Some indication has been given of the success of Timothy Chance's service with Mr. Loveday. There are men, like Kingsley Manners, who, being suddenly thrust upon the world to shift for themselves, find themselves plunged into a sea of difficulties, extrication from which is impossible except by some unexpected windfall of fortune. There are others who are so well armed for difficulties that the encountering of them serves as an incentive and a spur. What depresses one elevates the other; what makes one despondent makes the other cheerful. It is chiefly a matter of early education, in which adversity is frequently a factor for good. Partly, also, it is a matter of adaptability.
It may be taken for granted that wherever Timothy Chance fell he would fall upon his feet, and that he would be among the first to take advantage of an opportunity. A hard-working, faithful servant, but with an eye to his own interests. It is running far ahead of events to state that when he was a middle-aged man, with a house of his own, there stood upon a bracket in his private room the image of a hen fashioned in gold--a valuable ornament; for the gold was of the purest, and the bird was of life-size; and that the sense of possession imparted a satisfaction to Timothy Chance far beyond its value. He amused himself by the fancy that the fowl of gold was an exact reproduction of the living fowl which he had rescued from the fire in the schoolhouse, and which had laid an egg in Mr. Loveday's shop on the day of Timothy's return to London. The goose of the fable that laid golden eggs was an insignificant bird in comparison with Timothy Chance's first fowl. There was at first a difficulty respecting its habitation. Mr. Loveday's shop had no backyard, and for the sake of cleanliness it could not be kept in the house. There were, however, plenty of backyards in the immediate vicinity of Church Alley, and to the proprietor of one of these Timothy betook himself, arranging to pay rent in kind, that is to say (for we are approaching legal ground), one new-laid egg per week, or, in default, its full retail value, seven farthings. For it was not long before Timothy discovered that he could dispose of a limited number of new-laid eggs--the day of laying being guaranteed--to private persons at that rate per egg. Timothy's hen was certainly a wonderful layer; during the first thirty-one days of its tenancy of the Whitechapel backyard it laid no fewer than twenty-six eggs, which, deducting five for rental, left twenty-one to the good. A retired butterman, who should undoubtedly have been a good judge, engaged to take them all at the price above mentioned, and at the end of the month the account stood thus:
This is a precise copy of the account made out by Timothy Chance, on the termination of the month; and with the figures, clear and well-shaped, before him, Timothy devoted himself to thought. His service with the seller of second-hand books had served him in good stead. He had rummaged out from among the stock at least a score of books treating of fowls and their produce, and he had studied them attentively. Some were old, one or two were of late years, and they all pointed to one fact--that money was to be made out of eggs. Most of the writers deplored the fact that the English people were so blind to their own interests as to systematically neglect a subject so fruitful. One of the treatises dealt in large figures--to wit, the population of Great Britain, and the number of eggs by them consumed annually; further, the number of eggs laid in the kingdom, and the number we were compelled to import to satisfy the demand, amounting not to scores but to hundreds of millions. Timothy's eyes dilated. One daring enthusiast went so far as to print pages of statistics to prove that if government took the affair in hand it could, in a certain number of years (number forgotten by the present chronicler), pay off the national debt. This, perhaps, was too extravagant, but the fact remained, and appeared incontrovertible, that money was to be made out of eggs. Here was plain proof--one shilling and ninepence farthing made out of one hen in a single month.
"Let me see," mused Timothy, "how this turns out for a year."
Down went the figures.
For a moment he forgot the rent, but he remembered it before he went into the credit side, and he reckoned it at a penny a week, which made the total expenses £1 2s. 6½d.
Timothy was aware that he could not reckon upon an egg a day all through the year, but his reading-up on the subject, and the calculations he had made, convinced him that a fair-laying hen might be depended upon for two hundred and forty eggs during the three hundred and sixty-five days.
"At three-halfpence each," he mused, and set down the figures, "that will bring in thirty shillings. Say it brings in only twenty-eight shillings, and make the total charges one pound four, and there remains a clear profit of four shillings for the year. Then the fowl itself, supposing I sell it at the end of the year, is worth at least a shilling. A profit of five shillings on one hen. On twenty, a profit of five pounds; on a hundred, a profit of twenty-five pounds; on a thousand, a profit of two hundred and fifty pounds."
The figures almost took his breath away. Let it be understood that Timothy's reflections and calculations are here pretty accurately reported. He continued. So large a number of eggs would have to be sold wholesale, and three-halfpence each could not be reckoned upon, but then the rent would be much less, and the cost of food much less; and there were other ideas floating in his mind which he could not formulate, and about which there was no cause for his troubling himself just at present.
"Mr. Loveday," said he to his employer, "if a speculation is entered into in a small way and leaves a small profit, would it not leave a larger profit if entered into in a large way?"
"That," replied Mr. Loveday, "stands to reason. What is your head running on, Timothy?"
"Eggs, sir," said Timothy.
Mr. Loveday stared at him for a few moments without speaking.
"That is what you have been studying books on poultry for?" he said, presently.
"Yes, sir."
"Well," said Mr. Loveday, after another pause, "there's something in eggs, I dare say. Some of the peasantry in France make quite an income out of them; our own poor country-folk are not so far-seeing."
"What can be done in France," said Timothy, patriotically and sententiously, "can be done in England."
"Don't be too certain of that," said Mr. Loveday. "They grow grapes in France and make wine. We don't."
"That is a matter of climate," remarked Timothy. "Fowls lay eggs in every country in the world, and once laid, there they are."
"To be sure," said Mr. Loveday, staring at his assistant, "there they are."
"Anyhow," said Timothy, "nothing can alter that what will pay in a small way ought to pay in a large; can it, sir?"
"The conclusion appears sensible and reasonable. I suppose you have made something out of your fowl?"
"Nearly two shillings in the month, sir."
"Not at all bad," said Mr. Loveday, "not at all bad. You must take the breed into account."
"Black Hamburgs, sir, that's the breed for eggs."
"Dorkings, I should say," suggested Mr. Loveday.
"Black Hamburgs will beat them, sir," said Timothy, confidently; and Mr. Loveday, feeling that he was on unsafe ground, wisely held his tongue.
Timothy had saved between five and six shillings out of his wages, and he expended the whole of his savings in putting up a rough fowl-house, and in the addition of a black Hamburg to his live-stock. He began to feel like a proprietor.
"Slow and sure, you know, Timothy," advised Mr. Loveday.
"Yes, sir, and thank you," said Timothy. "I will endeavor not to make mistakes."
"We shall have you chancellor of the exchequer in course of time," said Mr. Loveday, in a tone by no means unkindly.
"I shall be content to earn a living, sir," said Timothy, modestly; and rejoiced largely when he showed his employer two new-laid eggs in one day.
Three months after this conversation Mr. Loveday and Timothy were standing in front of the book-shop, discussing some proposed alterations in the stall outside upon which the more promiscuous books were offered for sale. The weather was fine, and a bright sun was striving to make its presence known in Church Alley; a bird in a cage hung above Mr. Sly's shop-window was piping a song of gratitude and welcome, and a cat, caught by a sunbeam, stood stock-still enjoying the warmth. A young woman, neatly and plainly dressed, entered Church Alley, and with timid, hesitating steps, gazed at the shops and houses as she passed them, halting within a yard of the stall before which Mr. Loveday and Timothy were talking. Timothy was explaining his views. The new stall could be made with flaps, hanging down, which, when rain threatened, could be swiftly raised to enclose the books. This would do away with the old and cumbersome method of covering the outside stock with canvas.
"And besides, sir, it could be made to fit like a box, with a good padlock outside, so that there would be no need to take the books out and in morning and night. The expense would not be great, only the timber. I can borrow tools, and make it as well as a carpenter. I don't mind saying that a thorough good workman couldn't beat my fowl-house."
"There's nothing much you can't do, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday.
"These things are not difficult, sir, if one only puts one's mind to them. A good saw and plane, a chisel, a few nails, and hinges, and it is done."
"You shall try your hand, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday, and turned to go into his shop.
As he did so, his eyes rested upon the figure of the young woman who had halted within a few steps of him.
He was transfixed. Twenty-and-odd years of his life were suddenly engulfed in a memory of the past.
There stood the woman he had loved and lost--the woman whom his dead brother had loved and married.
He stood like a man in a dream, or under a spell of enchantment. All consciousness of the present time had vanished. The past came back again, the love which had slept so long that he had deemed it dead awoke within him and stirred his heart. Was it joy, was it pain he felt as he stretched forth a trembling hand.
As if in response to that movement on his part, the woman moved towards him, and held out her two hands with an affectionate look in her eyes, in which there dwelt also some touch of entreaty.
"Who are you?" he asked, faintly, recovering his voice.
"I am Nansie," was the reply. "I recognized you, uncle, by your likeness to my dear father."
"And I recognized you," he said, "by your likeness to your dear mother. How like you are to her--how like, how like!"
"I am glad," said Nansie. "My dear father always said I was growing to resemble her more and more. Uncle, am I welcome?"
"Quite welcome. Come in."
He was himself once more; and he took her hands in his, and conducted her into his shop.
Timothy gazed at Nansie with worshipping eyes as she passed from the open, and stood gazing--for how long he knew not--until he was aroused by Mr. Loveday suddenly appearing from the shop, and calling out to him, in an agitated tone, to run for a doctor.
"No, no," cried Nansie's voice from within, "I do not need a doctor. I only fainted a moment, I was so tired. You don't know the ways of women, uncle."
"How should I," he said, rejoining her, "having so small an acquaintance with them?"
"But you said I was welcome, uncle?" she said, in a solicitous tone.
"And you are."
"You are glad to see me?"
"Yes. Why have I not seen you before? Why have I not heard from you?"
"I wrote to you, uncle."
"Telling me you were married. Yes, I forgot."
"You did not reply."
"I saw no occasion. I thought if you wanted me you would write again, or come."
"Here I am, as you see, uncle."
"I see. Wanting me?"
"I--I think so, uncle. You shall judge."
"You speak in a voice of doubt. Listen to me, Nansie. I may call you so?"
"Surely, surely. It gives me pleasure."
"Listen, then. If there is anything in my voice or manner to cause you uneasiness, account for it by the fact that I know little of women, as you yourself said. It is sometimes my way--not always, and seldom unless I am somewhat shaken. If you had informed me that you were coming I should have been prepared. I should not then have thought, when my eyes fell upon you, that it was your mother I was gazing upon, and not her daughter."
"I am sorry," murmured Nansie.
"There is nothing to be sorry for. These reminders do a man--especially a recluse like myself--no harm. You are turning white. Are you going to faint again?"
"No; I will not allow myself."
"I have some brandy in the house. Shall I give you a little? It is a medicine."
"No, thank you, uncle; I never touch it."
"What is it, then, that makes you so white? Stay. A cup of tea?"
"If you please, uncle."
"I am a dunderhead. Timothy!"
Nogeniiin Eastern tales ever appeared more promptly at a summons.
"Yes, sir."
"Make some tea; the best--quick!"
Timothy glanced at Nansie, nodded, and vanished.
"That is my assistant," said Mr. Loveday; "a treasure. A man, a boy, a girl, a woman, rolled into one. He can sew on buttons."
Nansie laughed, and Mr. Loveday gasped.
"Don't mind me," he said, in explanation. "Your laugh is so like your mother's. You see, Nansie, until I grow more accustomed to you, I shall find myself driven into the past."
There was a deep tenderness in his voice, and she took his hand in hers.
"Uncle, will you not kiss me?"
He kissed her, and the tears came into his eyes.
"There," he muttered, "you see how it is. That is the first time my lips have touched a woman's face since I was a youngster. Don't think the better of me for it. What is the time? Four o'clock. Have you had dinner?"
"No, uncle."
"Lunch?"
"No, uncle."
"Breakfast?"
"Yes."
"At what hour?"
"Eight o'clock."
"And nothing since?"
"Nothing. I was so anxious to get to you, and I have been so long finding you."
"No wonder you are white and faint. Ah, there is Timothy, in my little room where we eat--and talk, I was about to say; but we talk everywhere. Come along."
There was not only tea on the table, there was a chop, beautifully cooked, and bread-and-butter, on a clean white cloth.
"What did I tell you of him?" said Mr. Loveday, when Timothy, after looking at the table to see that nothing was wanting, had departed. "He knew what I did not. I never met another like him. Now, eat. Ah, the color is coming back into your face. Have you come from the country?"
"Yes, uncle."
"What station did you stop at?"
"Waterloo."
"At what time?"
"One o'clock."
"And you have been three hours getting here. Why did you not ride? I beg your pardon. No money, perhaps?"
"Oh, yes." She produced her purse, which, before she could prevent him, her uncle took from her hand.
"Two shillings and eightpence. Is it all you have?"
Her lips quivered.
"Of course you could not ride. There is no return ticket to--to the place you came from."
"I was not sure of returning there, uncle."
"Ah! I have something to hear. Or perhaps you did not have money enough to pay for a double fare. Why, Nansie, I might have been dead, for all you knew! You trusted to a slender chance. What would have happened if you had not found me? Two shillings and eightpence would have kept you till to-morrow, and then-- You have something of my brother's thoughtless spirit in you."
"Say, rather, of your dear brother's hope and trust."
"I will say it if you like, but it will not alter the fact that you have acted rashly. But I must learn how the land lies. You have a story to tell?"
"Yes, uncle."
"If I allow you to tell it in your own way you will stumble and break down; will cry, and faint again, perhaps. I put you, therefore, in the witness-box, where you are to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Are you ready?"
"Yes, uncle."
"No evasions, no gloss; plain and unvarnished. Deceive me once, and you will find me a tough customer. First, let me say that I am agreeably surprised in you. Brought up in the country I know not how, I might have expected my niece to be a raw country wench with rough manners and small education. I find, on the contrary, a lady who can read and write."
"Yes, uncle," said Nansie, with a smile, "I can do that."
"And can cipher, perhaps."
"I am not very good at figures, uncle."
"Of course not--you are a woman. But languages now. French, perhaps?"
"Yes, uncle."
"And German?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Ah, a Crichton in petticoats. Any others?"
"Those are all the languages I can speak, uncle."
"And enough, too, Nansie."
"Yes, uncle."
"I must do your father the justice to say that he has furnished you well. But I suppose you can't make a pudding?"
"Yes, I can, uncle."
"Better and better. I thought I was about to learn something. And, now, when your father died he did not leave a fortune behind him?"
"He died poor."
"But you were not alone and unprotected. You had a husband by your side. It occurs to me as strange that so soon before my brother's death he should have written to me in anxiety about you, and should have asked me to give you a home here in London; and you with a husband all the time!"
"My father did not know I was married."
"But you were?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean to tell me that you were secretly married?"
"It is so, uncle."
"I never heard of a secret marriage the motive for which did not spring from the man. It was your husband's wish that your marriage should be kept secret?"
"For a time only, uncle; until his father's return from abroad."
"Of course--family reasons."
"Yes."
"The usual story. What difference would it have made if you had been married with your father's consent and knowledge? There would have been less duplicity in the affair."
"Uncle, it is difficult sometimes to see how things come about. It happened as I have told you. It might not if we had consulted my dear father beforehand."
"Would he have refused his consent?"
"It is most likely."
"Ah! However careless and unmindful my brother might have been in worldly matters, he was a gentleman and a man of fine instincts. You married a man beneath you?"
"You are wrong, uncle. I married a gentleman far above me."
"And yet you tell me your father would have refused his consent."
"You forget, uncle. My dear father was truly what you have described him--a man of fine instincts."
"Well?"
"We were poor; my husband's family are very wealthy."
"I am corrected. The fact would have caused my brother to act as you say, unless, indeed, the consent of your husband's parents had been previously obtained."
"It was not, uncle."
"What rash folly! I anticipate your answer. You were in love."
"Yes, uncle."
"I am beginning to get puzzled. There is a kind of tangle here. In the first letter you wrote to me you signed yourself Nansie. Nothing more. When I replied to you I addressed you in your father's name. In your second letter, acquainting me that you were married, you signed yourself Nansie Manners."
"That is my name."
"You tell me that you have married into a wealthy family, and you come to me faint and hungry, with two-and-eightpence in your purse. And I will hazard the guess that you travelled third-class."
"I did, uncle."
"Explain the anomaly."
"When my husband told his father of our marriage he discarded him and turned him from the house."
"That explains it; but it is bad, very bad. See what comes of secret marriages. Hopes shattered, old ties broken, hearts embittered, parents and children parted in anger. Had you known all this beforehand would you have married?"
"No, uncle," replied Nansie, firmly. It was the first time the question had been put to her, and she could not but answer frankly. "I would not have done Kingsley such injustice."
"Then there has been injustice--injustice all round. Kingsley, I infer, is your husband." Nansie nodded. "Have you come into association with his family?"
"I have never seen one of them, uncle."
"Where do they live?"
"Here, in London. You have heard of them, I dare say, uncle. Kingsley's father is the great contractor, Mr. Manners."
Mr. Loveday started. "Manners, the great contractor! Why, Nansie, the man is a millionaire, and famous all the world over! You have flown high, my girl."
"I knew nothing of this. Before Kingsley and I met I had never heard of Mr. Manners; and even up to the day of our marriage I had no idea that he was so wealthy and famous. Kingsley spoke of him as being rich, but nothing more; and, uncle, I was not very worldly-wise, and should have thought a man with a thousand pounds rich. I should think so now."
"You have made no effort to see your husband's father?"
"No; it would be useless. Kingsley tells me he is a man of iron will, and never swerves from a resolution he has made. There is no hope of turning him. Was it not noble conduct, uncle, on Kingsley's part to marry me, a poor girl without a penny in the world?"
"I am not at all sure, Nansie." He opened her purse and took out the few poor coins it contained. "See what it has brought you to. Better for you if your husband had a hundred a year than a father with millions which he buttons his pockets upon. It was a rash and thoughtless act you young people have done. There is no hope of turning Mr. Manners, you say. Yet you are a lady, well mannered, well spoken, well educated; and he sprang from nothing. It is well known. But it is idle to talk in this fashion. There is a stubbornness on the part of the ignorant which is worse than the pride of those who can boast of high descent. The self-made man is often the most difficult animal to deal with. Your husband could not have contemplated the cost of what he was about to do."
"He thought only of one thing, uncle--that he loved me."
"And that is to serve as a set-off against all the ills of life. I hope it may prove so. The commencement does not hold out any great promise, that's plain. And now, Nansie, tell me the rest in your own way. I have got the nut of the story, and a precious hard one it is to crack."
"When my dear father died," said Nansie, "Kingsley was in London. Mr. Manners had just returned from Russia, and it was the first opportunity Kingsley had of making him acquainted with our marriage. I think that Kingsley, out of consideration for me, has not told me everything that passed between him and his father, but I know that Mr. Manners extracted a promise from him to remain at home for a week before he decided."
"Decided upon what?" asked Mr. Loveday, abruptly.
"I do not know, uncle; Kingsley has been so worried and troubled that it would have been unkind for me to press him upon points which really matter very little. For, after all, Kingsley came back to me when I called him, and is true and faithful."
"His father perhaps pressed him to desert you and break your heart. Rich as the self-made man is, he could not divorce you. And your husband consented to remain a week in his father's house to consider it! That looks ugly."
"Kingsley did nothing wrong. He hoped by remaining near his father that a favorable moment might come when he could successfully appeal to him to deal more tenderly towards us. There was also the chance of his mother's mediation."
"Ah, there is a mother. I was going to ask about her."
"Mr. Manners is master of everything and everybody. His lightest word is law. Before the week was ended Kingsley received my letter with news of my dear father's death. Where was Kingsley's place then, uncle?"
"By your side."
"He came at once without a single hour's delay. He asked his father to release him from his promise, and as Mr. Manners would not do so, he broke it--out of love for me. This, I think, embittered Mr. Manners more strongly against us, and he turned Kingsley from the house. I hope you are beginning to do Kingsley justice, uncle."
"He seems to have acted well. But go on."
"After my father was buried, Kingsley and I were naturally very anxious as to how we should live. Kingsley had a little property, but he owed money to tradesmen, which had to be paid. The settlement of these accounts swallowed up nearly every sovereign he possessed, and we had a hard fight before us, harder, indeed, than we imagined. I must tell you that Kingsley wrote to his parents without success. His father returned his letter without one word of acknowledgment. If I had thought I could do any good I would have gone to his mother, but I felt that it would only make matters worse, if they could be worse. What could I have expected from her but reproaches for separating her from her son? For I am the cause of that. If Kingsley had never seen me he would have been at peace with his parents, carrying out his father's desire that he should become a member of Parliament, and take a part in public affairs. Kingsley is fitted for it, indeed he is. He talks most beautifully. And I have spoiled it all, and have ruined a great career. I would not dare to say so to Kingsley; he would never forgive me for it. He tried hard to get some sort of work to do; he went out day after day, and used to return home so sad and wearied that it almost broke my heart to see him."
"With but a little store of money," said Mr. Loveday, "such a state of affairs must soon come to an end."
"We held out as long as we could; longer, indeed, than I thought possible. We parted with many little treasures--"
"And all this time you never wrote to me!" exclaimed Mr. Loveday.
"Remember, uncle, that Ihadwritten to you and that you had not sent a line of congratulation upon our marriage."
"A nice thing to congratulate you upon! But I was to blame, I admit it."
"It was a delicate matter to Kingsley. 'Your uncle doesn't care to know me,' he said; and so it seemed. At length, uncle, we came to a great block, and we truly despaired. But there was a break in the clouds, uncle."
"Good."
"I am speaking of yesterday. A letter arrived for Kingsley from a friend to whom he had written, saying that a gentleman who intended to remain abroad for three or four months required a kind of secretary and companion, and that Kingsley could secure the situation if he cared for it. The gentleman was in Paris, and the letter contained a pass to Paris, dated yesterday. We had come to our last shilling, uncle, and this separation--I hope and trust not for long--was forced upon us. Kingsley managed to raise a little money, a very little, uncle, just enough to defray his expenses to Paris and to leave me a few shillings. So last evening, when we parted, it was agreed that I should come to London to-day, and appeal to you to give me shelter till Kingsley's return. That is all, uncle. Will you?"
"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday, "I will keep the promise I made to my dead brother."
Nansie took his hand and kissed it, and then burst into tears.
From that day a new life commenced for Mr. Loveday. It was not that there was any great improvement in the ordinary domestic arrangements of his modest establishment, because the reign of Timothy had introduced beneficial changes in this respect before Nansie was made queen. It was more in its spiritual than its material aspect that the new life was made manifest. To have a lady moving quietly about the house, to be greeted by a smile and a kind glance whenever he turned towards her, to hear her gentle voice addressing him without invitation on his part--all this was not only new, but wonderful and delightful. Mr. Loveday very soon discovered that Nansie was indeed a lady, and far above the worldly station to which her circumstances relegated her; it was an agreeable discovery, and he appreciated it keenly. He found himself listening with pleasure to her soft footfall on the stairs or in the rooms above, and he would even grow nervous if any length of time elapsed without evidence of her presence in the house. Perhaps Nansie's crowning virtue was her unobtrusiveness. Everything she did was done quietly, without the least fuss or noise; no slamming of doors to jar the nerves, nothing to disturb or worry.
"Where did you learn it all, Nansie?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"It is what all women do," she replied.
He did not dispute with her, although his experience was not favorable to her view. Inwardly he said: "What all women couldnotdo, if they tried ever so hard, but then Nansie had perfection for a mother." His thoughts travelled frequently now to the early days when he loved the woman who was not to become his wife, and it may be that he accepted Nansie's companionship and presence as in some sense a recompense for his youthful disappointment, a meting out of poetical justice, as it were.
Of all the hours of day and night the evening hours were the most delightful, not only to him, but to Timothy, between whom and Nansie there swiftly grew a bond of sympathy and friendship. Before Nansie's appearance Mr. Loveday's house was a comfortable one to live and work in; but from the day she first set foot in it, it became a home. Neither Timothy nor Mr. Loveday could have given an intelligible explanation of the nature of the change; but they accepted it in wonder and gratitude. Everything was the same and yet not the same. There was no addition to the furniture; but it appeared to be altogether different furniture from that to which they had been accustomed. It was brighter, cleaner, and in its new and improved arrangement acquired a new value. There were now white curtains to the windows, and the windows themselves were not coated with dust. The fireplaces were always trim and well brushed up, the fires bright and twinkling, the candlesticks and all the metalwork smartly polished, the table-linen white and clean, clothes with never a button missing, socks and stockings with never a hole in them. Nansie could have accomplished all these things unaided; but Timothy was so anxious to be employed that she would not pain him by refusing his assistance. She had another reason--a reason which she did not disclose, and which Mr. Loveday and Timothy were too inexperienced to suspect--for accepting the lad's willing service. She knew that a time was approaching when it would be invaluable, and when she would be unable to devote herself to these domestic duties.
The evenings were the most delightful, as has been stated. Then, the day's labor over and everything being in order, they would sit together in the little room at the back of the shop and chat, or read, or pursue some study or innocent amusement. Mr. Loveday fished out an old draught-board, with draughts and a set of chessmen, and was surprised to find that Nansie was by no means an indifferent draught-player, and that she knew the moves of chess, in which her skill was not so great. At one time of his life he had been fond of backgammon, and he taught Nansie the game, Timothy looking on and learning more quickly than the fair pupil whose presence brightened the home. Timothy also made himself proficient in the intricacies of chess, and within a few months justified himself master, and gave odds. An evening seldom passed without a reading from a favorite author, Nansie's sweet, sympathetic voice imparting a charm to passages from which something valuable might have been missed had they not been read aloud. From this brief description it will be gathered that Nansie's influence was all for good.
Thus time sped on, and Kingsley was still absent. He wrote to Nansie regularly, and she as regularly replied to his letters, never missing a post. She wrote in her bedroom always, and generally at night when the others were abed. In silence and solitude she was better able to open her heart to her husband. To say that she was entirely happy apart from Kingsley would not be true, but she had a spirit of rare hope and contentment, and her gratitude for the shelter and comfort of her new home was a counterbalance to the unhappiness she would otherwise have experienced.
"A letter for you, Nansie," Mr. Loveday would say.
Taking it eagerly, she would speed to her room and read it again and again, drawing hopeful auguries from words in which none really lay. For although Kingsley's letters were cheerfully and lovingly written, there was nothing substantial in them in their prospects of the future. They were all of the present, of his doings, of his adventures, of his travels, of what he had seen and done, forming a kind of diary faithfully kept, but with a strange blindness in respect of years to come. At one time he was in France, at another in Italy, at another in Germany, at another in Russia.
"Mr. Seymour," he wrote, "has an insatiable thirst for travel, and will start off at an hour's notice from one country to another, moved seemingly by sudden impulses in which there appears to be an utter lack of system. It is inconvenient, but of course I am bound to accompany him; and there is, after all, in these unexpected transitions a charm to me, who could never be accused of being methodical. The serious drawback is that I am parted from you. What pleasure it would give me to have you by my side! And you would be no less happy than I."
Then would follow a description of the places they passed through and stopped at, of people they met, and of small adventures which afforded him entertainment, ending always with protestations of love, the sincerity of which could not be doubted. But Mr. Loveday was never anything than grave when Nansie read aloud to him extracts from her husband's letters.
"Who is Mr. Seymour?" he asked.
"A gentleman," replied Nansie.
"What is he, I mean?" was Mr. Loveday's next question.
Nansie shook her head. "I have no idea."
"Has your husband any idea?"
"I suppose he has."
"You only suppose, Nansie."
"Yes, uncle, I can do nothing else, because Kingsley has never said anything about it."
"Surely, if he really knew," persisted Mr. Loveday, "he would not be so silent on the subject."
"Perhaps you are right, uncle; perhaps Kingsley does not really know."
"If Mr. Seymour were travelling with any specific object in view, there would be no need for secrecy. Say that he were an enthusiast, that he had a craze, no matter in what shape, he would not disguise it."
"Certainly not, uncle. Mr. Seymour must be travelling simply for pleasure."
"Which is not a simple matter, Nansie," observed Mr. Loveday, "when a man runs after it. I can imagine few things more laborious and less likely of a satisfactory result. Now, Nansie, what are your husband's duties in his employment?"
"He does not say, uncle."
"Do you think he has any?"
"I suppose so."
"More supposings, Nansie."
"What else can I say, uncle?"
"Nothing, my dear, and I am to blame for worrying you. We will drop the subject."
"No," said Nansie, earnestly, "please do not drop it."
"Why should we continue it, Nansie?"
"Because," replied Nansie, with a slight flush on her face, "I am afraid you are doing Kingsley an injustice."
"I should be sorry to do that," said Mr. Loveday, very seriously.
"I know you would," responded Nansie, in a tone of affection, "and that is why I want to set you right. You think that Kingsley is concealing something from me. He is not; he loves me too well. You think that I need some one to defend me. I do not. It is only when a person is wronged or oppressed that he needs a defender. No one has ever wronged or oppressed me. On the contrary, every one in the world is kind to me--that is," she added hastily in correction, for she thought of her husband's parents, "every one who knows me. Now you, uncle," she said, wistfully and tenderly, "before I came here I dare say you had no great regard for me."
"I had not, Nansie."
"It was only because you made a promise to my dear father out of your kind heart, and because you are an honorable man who would not break his word, that you welcomed me at first. And perhaps, too," her voice faltered a little here, "because I resemble my mother, for whom you had an affection."
She paused, uncertain whether she had gone too far; but he inclined his head kindly towards her, and said,
"You are speaking justly, Nansie. Go on, if you have anything more to say."
"Yes, uncle, I have something more to say. That was your feeling for me at first; but since then--I say it humbly and gratefully--I have been happy in the belief that I have learned something for myself."
"You have," said Mr. Loveday. "I love you, Nansie."
"It is so sweet to me to know it, dear uncle," said Nansie, with tears in her eyes, "that I am enabled to bear Kingsley's absence--I hope and pray it will not be for long--with courage and resignation. And because of that, because of the love which unites us, you must think well of Kingsley--you must think always well of him. Uncle, he is the soul of honor, truth, and unselfishness. When he told me he loved me, and asked me to marry him, he did not weigh the consequences, as nearly every other man in his position would have done."
"He was rash," observed Mr. Loveday.
"Would you censure him for it? Did he not behave as an honorable, noble-hearted man?"
"Undoubtedly. He has a worthy champion in his wife."
"Ah, but it would distress me immeasurably to feel that you believe he needs a champion, or I a defender. You do not know him, uncle; when you do you will not fail to love him. I do not say that he is worldly wise, or quite fitted yet to battle with the future, but that it is his earnest desire to fit himself for what I feel will be a great struggle, and to perform his duty in a manly way. No man can do more, and, whatever may be our future, I shall love and honor him to the last."
"My dear Nansie," said Mr. Loveday, "say that you are partly right in your views of my feelings for your husband; be content now to know that you have won me over to his side."
"I am indeed content to know it, uncle."
"But should that deprive a man of his right to judge actions and circumstances? We sometimes condemn those whom we love best."
"It should not deprive him of the right," replied Nansie, adding, with what her husband would have told her was feminine logic, "but you must not condemn Kingsley."
"I will not. I will apply ordinary tests. When he took the situation with Mr. Seymour, did he know anything of his employer?"
"Nothing; but we were in great stress, and Kingsley was compelled to take advantage of his opportunity."
"Admitting that. But a man must face his responsibilities, and discharge them to the best of his ability."
"Yes, uncle, to the best of his ability."
"My dear, had you been a man, you would have made a very good special pleader. To continue. What is your husband's salary?"
A look of distress was in Nansie's eyes, and she did not reply. "I infer," said Mr. Loveday, replying for her, "that you do not know."
"I fear I do," said Nansie, in a low tone.
"Tell me, then."
"I fear, uncle, that there is no salary attached to the situation."
"But there should be?"
"Yes, there should be."
"Mr. Seymour, wishing to engage a gentleman as part companion and part secretary, must have been prepared to enter into some kind of monetary arrangement. Whose fault is it that the arrangement was not made? I will reply for you again. It must have been Kingsley's fault. Not very practical, Nansie."
"I am afraid, uncle," said Nansie, speaking slowly, and as though she were about to commit an act of treason, "that Kingsley is not very practical."
"But how is a man to get along in the world," said Mr. Loveday, with a curious mixture of decision and helplessness, "who thus neglects his opportunities? I am speaking entirely in a spirit of kindness, Nansie."
"Yes, uncle, there's no occasion for you to remind me of that. But how can you blame Kingsley? He meets Mr. Seymour as one gentleman meets another. He is too delicate-minded to broach the subject of salary, and perhaps Mr. Seymour forgets it."
"No, child, Mr. Seymour does not forget it. He takes advantage of your husband, and the consequence is that he is using a man's services without paying for them. And the consequence, further, is that valuable time is being wasted and misspent. Two or three weeks ago you commenced to read to me something in one of your husband's letters, and you suddenly stopped and did not continue. It was about money. Am I wrong in supposing that what you were about to read was in reply to something you had written in a letter to your husband?"
"You are not wrong, uncle."
"Plainly, you asked him whether he could not send you a little money?"
"Yes."
"And that was his reply. I can judge what it was."
"Uncle, he had none to send. He is entirely dependent upon Mr. Seymour."
"Who is not liberal?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Who is not only not liberal, but unjust?"
"But that is not Kingsley's fault," pleaded Nansie.
"I am not so sure. Child, child, you and your husband are like the children in the wood, and you know their fate."
"I should be content," said Nansie, mournfully, for a moment overwhelmed--only for a moment; her mood changed instantly, and with indescribable tenderness she said: "But I want to live--to live!"
There was a new note in her voice, and in her eyes a dreamy look of exquisite happiness which caused Mr. Loveday to wonder as he gazed upon her. Never had she been so beautiful as she was at that moment. In the expression on her face was something sacred and holy, and Mr. Loveday saw that she was deeply stirred by emotions beyond his ken.
"Nansie!"
"Yes, uncle," said Nansie, awaking from her dream.
"You heard what I said?"
"Yes, uncle--but you must not blame Kingsley; you must not blame my dear husband."
"I will not--strongly. Only I should like you to consider what would have been your position if you had not found me in the London wilderness, or, having found me, if I had proved to be hard-hearted instead of a loving uncle."
"What is the use of my considering it," she asked, in a tone of tender playfulness, "when I did find you, and when you proved yourself to be the best of men? It would be waste of time, would it not? Confess now."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Loveday, "I should almost be justified in being cross with you if I did not suspect that any unreasonableness in our conversation must spring from me, in consequence of my not being familiar with the ways of women. But you shall not drive me completely from my point. For your sake, Nansie, I regret that I am poor. I never wished so much to be rich as I do at the present time. You are attending to me, Nansie?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Has your husband sent you any money at all since he has been away?"
"None, uncle. He has not had it to send."
"Yet you are in need of a little?"
She looked at him, and her lips trembled slightly; and then again, a moment afterwards, the same expression of dreamy happiness stole into her face which he had observed before.
"Yes, uncle, a little, a very little. But I shall manage; I have already earned a trifle."
"In what way?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.
"I got some needlework to do, and am being paid for it."
"But in the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Loveday, "where and when do you do your work?"
"In my room of a night, uncle," replied Nansie, blushing.
"When we are all asleep," said Mr. Loveday, with the nearest approach to a grumble she had heard from his lips. "This must not continue, Nansie. You will do your work here of an evening and during the day, if it is necessary."
"Yes, uncle, I will obey you. But--" her form swayed slightly, and she was compelled to make an effort to keep herself from swooning--"you must not be angry with me. I am not very strong just now."
She brought her work down, and went on with it before his eyes, and there was perfect harmony between them. But still, in the stillness of her room, when her uncle supposed her to be abed, her fingers were busy in their labor of tenderest love.