There occurred here a pause. Kingsley did not know what to say. His father was waiting for him to speak.
"No man should think of marrying," said Kingsley, presently, "unless there is love on both sides."
"There is no occasion to discuss that point," said Mr. Manners. "As you will win your way to the young lady's heart, so will she win her way to yours. Wait till you see her, and meanwhile give me your promise that you will do your best to further my wishes. I do not expect a blind compliance; you shall go to her with your eyes open, and if you do not say she is very beautiful you must be a poor judge of beauty."
"But," murmured Kingsley, "to have an affair like this cut and dried beforehand for the man who is most deeply concerned--well, father, there is something sordid and mercenary in it."
"There might be," said Mr. Manners, calmly, "if the young lady knew anything of it; but she knows nothing."
"Yet you said you spoke with authority."
"Quite so. The young lady's mother has been indirectly sounded, and I spoke the truth. Listen, Kingsley," and Mr. Manners's more serious tone increased Kingsley's discomfort. "I said I have set my heart upon the projects I have unfolded concerning your future. I have set something more than my heart upon them--I have set all my hopes upon them. You are my only child, and will be my heir if everything is right between us. You will come into an enormous fortune, greater than you have any idea of, and by its means and a suitable marriage you will rise to power. There are few men who would not jump at the proposition I have made, which, plainly explained, means your coming into everything that can make life desirable. If I were asking you to marry a lady who was ugly or had some deformity I could understand your hesitation. Do you still refuse to give me the promise I ask?"
"I cannot give it to you, father."
"Why?" demanded Mr. Manners, in a stern voice; but he did not give Kingsley time to reply. "Listen further to me before you speak." He took a pocket-book from his pocket, and drew from it a paper which he consulted. "I can make excuses for slight faults of conduct, but will not pardon an opposition which threatens to destroy the most earnest wish of my life. You are acquainted with a person of the name of Loveday."
"I have the honor of his acquaintance," said Kingsley, nerving himself for the contest which he saw impending, and considerably surprised at his father's acquaintance with the name.
"He is a person of no character," said Mr. Manners.
"He is a gentleman," interrupted Kingsley.
"That is news to me," said Mr. Manners, "and is not in accordance with the information I have received."
"Have you been playing the spy upon me?" asked Kingsley, with some warmth.
"I should require to be in two places at once to have done that. This time last week I was in Russia."
"Then you have been paying some one to watch me. By what right, father?"
"You jump too hastily at conclusions. You make a statement which is not true, and you proceed to question me upon it."
"I beg your pardon; but you must have obtained your information from some source."
"Quite so."
"Will you tell me from whom?
"I may or I may not before we part to-night. You refused to give me a promise; I refuse to give you one. I might well take offence at the imputation that I have paid a spy to watch you."
"I withdrew the imputation, father."
"The suspicion was in itself an offence. I have allowed you to go your way, Kingsley, in the belief and hope that your way and mine were one, and that you would do nothing to disgrace me."
"I have done nothing to disgrace you."
"We may take different views. As a young man you have had what is called your 'fling.' I made you a most liberal allowance--"
"For which I have always been deeply grateful, father," said Kingsley, hoping to turn the current of his father's wrath. It smote him with keen apprehension, for Nansie's sake and his own, that the anger his father displayed when he first mentioned the name of Loveday should be no longer apparent, and that Mr. Manners spoke in his usual calm and masterful voice.
"I made you a most liberal allowance," repeated Mr. Manners, "which you freely spent. I did not demur to that; it pleased me that you should be liberal and extravagant, and prove yourself the equal in fortune, as you are in education and manners, of those with whom you mixed. You committed some follies, which I overlooked--and paid for."
"It is the truth, father. I got into debt and you cleared me."
"Did I reproach you?"
"No, sir."
"If I am not mistaken--and in figures I seldom am--I paid your debts for you on three occasions."
"It is true, sir."
"And always cheerfully."
"Always, sir."
"I am not wishful to take undue credit to myself by reminding you of this; it is only that I would have you bear in mind that I have endeavored to make your life easy and pleasurable, and to do my duty by you. Nor will I make any comparison between your career as a young man and mine at the same age. I am satisfied, and I suppose you are the same."
"I think, father," said Kingsley, "that I should have been content to work as you did."
"Not as I did, because we started from different standpoints. Pounds, shillings, and pence were of great importance to me, and I used to count them very jealously. I value money now perhaps as little as you do, but I know its value better than you, and what it can buy in a large way--in the way I have already explained to you. For that reason, and for no other, it is precious to me. There are men who have risen to wealth by discreditable means; that is not my case; what I possess has been fairly worked for and fairly earned. All through my life I have acted honorably and straightforwardly."
"All through my life, father," said Kingsley, with spirit, "I shall do the same."
"Well and good. I have a special reason, Kingsley, in speaking of myself in the way I have done."
"Will you favor me with your reason, father?"
"Yes. It is to put a strong emphasis upon what you will lose if you cut yourself away from me."
"Is there any fear of that, father?" asked Kingsley, with a sinking heart.
"It will be for you, not for me, to answer that question; and it will be answered, I presume, more in acts than in words. I return to the Mr. Loveday, who is described to me as a person of no character, and whom you describe as a gentleman."
"He is one, father, believe me," said Kingsley, earnestly.
"Do gentlemen travel about the country in caravans, sleeping in them by the roadsides?"
Kingsley could not help smiling. "Not generally, father, but some men are whimsical."
"Let us keep to the point, Kingsley. According to your account we are speaking of a gentleman."
"We are," said Kingsley, somewhat nettled at this pinning down.
"Then you mean that some gentlemen are whimsical?"
"I mean that."
"In what respect is this Mr. Loveday a gentleman? Does he come of an old family?"
"I do not know."
"Do you know anything of his family?"
"Nothing."
"Is he a man of means?"
"No."
"A poor man, then?"
"Yes."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
"And travels about in a broken-down caravan, and you wish me to believe he is a gentleman. I would prefer to take your word, Kingsley, against that of my informant, but in this instance I cannot do so. It would be stretching the limits too far."
"We will not argue it out, father."
"Very well. But Mr. Loveday does not travel alone in this caravan; he has a person he calls his daughter with him."
"It is coming," thought Kingsley, and he set his teeth fast, and said': "His daughter, a lady, travels with him."
"So far, then, my facts are indisputable. This young woman is described to me as an artful, designing person who has used all her arts to entangle you--because you have a rich father."
"Who dares say that?" cried Kingsley, starting up with flashing eyes.
"My informant. I understand, also, that some months since she contracted secretly a disreputable marriage, and that her husband--do not interrupt me for a moment, Kingsley--has conveniently disappeared in order to give her time to bleed you, through your rich father. To go through the ceremony again would be a light matter with her."
"It is a horrible calumny," cried Kingsley, in great excitement.
"Although," pursued Mr. Manners, exhibiting no agitation in his voice or manner, "the circumstances of my own private life have not made me personally familiar with the tricks of adventuresses, I have in the course of my experiences learned sufficient of them to make me abhor them. How much deeper must be my abhorrence now when such a woman steps in between me and my son to destroy a cherished design which can only be carried out in his person! I will listen to no vindication, Kingsley. Before you arrived home to-night I had a strong hope that some mistake had been made in the information which has reached me concerning your proceedings. I was wrong; it is unhappily too true."
"You received the information from an enemy of mine."
"No, Kingsley, from a friend."
"Ah!" There was here, even in the utterance of the simple word, a singular resemblance between father and son. Kingsley's voice no longer betrayed excitement, and his manner became outwardly calm. "There is only one so-called friend who could have supplied you with the information--my cousin, Mark Inglefield."
Mr. Manners was silent.
"Was it he, sir?" asked Kingsley.
Still Mr. Manners was silent.
"I judge from your silence, sir, that Mark Inglefield is the man I have to thank."
During his silence Mr. Manners had been considering.
"I must say something here, Kingsley. I have no right to betray another man's confidence, and you no right to betray mine."
"It would be the last of my wishes, father."
"If I tell you who is my informant, will you hold it as a sacred confidence?"
It was Kingsley's turn now to consider. He was convinced that Mark Inglefield was his enemy, and by giving his father the desired promise of a sacred confidence, he would be shutting himself off from all chance of reprisal. On the other hand, he might be mistaken; and his father might also refuse to continue the interview, which Kingsley felt could not be broken at this point; and after all, how could he hope to help himself or Nansie by a personal encounter with his cousin or by further angering his father, who, he knew only too well, was now in a dangerous mood?
"Do you insist upon my holding it as a sacred confidence, father?"
"I insist upon it," said Mr. Manners, coldly.
"I will hold it so."
"On your honor as a man? Not as a gentleman, for our views differ there."
"On my honor as a man."
"You were right," said Mr. Manners. "I received the information from your cousin, Mark Inglefield."
"As I expected. I must now relate to you, father, the circumstances of my acquaintance with Mr. Loveday and his daughter, and the manner in which my cousin Mark comes into connection with it."
"I will listen to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners. "Our conversation has assumed a complexion which may be productive of the most serious results to you and myself. I do not hold this out as a threat; I state a fact. I am, in my convictions, inflexible. Once I am resolved, no power on earth can move me. And do not lose sight of another thing. Mark Inglefield is your mother's nephew, and therefore your cousin. That I have given him the advantage of a university education, and that I sent you both to college at the same time, is my affair. I should have done the same by you had you been my nephew and he my son. It was always my intention to advance him in life, and it is my intention still. He is worthy of it. He is your equal in birth and attainments. Therefore speak of him with becoming respect. I shall know the exact value to place upon intemperate language in a case like this, where the passions are involved."
"I will do my best to obey you, father," said Kingsley, "but a pure reputation is at stake, and I may fail in my endeavor. It was my cousin, Mark Inglefield, who first introduced me to Miss Loveday. He spoke to me of her, as he spoke to others, in a light tone, and I do not know what it was that induced me to give ear to his boastings, although I entertained a contempt for him and a doubt of his truth. One day, while we were walking together and he was indulging with greater freedom and boisterousness than usual--though his ordinary habit was bad enough--of his acquaintanceship with Miss Loveday, it happened that we met her. He could do no less than introduce me, and I had not been in her company five minutes before I suspected that his vaporings about her were those of a base man, of one who was dead to honor. A true man is respectful and modest when he makes reference to a lady for whom he entertains an affection, and the doubts I had previously entertained of my cousin when he indulged in the outpourings of his coarse vanity were now confirmed. I followed up the introduction by courting Miss Loveday's intimacy, and she grew to respect me, to rely upon me. The more I saw of her the more I esteemed her. Never had I met a lady so pure and gentle, and it was a proud moment in my life when she asked me to protect her from my cousin's insolent advances. I spoke to him, in a manner not too gentle, I own, for my indignation was aroused, and from that time he and I were enemies. I know it now; I did not know it then. He was far too subtle for me, and I, perhaps too much in the habit of wearing my heart upon my sleeve, was, as I now discover, sadly at a disadvantage with him. He showed no anger at my supplanting him, and this should have warned me; your cold-blooded man is a dangerous animal when he becomes your enemy; but I suppose I was too deeply in love and too happy to harbor suspicion against one who had no real cause for enmity against me. Nor did I consider the consequences--not to myself but to the lady I loved--of my frequent visits and meetings with her. There is no doubt that she was compromised by them, but she was as guileless and innocent as myself, and it was not till it was forced upon me that her reputation was in my hands that I prevailed upon her to take the step which gave the lie to malicious rumor."
"And that step, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I married her. She is my wife."
"You think so?"
"Think so, father! What do you mean? Am I a man with reason, gifted with some standard of intelligence, that I should think--which implies a doubt--where I am sure?"
"You are a man deluded, Kingsley, as other men have been by other women. This woman has deceived you."
"No, sir, truly as I live."
"The farce would not be complete unless you protested. It is the least you can do. All that you have said confirms your cousin's story. He has not erred in one particular, except in what is excusable in him, and perhaps in you. Mischief is done, but it can be remedied. An impulsive man like yourself is no match for an artful woman."
"I will not hear the lady I love and esteem so spoken of," said Kingsley, with warmth.
To this remark Mr. Manners was about to reply with equal warmth, but he checked himself, and did not speak for a few moments. When he resumed the conversation he spoke in his usual calm tone, a tone which never failed in impressing upon his hearers a conviction of the speaker's absolute sincerity and indomitable will.
"It has happened--fortunately for others--but rarely in my life, Kingsley, that such a crisis as this has occurred; and I regret this difference in our ideas all the more because its consequences may be fatal to you and may shatter hopes upon which I have set great store. When you say to me that you will not hear me speak in such or such a manner, because it displeases you, you behave in a manner to which I am not accustomed. When you place yourself in opposition to my wishes you treat me to a new experience which I do not welcome. Were I holding this interview with any other than yourself I should have put an end to it some time since; after that there would be nothing more to be said on either side. I am not used to disappointments, but I should be able to bear them; I am rather fond of difficulties because it is a pleasure to overcome them. I am inclined to regard this difference of opinion between us as a difficulty which may be overcome without much trouble, if you are reasonable."
"It is not a difference of opinion, father," said Kingsley, moderating his tone; the interests at stake were too serious to allow him to give his indignation free play, "it is a difference as to facts, of which I, and not you, am cognizant."
"I hold to what I say, Kingsley," replied Mr. Manners. "I have received a certain statement of particulars which I choose to accept as true; you have imparted to me certain information which I do not choose to accept in the manner you wish. Setting aside for a moment all question of the young woman of whose character we have formed different estimates, I ask you, supposing you to be legally married, what is the kind of respect you have shown me, a father who has never crossed your wishes, by contracting a lifelong obligation without consulting me?"
"It was wrong, father," said Kingsley, with contrition. "I have only the excuse to make that I loved her and was eager to defend her reputation."
"It is an excuse I cannot accept. And the deliberate committal of a fault so fatally grave as this, with a full knowledge of the consequences, cannot be condoned by the weak confession, when it is too late to repair the fault, that you were wrong. There is a repentance which comes too late, Kingsley. But even that I might have forgiven had I reason to approve of your choice."
"You have but to see her, father," said Kingsley, eagerly. "Let me bring her to you! You will be as proud of her as I am; you will know then that I have not chosen unworthily."
"No," said Mr. Manners, "if I see her at all I must see her alone."
"Give me a minute or two to consider, father."
"Certainly, Kingsley."
The young man turned aside, and allowed his thoughts to travel to Nansie, and to dwell upon the beauty of her character. He knew her to be patient and long-suffering, and that she would not shrink from making a sacrifice for one she loved as she loved him; he knew also that these qualities were allied to a spirit of independence which, while it would enable her to bear up outwardly under the pressure of a great wrong, would rather intensify than abate the anguish which would wring her soul were such a wrong forced upon her. It would be a lifelong anguish, and would rack her till her dying day. His father, with his iron will, was just the man to force the sacrifice upon her, was just the man to so prevail upon her that she might, at his persuasion, remove herself forever not only from the presence but from the knowledge of the man she loved and had vowed to love while life remained. Poor, helpless, dependent, and alone in the world--for Kingsley had an inward conviction that her father's days were numbered--to what a future would he, the man who had sworn to love and cherish her, be condemning her if he permitted his father to have his way in this matter! The crime would be his, not his father's; upon his soul would rest the sin. And then the image of Nansie rose before him, not at first sad and despondent, but bright and sweet, and full of innocent, joyous life; and in that image he saw a sunshine of happiness which he and Nansie would enjoy together if he played a true man's part in this contention. He saw also with his mind's eye the other side of the picture in the figure of a heart-broken woman brooding over the misery and the torture of life, and praying for death. This sad figure vanished, and he and Nansie were sitting together hand in hand, their hearts beating with the sacred love which sweetens and makes life holy, and she was whispering to him that her greatest joy lay in the knowledge that he was true to her.
He had shaded his eyes with his hand during this contemplation. He now removed it, and raised his eyes to his father's face.
"I cannot consent, father," he said, in a low, firm tone, "to your seeing her alone."
"You have come deliberately to that determination?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I have, father."
"It is irrevocable?"
"It is irrevocable."
"I will still not hold you to it," said Mr. Manners. "It would grieve me in the future to think that the matter was too hastily decided. You owe me some kind of obedience, some kind of duty."
"I acknowledge it, father. In all that becomes me to yield you shall have no cause of complaint against me."
"Very well. Let there be some slight pause before the final word is pronounced. Remain here a week, and give the matter a calmer and longer deliberation. Its issues are sufficiently important to make my request reasonable."
"I will do as you wish, father," said Kingsley, after a slight hesitation, "on two conditions."
"Name them."
"First, that you do not invite my cousin, Mark Inglefield, here during the time."
"I agree."
"Second, that you do not seek my wife for the purpose of relating what has passed between us."
"I agree to that also. I will not seek your--the young woman for that or for any purpose. Are you content, Kingsley?"
"Yes, father, I am content."
"As you admit that you owe me some small measure of duty and obedience, you will not object to my request that you hold no correspondence with her until the week is past."
"It is a hard request, father, but I will obey you."
"There remains, then, in this connection, but one thing in respect of your future which I think it necessary to impress upon you. As I have made my fortune by my own efforts it is mine to dispose of as I please. Comply with my wishes, and the bulk of it is yours. Oppose them, and not one shilling of it will be yours to enjoy. To this I pledge myself. And now, Kingsley, we will drop the conversation."
Kingsley had a reason for consenting to the week's delay. He had a hope that within that period his father would relent. It was a faint hope, but it seemed to him that it would be criminal to let it slip.
On the fourth day of his probation Kingsley received a letter from Nansie. No further words upon the subject of their recent conversation had passed between him and his father; neither of them had broken faith in respect of the promises given, and everything went on in the house as usual. Mr. Manners passed the greater portion of his time in looking over specifications and making calculations for fresh contracts of magnitude; he was accustomed to attend personally to these matters, and never left anything to chance, or solely in the hands of any other man. It was not without an object that he requested Kingsley to assist him in his labors during these days. He wished his son to become sensible of what he would lose if he persisted in his opposition to his father's wishes. With this end in view he made Kingsley familiar with all the channels in which his fortune was invested. Kingsley was amazed at its extent, and was also amazed at the wisdom of his father's investments. There were no chance risks; every shilling was as safe as human judgment could make it. He owned a great deal of property in land upon which other men had built houses, and the land was situated in the most thriving and most fashionable neighborhoods; he held a vast number of government securities, and those only of the most stable governments. Companies he had avoided, their alluring prospectuses having no temptation for him. He had advanced scores of thousands of pounds upon first mortgages, and not a doubtful one among them.
"I was never a gambler," he said to Kingsley, "but I never let my money lie idle. I have the offer now of a great estate in the country, which, if all goes well, I shall buy. It is in one of the best counties, and the simple possession of it will give a man a standing in the country which would occupy all the years of a man's life to gain. A stroke of the pen will do it."
Kingsley knew what he meant when he said "if all goes well," but each kept the open expression of his thoughts to himself. On the evening before Nansie's letter arrived, Mr. Manners told Kingsley that his income was not less than sixty thousand pounds a year; and he added that he was not spending a tenth part of it.
In the solitude of his chamber Kingsley opened Nansie's letter; it had been written from day to day, only for her lover's and husband's eyes:
"My Beloved Kingsley,--It is night, and I am writing in my little room in the caravan. Father is asleep, and everything around is still and peaceful. It is the best of all time to write to you and think of you, but indeed you are never out of my thoughts. It is a beautiful night, and I have made up my mind not to go to sleep till I have heard the nightingale, so how can I employ my time better than in the way I am doing? All the day long I have been thinking of you. 'Now he is in the train,' I said, 'now he is so much nearer London, now he is in London, now he is at home and talking to his father.' Of me? I could not decide that. Perhaps you will wait till to-morrow, but I am with you in spirit, Kingsley, as you are with me. Yes, I am sure of that, and it makes me very, very happy. Kingsley is at home, in his father's house. Is he really at home? My home is with you; there is no home for me without you. How ungrateful it sounds, with my father so close to me; but I cannot help it; it is the truth. And then this caravan--can one call it a home? Though there are people, father says, who are very happy in caravans--as I should be with you; or anywhere, Kingsley. Indeed it is so; it will not matter to me so long as we are together."I am writing cheerfully and hopefully, am I not? And yet my father has been uneasy in his mind to-day. He has been speaking a great deal of your father, and he fears that he will not approve of our marriage. 'For your sake, Nansie,' father said, 'I wish Kingsley's father was a poor man.' Kingsley dear, I wish that too; but then your father was once as poor as we are, and perhaps that will make a difference. I hope with all my heart I have not done you wrong by marrying you; but how could I help it, loving you as I did and do, and how could I help it when you persuaded me so? Oh, my dear love, I will do all that a woman can do to make you happy! I can do no more. To me it does not matter how we live, but will it matter to you if your father is angry and will not receive me? I cannot bear to think of it; my heart grows cold, and I stretch forth my hands imploring an angel to come and help me. But that is not needed, is it, Kingsley? and you have good reason to be angry with me, for what I have written is almost like a doubt, and to doubt you is to doubt that there is any goodness in the world. No, Kingsley, I will not doubt; it would be treason to love. . . ."I have not written for an hour. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and I should have gone on thinking, just as if I was in a waking trance, if it had not been for my father talking in his sleep. 'Nansie, Nansie!' he called, and I went in to him, but he was fast asleep, and his forehead was quite damp. I wiped it softly, but it did not wake him, and he kept on murmuring my name and yours, and calling on the angels to guard us. Dear father! we have not been a great deal together, but he loves me truly, and I think he is reproaching himself for not having been with me more. I could not love him more than I do, but I might have known him better. He is a good man, Kingsley, and I think if he had been rich he would have made a name in the world. There! I have written 'if he had been rich.' To be happy it is not necessary to be rich, is it, dear? Father says not. That is when he is awake. What did he mean by saying in his sleep: 'Money is a blessing and a curse?' Well, yes, I can understand it. It depends upon how it is used. Oh, Kingsley, I hope your father is not very rich. By my father's side was his favorite book, 'William Browne.' I took it away to my room. Before I go to bed I will put it back, for it is like meat and wine to him. More precious than those, I am sure. What are you doing at this very moment, Kingsley?"There again. I have been in dreamland for an hour and more. And then, waking up, I read a little of 'William Browne', and took my pen in my hand to go on writing, but I did not know what to say. Kingsley, dear, the errand you have gone upon haunts me. So much do I fear that I hardly know what to think. Even my favorite saying that father does not consider wisdom, 'Everything will come right,' does not comfort me somehow. I don't know why, except it is that we are not together. Suspense is dreadful, is it not, dear? And just now everything seems in suspense. Oh, hark! The nightingale! It is an omen of joy and gladness. Thank God for all sweet sounds, for all that is sweet and good--and the world is full of sweetness and gladness. And I was reading of it in 'William Browne:'"'But the nightingale i' th' darkSinging, woke the mountain lark;She records her love.The sun hath not with his beamsGilded yet our crystal streams,Rising from the sea;Mists do crown the mountain-tops,And each pretty myrtle drops;'Tis but newly day.'"There, my dear love, I have copied it exactly, apostrophes and all, and it seems to bring me nearer to you. How wonderful is the gift of poetry! ''Tis but newly day.' It is day in my heart. Yes, everything will come right. Good-night, dear love, with a thousand kisses. I send them from my window through the night, which soon will be day. Heaven shield you...."Another day has passed. Oh, Kingsley, what joy and delight your dear, dear letter brought to me! Your letters are the sweetest that ever were written, that ever could be written. Heaven bless your father for being so kind to you. How glad he must have been to see you after such a long absence! I am sure he must be the best of men. But Kingsley, dear Kingsley, how shall I tell you? My dear father is worse. I know he is, although he has not complained. We sat together this evening, watching the sunset in silence. He held my hand, and sometimes he gripped it hard. It was because he was in pain, but he would not have it so. He said it was because he loved me so dearly. When the sun went down he spoke, oh, so solemnly and beautifully, Kingsley, of the sunset of life, and said he would be perfectly happy and contented if he knew that I was safe. 'You mean safe with Kingsley, dear father,' I said. 'Yes,' he answered, 'safe with Kingsley.' Then I read your letter to him--every word, Kingsley; I was not ashamed--and it comforted him. 'He is the man I would have chosen for you, Nansie,' he said, and then he spoiled it all by adding: 'Only, only, if his father were not rich.' I reproved him gently, and said he must not doubt you, but must have in you the perfect faith that I have, and he said that I was right, and that it was only a father's fears that disturbed him. We must not blame him, dear; we are so poor, you know, and he does not know you as I do. I can write but a few lines now, I am so anxious about father. Shall I receive a letter from you to-morrow? If one does not come, I shall be sorry, of course, but only sorry, nothing more. For you and your father must have so much to talk about, and, as you told me so seriously, you must wait for a favorable opportunity before you spoke to him of me. Ah, poor me! What a worry I am! But I will make it all up to you, my dearest, in the happy days to come. Father is calling to me; I must go. I kiss you and kiss you, and indeed there are kisses on my lips for you only--and ah! for my poor, dear father. Through all time to come I am ever and ever your own loving Nansie...."Oh, Kingsley, my dear husband, how shall I tell you? My hand trembles so that I can scarcely write the words. My father, my dear, dear father is dead!"I look at the words I have written, and they seem to move, to live, thoughheis dead. I go from the page upon which I write to the bed upon which he is lying, and I can scarcely believe that it is true, he looks so sweet, so peaceful and calm. 'Father, father!' I call, but he does not answer me. His spirit is with God. But surely with me, too, surely with me! Oh, Kingsley, I feel as if my heart were breaking!"I do not know when his spirit passed away. We sat up late last night, and he seemed in his usual health, but weak. He made no complaint, but he must have had a premonition of what was hastening to him, for he talked to me of the life beyond this, and dwelt upon it with hope and rapture. We sat in the dark; he would not have a light. Ah, me! I must have been blind and deaf not to have guessed that he believed his end to be approaching when he spoke so much of you, and desired me to give you his dear love and his heartfelt wishes for a bright and happy life. 'With me, father,' I whispered. 'Yes, my daughter, with you,' he answered. 'Kingsley could not be happy without you.' Ah, how glad I was to hear him say that! It proved that he had faith and confidence in you, and yet I might have been warned of what was to come by his solemn voice and by his addressing me as his daughter. He had never done so before. It was always: 'My dear,' or 'Nansie, child,' or 'My dear Nansie.' Ah, Kingsley, if you had heard what he said you could never have forgotten it. 'Life is a breath,' he said, 'a dream, and its end should be welcomed with joy, for it opens the door to a higher, holier life. Happy is the mortal who can approach that threshold with a consciousness that he has done no wrong to his fellow-creature.' And then he said that there should be no vain thirstings and yearnings for knowledge that was wisely hidden from us, but that every human being should strive to keep shining within him three stars, faith, duty, and love. I cannot now recall all that he said, but I know that his last dear conversation with me left me better than I had been, and that with all my heart and soul I thank him for his gentle teaching."It was past midnight when he went to bed, and I intended then to continue my letter to you, but he called to me before I commenced, and asked me to sit by his side. I did so, holding his hand, until two in the morning, and all this time he lay quite quiet and still, sometimes opening his eyes and smiling upon me. At length he said, 'Kiss me, my dear,' and I stooped and kissed him. Then he bade me go to bed, and, indeed, I was glad to obey him, Kingsley, for my eyes were closing. I awoke at my usual hour this morning, and went to him. He had not stirred. Ah, how still and beautiful he was! I spoke to him and he did not reply. I called louder, and still he did not speak. Then, smitten with a dreadful fear, I placed my hand on his heart; it was pulseless, and I knew that my dear, dear father had passed away."I can write no more. I have much to do, and the last duties of love will occupy every moment of my time. I shall have him taken to Godalming, where I shall be if you can come to me. If that is not possible, I shall go after the funeral to my uncle in London, whose address you have. There you will find me. Pity me, Kingsley, and do not leave me long alone. I have only you in the world. Believe me."Ever your loving wife,Nansie."
"My Beloved Kingsley,--It is night, and I am writing in my little room in the caravan. Father is asleep, and everything around is still and peaceful. It is the best of all time to write to you and think of you, but indeed you are never out of my thoughts. It is a beautiful night, and I have made up my mind not to go to sleep till I have heard the nightingale, so how can I employ my time better than in the way I am doing? All the day long I have been thinking of you. 'Now he is in the train,' I said, 'now he is so much nearer London, now he is in London, now he is at home and talking to his father.' Of me? I could not decide that. Perhaps you will wait till to-morrow, but I am with you in spirit, Kingsley, as you are with me. Yes, I am sure of that, and it makes me very, very happy. Kingsley is at home, in his father's house. Is he really at home? My home is with you; there is no home for me without you. How ungrateful it sounds, with my father so close to me; but I cannot help it; it is the truth. And then this caravan--can one call it a home? Though there are people, father says, who are very happy in caravans--as I should be with you; or anywhere, Kingsley. Indeed it is so; it will not matter to me so long as we are together.
"I am writing cheerfully and hopefully, am I not? And yet my father has been uneasy in his mind to-day. He has been speaking a great deal of your father, and he fears that he will not approve of our marriage. 'For your sake, Nansie,' father said, 'I wish Kingsley's father was a poor man.' Kingsley dear, I wish that too; but then your father was once as poor as we are, and perhaps that will make a difference. I hope with all my heart I have not done you wrong by marrying you; but how could I help it, loving you as I did and do, and how could I help it when you persuaded me so? Oh, my dear love, I will do all that a woman can do to make you happy! I can do no more. To me it does not matter how we live, but will it matter to you if your father is angry and will not receive me? I cannot bear to think of it; my heart grows cold, and I stretch forth my hands imploring an angel to come and help me. But that is not needed, is it, Kingsley? and you have good reason to be angry with me, for what I have written is almost like a doubt, and to doubt you is to doubt that there is any goodness in the world. No, Kingsley, I will not doubt; it would be treason to love. . . .
"I have not written for an hour. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and I should have gone on thinking, just as if I was in a waking trance, if it had not been for my father talking in his sleep. 'Nansie, Nansie!' he called, and I went in to him, but he was fast asleep, and his forehead was quite damp. I wiped it softly, but it did not wake him, and he kept on murmuring my name and yours, and calling on the angels to guard us. Dear father! we have not been a great deal together, but he loves me truly, and I think he is reproaching himself for not having been with me more. I could not love him more than I do, but I might have known him better. He is a good man, Kingsley, and I think if he had been rich he would have made a name in the world. There! I have written 'if he had been rich.' To be happy it is not necessary to be rich, is it, dear? Father says not. That is when he is awake. What did he mean by saying in his sleep: 'Money is a blessing and a curse?' Well, yes, I can understand it. It depends upon how it is used. Oh, Kingsley, I hope your father is not very rich. By my father's side was his favorite book, 'William Browne.' I took it away to my room. Before I go to bed I will put it back, for it is like meat and wine to him. More precious than those, I am sure. What are you doing at this very moment, Kingsley?
"There again. I have been in dreamland for an hour and more. And then, waking up, I read a little of 'William Browne', and took my pen in my hand to go on writing, but I did not know what to say. Kingsley, dear, the errand you have gone upon haunts me. So much do I fear that I hardly know what to think. Even my favorite saying that father does not consider wisdom, 'Everything will come right,' does not comfort me somehow. I don't know why, except it is that we are not together. Suspense is dreadful, is it not, dear? And just now everything seems in suspense. Oh, hark! The nightingale! It is an omen of joy and gladness. Thank God for all sweet sounds, for all that is sweet and good--and the world is full of sweetness and gladness. And I was reading of it in 'William Browne:'
"'But the nightingale i' th' darkSinging, woke the mountain lark;She records her love.The sun hath not with his beamsGilded yet our crystal streams,Rising from the sea;Mists do crown the mountain-tops,And each pretty myrtle drops;'Tis but newly day.'
"'But the nightingale i' th' darkSinging, woke the mountain lark;
She records her love.
The sun hath not with his beamsGilded yet our crystal streams,
Rising from the sea;
Mists do crown the mountain-tops,And each pretty myrtle drops;
'Tis but newly day.'
"There, my dear love, I have copied it exactly, apostrophes and all, and it seems to bring me nearer to you. How wonderful is the gift of poetry! ''Tis but newly day.' It is day in my heart. Yes, everything will come right. Good-night, dear love, with a thousand kisses. I send them from my window through the night, which soon will be day. Heaven shield you....
"Another day has passed. Oh, Kingsley, what joy and delight your dear, dear letter brought to me! Your letters are the sweetest that ever were written, that ever could be written. Heaven bless your father for being so kind to you. How glad he must have been to see you after such a long absence! I am sure he must be the best of men. But Kingsley, dear Kingsley, how shall I tell you? My dear father is worse. I know he is, although he has not complained. We sat together this evening, watching the sunset in silence. He held my hand, and sometimes he gripped it hard. It was because he was in pain, but he would not have it so. He said it was because he loved me so dearly. When the sun went down he spoke, oh, so solemnly and beautifully, Kingsley, of the sunset of life, and said he would be perfectly happy and contented if he knew that I was safe. 'You mean safe with Kingsley, dear father,' I said. 'Yes,' he answered, 'safe with Kingsley.' Then I read your letter to him--every word, Kingsley; I was not ashamed--and it comforted him. 'He is the man I would have chosen for you, Nansie,' he said, and then he spoiled it all by adding: 'Only, only, if his father were not rich.' I reproved him gently, and said he must not doubt you, but must have in you the perfect faith that I have, and he said that I was right, and that it was only a father's fears that disturbed him. We must not blame him, dear; we are so poor, you know, and he does not know you as I do. I can write but a few lines now, I am so anxious about father. Shall I receive a letter from you to-morrow? If one does not come, I shall be sorry, of course, but only sorry, nothing more. For you and your father must have so much to talk about, and, as you told me so seriously, you must wait for a favorable opportunity before you spoke to him of me. Ah, poor me! What a worry I am! But I will make it all up to you, my dearest, in the happy days to come. Father is calling to me; I must go. I kiss you and kiss you, and indeed there are kisses on my lips for you only--and ah! for my poor, dear father. Through all time to come I am ever and ever your own loving Nansie....
"Oh, Kingsley, my dear husband, how shall I tell you? My hand trembles so that I can scarcely write the words. My father, my dear, dear father is dead!
"I look at the words I have written, and they seem to move, to live, thoughheis dead. I go from the page upon which I write to the bed upon which he is lying, and I can scarcely believe that it is true, he looks so sweet, so peaceful and calm. 'Father, father!' I call, but he does not answer me. His spirit is with God. But surely with me, too, surely with me! Oh, Kingsley, I feel as if my heart were breaking!
"I do not know when his spirit passed away. We sat up late last night, and he seemed in his usual health, but weak. He made no complaint, but he must have had a premonition of what was hastening to him, for he talked to me of the life beyond this, and dwelt upon it with hope and rapture. We sat in the dark; he would not have a light. Ah, me! I must have been blind and deaf not to have guessed that he believed his end to be approaching when he spoke so much of you, and desired me to give you his dear love and his heartfelt wishes for a bright and happy life. 'With me, father,' I whispered. 'Yes, my daughter, with you,' he answered. 'Kingsley could not be happy without you.' Ah, how glad I was to hear him say that! It proved that he had faith and confidence in you, and yet I might have been warned of what was to come by his solemn voice and by his addressing me as his daughter. He had never done so before. It was always: 'My dear,' or 'Nansie, child,' or 'My dear Nansie.' Ah, Kingsley, if you had heard what he said you could never have forgotten it. 'Life is a breath,' he said, 'a dream, and its end should be welcomed with joy, for it opens the door to a higher, holier life. Happy is the mortal who can approach that threshold with a consciousness that he has done no wrong to his fellow-creature.' And then he said that there should be no vain thirstings and yearnings for knowledge that was wisely hidden from us, but that every human being should strive to keep shining within him three stars, faith, duty, and love. I cannot now recall all that he said, but I know that his last dear conversation with me left me better than I had been, and that with all my heart and soul I thank him for his gentle teaching.
"It was past midnight when he went to bed, and I intended then to continue my letter to you, but he called to me before I commenced, and asked me to sit by his side. I did so, holding his hand, until two in the morning, and all this time he lay quite quiet and still, sometimes opening his eyes and smiling upon me. At length he said, 'Kiss me, my dear,' and I stooped and kissed him. Then he bade me go to bed, and, indeed, I was glad to obey him, Kingsley, for my eyes were closing. I awoke at my usual hour this morning, and went to him. He had not stirred. Ah, how still and beautiful he was! I spoke to him and he did not reply. I called louder, and still he did not speak. Then, smitten with a dreadful fear, I placed my hand on his heart; it was pulseless, and I knew that my dear, dear father had passed away.
"I can write no more. I have much to do, and the last duties of love will occupy every moment of my time. I shall have him taken to Godalming, where I shall be if you can come to me. If that is not possible, I shall go after the funeral to my uncle in London, whose address you have. There you will find me. Pity me, Kingsley, and do not leave me long alone. I have only you in the world. Believe me.
"Ever your loving wife,Nansie."
Deeply shocked and grieved, Kingsley went to his father with Nansie's letter in his hand. "I want you to release me from my promise," he said.
"I never release a man from a promise given," was his father's cold reply, "and I never ask to be released from one I have made."
"You cannot refuse me," said Kingsley, whose eyes were bedewed with tears.
"I do refuse you," said Mr. Manners, sternly.
Kingsley gazed irresolutely around, but his irresolution lasted for a moment or two only. "I must go," he said, straightening himself.
"Against my will?" asked Mr. Manners.
"Yes, father, against your will, if you refuse."
"I have refused."
Kingsley was silent.
"It is what I will never forgive," said Mr. Manners.
"I cannot help it, father. There are duties whichmustbe performed, and one is before me." He held out the last page of Nansie's letter, but his father thrust it aside.
"I do not wish to see it. I will not see it. It is from that woman."
"It is from my wife."
"And you are going to her?"
"I am going to her."
"If you leave my house now you never enter its doors again. If you persist in your madness I cut you out of my heart forever. I shall have no longer a son, and for evermore you and I are strangers."
"It is cruel--it is pitiful, but I must go."
"You understand the consequences of your disobedience?"
"You have made them only too plain to me, father," said Kingsley, mournfully.
"And you still persist?"
"There is no other course open to me. I am a man, not a dog."
"You are an ingrate. Go!--and never let me look upon your face again. From this moment I do not know you."
There are extant numerous clippings from famous writers which, coming "trippingly off the tongue," have grown into popular favor and are generally accepted as the essence of wisdom, but which will not stand the test of cold and logical analysis. Hence it is that so many familiar proverbs belie themselves. Among these popular sayings may be classed the description of life as a fitful fever. There are few men and women to whom this will apply; with the great majority of human beings life glides from one groove into another with ease and naturalness, and the most startling changes are effected without violent strain. Poor men grow rich, rich men grow poor, the lowly mount, the high slip into the downward paths, and one and all accept the reversals of position with a certain innate philosophy which makes life desirable, and often sweet, however wide the gulf which separates the present from the past. It is something to be genuinely grateful for; were it otherwise, existence would become an intolerable burden, and every waking moment would be charged with pain.
These observations are pertinent to the course of our story, in respect of which the incidents already narrated may be accepted as a kind of prologue. The scene changes to the busy East of this mighty city, the precise locality being a second-hand bookshop in Church Alley. The proprietor of this shop was Mr. Joseph Loveday, Nansie's uncle, and that the reflections upon the shiftings in life's kaleidoscope are not out of place was proved by words which fell from his lips as he sorted a pile of books which he had purchased at auction.
"Change, change, change--nothing but change. Some drop out, some remain, and time rolls on. I live, with a likelihood of living for many years; he is dying, with the certainty of death in the course of a few days. So he says in his letter, and in serious affairs he was never given to light talk. Presently he will leave the world behind him. What matters?"
The question, addressed with mingled bitterness and mournfulness to himself, aroused him from his reverie.
"It does matter," he said. "We are not exactly lumber."
He was a man of middle age, a bachelor, and he conducted his business alone, without assistance of any kind, taking down his shutters in the morning and putting them up again at night, arranging the books on his shelves within and on the stall without, and knowing where to lay his hand, almost blindfold, upon any volume which he or a customer required. In this lonely mode of carrying on his trade there were inconveniences which were beginning to tell upon him. The toilers round about were not as a rule blessed with libraries of any value, and although he was always ready to purchase any odd lots that were brought to him, he picked up very little stock in this way. The greater portion of his treasures was bought at book auctions in the West, and whenever he attended one of these sales he was under the necessity of shutting up his shop and taking the key with him. Of late he had thought seriously of employing an assistant, but the difficulty was to find one to suit both his business and his peculiarities. In his domestic arrangements he was compelled to call in assistance. He employed a charwoman twice a week, for half a day on each occasion, to clean his place and set it in order; his breakfasts, teas, and suppers he prepared himself with his own hands, and when he did not purchase his dinner at a convenient cook-shop, it was sent in to him by Mrs. Peeper, keeper of a wardrobe-shop in Church Alley. He looked older than he was, and had too early acquired a stoop from poring over books; he had blue eyes, large and shapely hands, and features furrowed with lines of thoughtfulness. When he was not called away to attend an auction or upon other business, he would be seen sitting at his counter, or upon the floor, sorting books and making lists of them, or standing at his door in slippers, wearing a loose dressing-gown and a plain skull-cap, and with a pair of spectacles resting generally above his eyebrows. His reputation extended far beyond the immediate East in which his shop was situated. In the course of his career it had been his good-fortune to light upon rare books in the odd lots he had picked up at auction, and book-hunters from afar would come to look over his stock of treasures. On the day of his introduction to the reader he had been much exercised. There was the letter from his brother, to which he had replied in terms with which we are familiar; it had taken his thoughts to the past, and old memories had troubled his mind; domestic and business worries were also troubling him. The charwoman he had employed for years, and who was now up-stairs making a noise which annoyed him, had, during the last few weeks, generally made her appearance in a state of inebriation. He had expostulated with her upon this new and evil departure, but his remonstrances had not effected an improvement, and now, as he sat musing and sorting his books, a sudden crash in the room above caused him to start to his feet with an angry exclamation. He calmed himself instantly, having a great power of self-control, and, going to the staircase, called out:
"What is the matter, Mrs. Chizlet?"
"Only the wash'and basin, sir," replied a voice from above.
"Oh," he said.
"And the jug, sir."
"Oh."
"And the soap-dish, sir."
"Oh."
Then there was a pause and an ominous stillness.
"Have you broken anything else?" he asked.
"I didn't break 'em, sir," was the reply. "It was the cat."
"There's no cat in the house. Come down."
"In a minute, sir, when I've recovered myself."
He waited the minute, and down came the woman, with a vacant smile on her face, and a number of pieces of broken crockery in her hands, which she let fall with a crash on the floor of the shop.
"The cat, eh?"
"Yes, sir, the cat."
"Where did it come from? The sky? What is that sticking out of your pocket? The skeleton of the cat? No. A bottle. Empty, of course."
"Yes, sir, worse luck."
"Mrs. Chizlet," said Mr. Loveday, gravely, "last Friday you broke two dishes."
"Not me, sir."
"Well, the cat. This day week the cat broke all my cups and saucers. If I keep you in my service, in the course of another week there will not be a sound piece of crockery or glass in the place. Therefore I will not trouble you to come here again."
"We're all born, and none buried," said the charwoman, with a silly smile.
And having received her half-day's wage, she departed contentedly, and made her way to the nearest public-house.
Mr. Joseph Loveday gazed disconsolately around; it was not the broken crockery that annoyed him, it was the disarrangement of domestic custom. Having discharged the woman who had served him so long, it was a settled thing that she would never be employed by him again. Where could he find another who would serve him more faithfully? He detested strangers, and a break in his usual habits was a great discomfort to him. He was in a mood to exaggerate the discomfort, and in a few minutes he had magnified it considerably. It is not from the most important disasters of life, but from its pins and needles, that we draw our acutest miseries. Everything had been going wrong with Mr. Loveday lately. During the past week he had missed three books from his stall outside, and had been unable to discover the thief. Even if he had been successful in catching him he would have hesitated to prosecute him, because of the loss of time it would entail. Then, Mrs. Peeper, proprietor of the wardrobe shop, who occasionally cooked his dinners for him, had been behaving badly, keeping him waiting an hour and more, and placing before him food, so villainously cooked that he could not eat it. Some change was decidedly necessary to restore the harmony of his days. As he was debating with himself in what way the change could be made, he raised his eyes and saw through the window a lad standing at the stall outside, turning over the leaves of a book. The age of this lad was twelve, and his name was Timothy Chance.
"I might do worse," thought Mr. Loveday. The drawback was that Timothy was a bundle of rags.
He was turning over the leaves of the book he had lifted at haphazard from the stall, but he was not reading it. Every now and then he directed a furtive glance towards the interior of the shop, in the hope, without obtruding himself, of attracting favorable attention. Hanging on his left arm was an old open-work basket, and sitting therein was a bedraggled hen. Mr. Loveday stepped to the shop door, and said:
"Well, Timothy."
"Yes, sir," said the lad, looking up with a cheerful smile, and speaking in quite respectable English, "here I am, back again, like a bad penny."
"Come in," said Mr. Loveday.
Timothy gladly obeyed the summons, and entered. Placing his basket with the hen in it upon the floor, he stood respectfully before the bookseller. In classic story a goose became historical; in this modern tale, wherein heroic deeds are not heralded by clang of trumpets, it may by and by be admitted that the fowl which Timothy Chance set down deserves no less a fame.