nansie! my dear, dear child!" murmured the happy father. Then, turning to Kingsley: "When do you expect your father home?" As he asked the question his face became grave. He saw the difficulties in their way.
"He has arrived, sir. I had a letter from him yesterday, and I am going to him, to confess all. It was partly that, and partly because of Nansie's letter, but chiefly because I could not exist without seeing her before I went to my father, which brought me here. But, sir, my father is not the question."
"What is, then, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Loveday, still very grave.
"The question is, whether you are going to ask me to stay to breakfast with you."
Mr. Loveday brightened; there was something contagious in the young man's gay spirits.
"I invite you, Kingsley," he said.
"Thank you, sir; I am famished, Nansie."
Standing upon the wooden steps, she turned and gazed fondly at her father and her husband, and as her bright eyes shone upon them there issued from a thicket of trees a most wonderful chorus of birds. And Mr. Loveday, quoting from his favorite poet, said:
"'See, the springIs the earth enamelling,And the birds on every treeGreet the morn with melody.'"
"'See, the springIs the earth enamelling,And the birds on every treeGreet the morn with melody.'"
And Nansie, going slowly into the caravan, thought that life was very sweet and the world very beautiful.
On the evening of the following day Kingsley arrived at his father's house in London. It was situated in the centre of fashion, and had been built by the rich contractor himself upon part of a freehold which he had purchased upon terms so advantageous that, as he was in the habit of boasting, his own mansion "stood him in next to nothing," occasionally adding that he could find a purchaser for it at a day's notice for seventy-five thousand pounds. He was fond of dealing in large sums even in figures of speech, and he was to some extent justified in this habit by the circumstances of his career.
It was a wonderful career, commencing with nothing and marching into millions. A poor boy, doubly orphaned and thrown upon the world before he could stand upright, without a friend, without a penny, without shoes to his feet, he had grown somehow into a sturdy manhood, and when he was twenty years of age he stood six feet two in his stockings, and could fell an ox with his fist. Therefore, even at that humble period in his career, he was renowned among his fellows, and held a distinguished position. No man could equal him in strength; many tried and were laid low; giants travelled from afar to try conclusions with Val Manners, and all met with the same fate. Had he cared he might have developed into the greatest prizefighter the world had ever known, and have worn diamonded belts and jewelled stars, and become as a king among men. Newspapers would have heralded his doings in large type; he could have travelled in state like an ambassador; he might have exhibited himself and earned a princely income; the aristocracy would have patted his broad back, and titled ladies would have cast admiring glances at him. For this is the age of muscle as well as intellect, and a bully may take rank with Homer.
But Val Manners was not a bully, and his tastes were not for the prize-ring. He was proud of his great strength, because it gave him the mastery, and he used it upon needed occasions to maintain his position; but he did not love fighting for fighting's sake. In his early life he knew that he had biceps of steel and a constitution which defied wind and weather; but he did not know that he had a subtle brain and a talent for administration which were to lead him to eminence and enormous wealth. This knowledge dawned upon him afterwards, when he began to make successes, when he began to gauge men and understand them.
He commenced life as a bricklayer, and even as a boy his strength and fearlessness were quoted, and he found himself in demand. He did not seem to know what fear was; he could climb the shakiest and tallest of ladders, carrying wonderful weights; he could stand upon dizzy heights and look smilingly down. His possession of these qualities caused him to be selected for dangerous tasks, and he was never known to shrink from one, however perilous. All this time he earned barely sufficient to appease his enormous appetite. He received no education, but he had a native gift of figures. It was not till he reached his third decade that he could read and write. Long before that, however, his arithmetical talents had laid the foundation of his fortune. It was a fortune made partly out of stone and metal, but chiefly out of other men's labor.
Chance threw into his way a small contract. A retired pawnbroker wanted a house built in North Islington, and was not satisfied with the estimates he received from established firms. "It ought to be done for seven and a half per cent. less," said he, and he called Val Manners to his aid, having had occasion to observe the calm and skilful manner in which the young artisan went about his work. "He does the work of two men," said the pawnbroker, "and is probably paid for the work of one." He ascertained, upon inquiry, that this was the case; Val Manners, working so many hours a day, was paid so much a week. It was not that, out of boastfulness, he desired to do more work in a given time than comrades less strong and capable than himself, it was simply that he did his work honestly without regard to comparisons. The pawnbroker discovered in his first interview with Val Manners that the huge, common-looking man had a head for figures. He put the matter of his house before Val Manners, and asked him to prepare an estimate. The result was that Val Manners threw up his situation, and became a master builder in a small way; the result also was that the pawnbroker got his house built for twelve per cent, less than the lowest of the estimates submitted to him by old-established firms.
In this first operation the brain power of Val Manners made itself manifest. He worked himself, of course, and thereby saved one man's labor; this went into his own pocket. Indeed, being stirred and excited by this higher flight into life's struggles, he worked harder than had been his usual habit, and may be said to have done the work of at least two men and a half in the building of the pawnbroker's house; and this extra money also went into his pocket. Then, again, in the selection of men but of work who applied to be taken on, he chose the strongest, and, being always on the spot, saw that he was not cheated out of a quarter of an hour by one and ten minutes by another. Thus, when the contract was finished, he was a great many days to the good, and he found that he was richer by sixty pounds than he would have been had he continued to be a servant. This set him thinking.
The pawnbroker was so satisfied with the bargain that he proposed the building of a row of houses in a poor locality. Val Manners was ready and glad, and pursued the same tactics as before, and worked harder than ever. The second contract being finished to everybody's satisfaction, Val Manners reckoned up his gains. He was master of a capital of three hundred pounds.
From this point his career was a succession of triumphs, until his capital amounted to a hundred thousand pounds. It was wonderful how his money accumulated; it grew while he slept, for he often had relays of men working for him by night as well as by day. He was a hard taskmaster, perfectly just in his dealings, keeping to his word and his engagements with unerring fidelity, but exacting from those in his employ an absolute faithfulness, the least infringement of which meant instant dismissal. It was no longer Val Manners, but Mr. Manners, the great Mr. Manners, who had plumped into the very richest part of a Tom Tiddler's ground open to every enterprising man, and picked and pocketed the plums growing therein. He did not allow himself to become bewildered by his success, but pursued his way calmly and masterfully as regarded his own undertakings, and with a vigilant watchfulness which frequently turned a probable loss into a certain profit. He undertook no more small contracts; all his business dealings were now on a vast scale, and no project was too stupendous for him to grapple with. It was not England alone that supplied his master mind with material to expend its energies upon; he sought abroad for contracts, and laid railways in deserts, built huge bridges touching the clouds, and made wonderful waterways for facilities of commerce. He became world-renowned, and the name of Manners, the great contractor, was a passport in every part of the globe.
It was to his advantage that he married young, his partner being no other than the daughter of his first patron, the pawnbroker. She was not in any sense a remarkable person, but she had an ambition to shine in society, and it was from her that Mr. Manners received the limited education which enabled him, at thirty years of age, to read and write. His ideal as to social position also grew with his wealth; but he had tact enough to understand that it was not possible for him to occupy a foremost position as a public leader. This, however, did not prevent him from building a grand house in the heart of fashionable London, nor from mixing among the best. He was not out of place there, for he had the rare wisdom of being able to hold his tongue, and never to speak assertively except upon the business with which he was familiar. On those occasions he was listened to with respect and deference, and his words had weight; he trod upon no man's corns by expressing opinions upon matters of which he had not made himself master; he was content that his works should speak for him. Eloquent, indeed, was the record which, so far as he himself was concerned, he bore about him in silence. The railroads he had constructed in savage countries, the seas he had joined, were not these matters of history? And he, whose constructive and administrative talents had compassed these difficulties, became in a sense historical. Stories were related of his great courage, of his amazing strength, of his daring and skill in moments of difficulty, putting his own shoulders to the wheel and showing his workmen how a thing was to be done. Women love the personification of strength in a man; it means power, manliness, nobility, in their eyes; and numbers gazed in admiration upon the massive frame of the great contractor for whom no undertaking was too vast. He was a striking figure in fashionable assemblies, towering above all, and moving like a mountain through the packed crowd of male and female exquisites. He only moved when he had occasion; he had not within him that restless, fretful spirit which weakens the character of many men; as he knew the value of silence, so also did he know the value of repose. In all gatherings of men and women the art of standing still with dignity and without self-consciousness is invaluable. This art Mr. Manners possessed, so that, taking him for all in all, he was no charlatan, trading upon false pretences.
The day previous to that upon which Kingsley entered his father's house, with the intention of making a clean breast of it with respect to Nansie, Mr. Manners himself had returned from Russia where he had been for five months superintending a railway contract for the Russian government, which he had brought to a successful conclusion.
Father and son greeted each other cordially, but after the undemonstrative manner of Englishmen.
"Well, father?"
"Well, Kingsley?"
Then they shook hands, and smiled and nodded at each other.
"Has everything gone off well, father?"
"Everything. The balance on the right side will be larger than I expected."
"That is better than being the other way."
"Perhaps; but I prefer matters to come out exactly as I planned them. It is altogether more satisfactory. I will tell you all about it to-night, when we must have a long talk. I have a lot of letters to attend to now."
Kingsley took the hint, and, after seeing his mother, went to his room. The first thing he did there was to take out Nansie's portrait and gaze fondly on it and kiss it. He had parted from her and her father in the morning, and had promised to write to her before he went to bed. As he had an hour now to spare, he thought he could not better employ it than in covering four sheets of paper to the girl he loved, so he sat down and enjoyed himself to his heart's content. His letter was full of the usual lover's rhapsodies, and need not here be transcribed. There was in it something better than rhapsodies, the evidence of an earnest, faithful spirit, which made it the sweetest of reading to Nansie when she received it on the following day. Kingsley mentioned that he and his father were to have a long talk together that night, and that, if he found a favorable opportunity, he would take advantage of it to make confession to his father; also if he had any good news to communicate, he might write again before he went to bed. And then, with fond and constant love and untold kisses, he was forever and ever her faithful lover, and so on, and so on. Very precious and comforting are these lovers' sweet trivialities.
Dinner over, Kingsley and his father sat together in the contractor's study, at a table upon which were wine and cigars. Mr. Manners drank always in great moderation, and did not smoke. Kingsley's habits were after a freer fashion, and his father did not disapprove. The first hour was occupied in a description by Mr. Manners of the operations in which he had been engaged in Russia, and of the difficulties which he had to surmount. He made light of these, but he was proud of his last success.
"There were mountains to cut through, Kingsley," he said, "and Russian prejudices to overcome; I hardly know which of the two was the more difficult job."
"There were dangers, father, as well as difficulties," observed Kingsley.
"Yes, there were dangers; you have heard something of them?"
"I have seen accounts in the papers from time to time. You see, father, the railway you have laid down is a step nearer to India."
"I am pleased to hear you say that, Kingsley."
"Why?" asked Kingsley, rather surprised.
"Because it shows you take an interest in politics."
"I have done that for some time past, as you know, father."
"Yes, and it pleases me. A step nearer to India. That is so, but it is no business of mine. It may," with a light touch of his finger on his son's breast, "by and by be business of yours, when you are a statesman. About the dangers? What did you read?"
"There were pestilent morasses to be bridged over or cut through, and there was great loss of life."
"Quite correct; the mortality was serious; fortunately I employed native labor."
"But it was human life, father, whether Russian or English."
"Quite true again, Kingsley."
"Holding views as I do, father," said Kingsley, "there appears to me something anomalous--that is putting it very mildly--in this last operation of yours."
Mr. Manners smiled good-humoredly, and nodded his head in pleasant approval.
"Go on, Kingsley."
"For instance, the matter of Russia's nearer approach to India being facilitated by an Englishman. Is not that anomalous?"
"No more anomalous than selling Russia a few millions of our best rifles and a few hundred millions of our best bullets."
"Would you do that?"
"I should like to get the contract."
Kingsley shifted uneasily in his chair.
"It is either right or wrong," he said.
"Being at peace with Russia, Kingsley, it is right. Of course, it would be wrong if we were at war with the country."
"But we provide it with rifles and bullets and railways beforehand."
"Quite so--in the way of business. I like a conversation such as this, Kingsley, in which there is no need for anything to be settled. As to the future before you, it doesn't matter to me which side you take, so long as you become what I hope you will be. Men like myself, sprung from the ranks and making such fortunes as I have made, generally become Conservatives. I am neither one thing nor another, and shall not attempt to dictate to you. But into this question of bullets and rifles and railways let us import a little common-sense. If that sort of trading is wrong in times of peace, every country would have to cut itself aloof from every other country, and to live as if it were shut up in a box. I can't express myself as well as you, but I dare say you understand me."
"You can always make people understand you, father," said Kingsley.
"Yes, I have always been able to do that. They respect you all the more for it." Here he laughed quite gayly. "Even in Russia, where I did not know one word of the language, I made myself understood. I saw some great people there, Kingsley, and had interviews with them. Of course, I had a man to interpret for me, but I think I could have managed even without him. Some of the great men spoke English, but not a laborer I employed did. It was no more necessary for them to know our language, than for me to know theirs. The point was that there was work to do, and that it must be done within the stipulated time. With a stern master over him the Russian is a good workman, and values his life less than an Englishman. Take the pestilential ground we had to work over. No English workman would remain there a day; the Russian shrugged his shoulders and took the risk. Now, Kingsley, we will proceed to matters more immediately concerning ourselves."
"With pleasure, father."
"As between father and son there should be as few secrets as possible. You have some knowledge of my career; it is one I have no need to be ashamed of, and I propose to commence with the story of my life, and to make you fully acquainted with the secret of my rise in the world."
Upon that Mr. Manners entered unreservedly upon his relation, and spoke of matters in respect of his successful struggles with which the reader is already familiar. It was not all new to Kingsley, but he listened patiently and admiringly.
"I think I have made it plain to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners, when he had finished the recital, "that I owe everything to myself. I make no boast of it, and I have no doubt there are numbers of men as capable and clever as I am, only they have either not had the courage to launch out or have missed their opportunities. Now, my lad, I am sensible of my own deficiencies; I do not deceive myself by saying that I am as good as others with whom my money places me on an equality; I am a contractor, nothing more, and every shoemaker to his last. I shall stick to mine, and make more money. If I entered Parliament, which I could do without difficulty, I should have to sit mumchance, and play a silent part, unless something in my own particular line started up; and that would be once in a blue moon. Now taking a back seat in anything in which I am engaged would not suit me; I am accustomed to be master, and master I intend to continue to be. If I were a good speaker the matter would be different; I could carry all before me, though I am ignorant of Greek and Latin. When I was a lad I did not have what you call ambition; I took a pride in making sensible contracts which would bring me in a profit, and I crept along steadily, never dreaming that I should ever reach my present position. But the case is altered now, and I have a real ambition--not directly for myself, but for you. I have no expectation that you will disappoint me."
"I will endeavor not to do so, father."
"That is a good lad. You will be one of the richest men in the country, but I want you to be something more; I want you to be one of the most influential. I want people to say as I walk along; 'There goes the father of the prime-minister.'"
"That is looking a long way ahead," said Kingsley, considerably startled by this flight.
"Not a bit too far; it can be worked up to, and with your gifts it shall be. I have already told you that it matters little to me whether you are a Conservative, or a Liberal, or a Radical; that is your affair. If you are prime-minister and a Radical it will show that Radicalism is popular. I stop short of Socialism, mind you."
"So do I."
"Good. There is nothing nowadays that a man with a good education and a long purse cannot accomplish. I have the long purse, but not the education. I can talk sensibly enough to you here in a room, and in fairly good English, thanks to your mother and to my perseverance, but put me in the House of Commons and ask me to make a long speech upon large matters of state, and I should make a fool of myself. Therefore it is impossibleIcould ever become prime-minister."
"It is not every man who would speak so plainly and disparagingly of himself."
"Perhaps not, but I happen to know the length of my tether; I happen to know what I am fitted for and what I am not. I don't want you to suppose that I am making a sacrifice; nothing of the kind. I keep my place; you work up to yours; then I shall be perfectly satisfied. I have had this in my mind for years, and instead of making you a contractor I have made you a gentleman. That is what other fathers have done, whose beginnings have been as humble as mine. New families are springing up, my boy, to take the place of the old; you, Kingsley, shall found a family which shall become illustrious, and I shall be content to look on and say: 'This is my doing; this is my work.' We shall show these old lords what new blood can do."
"Why, father," said Kingsley, laughing despite the uneasy feeling that was creeping over him, "you are a Radical."
"Perhaps I am, but we will keep it to ourselves. Now, Kingsley, it is my method when I am going in for a big contract to master beforehand everything in connection with it. I study it again and again; I verify my figures and calculations a dozen times before I set my name to it. That is what I have done in this affair. I have mastered the whole of the details, and I know exactly what is necessary. The first thing to make sure of when a great house is to be built, a house that is to last through sunshine and storm, a house that is to stand for centuries, is the foundation. That is out of sight, but it must be firm, and strong, and substantial. I am the foundation of this house I wish to build, and I am out of sight. Good. What is fine and beautiful to the eye you will supply--that is, you and your connections, in which, for convenience, we will say your mother and I do not count."
"My connections!" exclaimed Kingsley. "Apart from you and my mother!"
"Quite so. There are families of the highest rank who would not shrink from admitting you, upon the closest terms, into their circle. Some are tottering, and fear the fall. Old estates are mortgaged up to their value, and every year makes their position worse. We, with our full purses, step in and set them right, and bury the ghosts which haunt them. There is nothing low and common about you, my boy. You are, in appearance, manners, and education, as good as the best of them, and lady mothers will only be too glad to welcome you. The first thing you must do is to marry."
"Sir!"
"And to marry well. I have authority for saying that you can marry the daughter of a duchess. I don't wonder that you look startled. I have seen the young lady; she is nineteen years of age, and very beautiful. Of course she knows nothing of the scheme. It is for you to win her--of which I have no fears. You can make settlements upon her, Kingsley, which would satisfy the most exacting of duchesses. The family has influence, great influence, socially and politically. Married to her, with your talents, your future is assured, if you have only a fair amount of industry. I have set my heart upon it, Kingsley."
"There is the question of love, father," said Kingsley, in a low tone. It seemed to him that his father had cut the ground from under his feet.
"Quite so. There is the question of love. You will win your way to her heart, without a doubt."