The event which occurred in Mr. Loveday's house in Church Alley, and which caused him perhaps the greatest excitement in his life, will be explained by the following letter which Nansie wrote to her husband two months after the conversation between her and her uncle narrated in the last chapter:
"My Own Dear Kingsley,-- At length I am strong enough to write to you, and it is a great joy to me to sit down once more to speak to the beloved wanderer of whom I think night and day. I am sure that you must be with me, in spirit, even in my dreamless sleep. You will not be sorry to know that you are not the only one now the thought of whom makes my heart a garden of flowers. I have a sweet treasure--surely the sweetest that ever blessed a happy woman--lying at my feet, and you will not begrudge me. Oh, my dear Kingsley, if you were with me at this moment, and we were looking down together on the lovely, innocent face of our darling, you would think as I do, that heaven itself was shining in the little room in which I am writing! Everything is so strangely beautiful that I can scarcely believe I am living the same life I lived till I became a happy, happy mother. It is not the same--it is sweeter, purer, more precious; I seem to hear angelic music even in the silence which surrounds me. I know what produces it. I put my face close to my darling's mouth, and I can just hear her soft breathing."You will forgive me, will you not, for not having written to you for so long a time? I could not help it, you see. I know from your last letter that you received the one my uncle wrote to you, and that you would have flown to my side if you had had the means. It seems so cruel that you should be in such straits for money. Why do you not ask Mr. Seymour straightforwardly to pay you what he must owe you? It must be a good sum by this time. But perhaps it is wrong of me to say to you, why do you not do this or that?--for surely you must know what is best to be done, and the right time to do it. It is easy to judge for others, is it not, my dearest? I have the fullest faith and confidence in you; and, my dear, you must not worry about me. My uncle is the dearest friend I could have met with. He is kindness itself, and I feel that he loves me as if I were his daughter. And I have money--not much, Kingsley, dear, but enough--to go on with. Before baby came I earned some, and presently, when she can crawl, and walk, and speak--oh, Kingsley, the wonder of it!--I shall earn more. Uncle is so good to me that I need very little; but still some things are necessary which uncle does not understand about, and he has not more than he knows what to do with. Then, of course, I am an expense to him; but he never makes the least mention of that--he is too considerate, and I know he is glad to have me with him--and to have baby, too, although I fancy he does not quite know yet what to make of the darling. Indeed, I half think he is frightened of her. I see him sometimes looking at her when she is asleep with such a funny look in his eyes that I can hardly keep from laughing. The idea of a great big man being frightened of a little baby! But, Kingsley, dear (I would not confess it to anybody but you), I, too, am frightened of baby a little sometimes, when she lies in my lap, staring at me solemnly with her beautiful eyes--the color of yours, dearest--wide, wide open, without even so much as a blink in them. She seems to be reading me through and through. 'What are you thinking of, darling?' I whisper to her; and though of course she cannot answer me, I am sure that she understands, and that I should be very much astonished if I knew what was passing through her mind. She is going to be a very wise little body--I can see that--and very sweet and beautiful, and a great blessing to us. But she is that already, the greatest, the most precious that has ever fallen to my lot. You see, my dear husband, I look upon baby and you as almost one person; I cannot think of one without the other, it is impossible to separate you; so that when I say that baby is the greatest blessing that was ever given to me, I mean you as well as our darling...."I have been obliged to stop; baby woke up, and we had a happy hour together. Now she is asleep again. She is so good, not at all fretful, as some babies are, and when she cries (which is really not often) it is a good healthy cry, which makes uncle say that her lungs are in fine condition...."I have been reading over what I have written, and I stopped at the part where I speak of baby presently being able to walk and talk. Long before that, my dear Kingsley, I hope that you will be with us, and that we may be all living together. Do not think I am desirous of urging you to any other course than that which you consider right, but the happiness of our being together again would be so great! Is there any chance of Mr. Seymour coming to England and settling down here, and keeping you as his secretary at a fair salary? Then we could have a little home of our own, and you could go to Mr. Seymour in the morning and come home in the evening, and we should have one day in the week to ourselves. It is not a very great deal to ask for, but if some kind fairy would only grant it I should be supremely happy. Surely, surely, the future must have something good in store for us!"I have told you in my letters all about Timothy Chance, and how good and helpful he has been. Well, my dear Kingsley, until baby came I looked upon Timothy as my knight, my own special cavalier whom I could depend upon for service at any hour I chose to call upon him; but I think now that he has divided his allegiance, at least half of it going to baby. Timothy is an extraordinary lad, and uncle has a great opinion of him. Putting his duties in uncle's business out of the question, and putting baby and me out of the question, Timothy seems to have only one idea--eggs and fowls. He is now the proud owner of four fine hens, and his spare minutes (not too many) are devoted to them. He reads up every book he can lay hands upon that treats of fowls, and is really very clever in his proceedings. He made me laugh by saying: 'If fowls won't lay they must be made to lay;' and he studies up food to coax them. It is very amusing; but Timothy is so earnest that you cannot help respecting him, and respecting him more because he is successful. He shows me his figures, and is really making a profit every month. He is now drawing out plans for constructing a movable fowl-house, in compartments, each compartment accommodating eight fowls, and capable of being taken down and put up again in a wonderfully short time. Uncle says the plans are as nearly perfect as possible, and that he should not wonder if Timothy made a fortune one of these fine days. Timothy has insisted upon my accepting two new-laid eggs a week. Uncle and he had some words about them at first, uncle wanting to pay for them and Timothy refusing to accept any money; but the good lad was so hurt and took it so much to heart that I persuaded uncle to let him have his way."Why do I write all this to you, dear Kingsley? To show you that I am in the midst of kindness, and that although you have not as yet been very fortunate, there is much to be grateful for. Remember our conversation, my darling, and never, never lose heart. Courage! courage! as you have said many times; and it will help you to feel assured that there are loving hearts beating here for you, and friends holding out willing hands. Why, if a poor, imperfectly educated lad like Timothy looks forward to making a fortune out of such simple things as eggs, what may you not do, with your advantages and education? All will be well, and there is a happy future before us."I am tired, and have a dozen things to do, or I would keep on talking to you for hours. But I must really finish now. Baby sends you her dearest, dearest love. Indeed she does. I asked her, and upon my word, Kingsley, dear, she crowed and laughed. She is the most wonderful thing in the world, there is no doubt of that. I kiss her a hundred times for her dear papa, and I blow her kisses to you, and kiss them into the words I am writing. Our hearts are with you; our dearest love is yours. Oh, my darling! to close this letter is like bidding you good-bye again. Take all our love, which is forever blossoming for you. I close my eyes, and think that you are by my side; and I press you to my heart, which beats only for you and our darling child. What name shall I give her?"Good-bye, and God bless and guard you, my own dear love."Your faithful, loving wife,Nansie."
"My Own Dear Kingsley,-- At length I am strong enough to write to you, and it is a great joy to me to sit down once more to speak to the beloved wanderer of whom I think night and day. I am sure that you must be with me, in spirit, even in my dreamless sleep. You will not be sorry to know that you are not the only one now the thought of whom makes my heart a garden of flowers. I have a sweet treasure--surely the sweetest that ever blessed a happy woman--lying at my feet, and you will not begrudge me. Oh, my dear Kingsley, if you were with me at this moment, and we were looking down together on the lovely, innocent face of our darling, you would think as I do, that heaven itself was shining in the little room in which I am writing! Everything is so strangely beautiful that I can scarcely believe I am living the same life I lived till I became a happy, happy mother. It is not the same--it is sweeter, purer, more precious; I seem to hear angelic music even in the silence which surrounds me. I know what produces it. I put my face close to my darling's mouth, and I can just hear her soft breathing.
"You will forgive me, will you not, for not having written to you for so long a time? I could not help it, you see. I know from your last letter that you received the one my uncle wrote to you, and that you would have flown to my side if you had had the means. It seems so cruel that you should be in such straits for money. Why do you not ask Mr. Seymour straightforwardly to pay you what he must owe you? It must be a good sum by this time. But perhaps it is wrong of me to say to you, why do you not do this or that?--for surely you must know what is best to be done, and the right time to do it. It is easy to judge for others, is it not, my dearest? I have the fullest faith and confidence in you; and, my dear, you must not worry about me. My uncle is the dearest friend I could have met with. He is kindness itself, and I feel that he loves me as if I were his daughter. And I have money--not much, Kingsley, dear, but enough--to go on with. Before baby came I earned some, and presently, when she can crawl, and walk, and speak--oh, Kingsley, the wonder of it!--I shall earn more. Uncle is so good to me that I need very little; but still some things are necessary which uncle does not understand about, and he has not more than he knows what to do with. Then, of course, I am an expense to him; but he never makes the least mention of that--he is too considerate, and I know he is glad to have me with him--and to have baby, too, although I fancy he does not quite know yet what to make of the darling. Indeed, I half think he is frightened of her. I see him sometimes looking at her when she is asleep with such a funny look in his eyes that I can hardly keep from laughing. The idea of a great big man being frightened of a little baby! But, Kingsley, dear (I would not confess it to anybody but you), I, too, am frightened of baby a little sometimes, when she lies in my lap, staring at me solemnly with her beautiful eyes--the color of yours, dearest--wide, wide open, without even so much as a blink in them. She seems to be reading me through and through. 'What are you thinking of, darling?' I whisper to her; and though of course she cannot answer me, I am sure that she understands, and that I should be very much astonished if I knew what was passing through her mind. She is going to be a very wise little body--I can see that--and very sweet and beautiful, and a great blessing to us. But she is that already, the greatest, the most precious that has ever fallen to my lot. You see, my dear husband, I look upon baby and you as almost one person; I cannot think of one without the other, it is impossible to separate you; so that when I say that baby is the greatest blessing that was ever given to me, I mean you as well as our darling....
"I have been obliged to stop; baby woke up, and we had a happy hour together. Now she is asleep again. She is so good, not at all fretful, as some babies are, and when she cries (which is really not often) it is a good healthy cry, which makes uncle say that her lungs are in fine condition....
"I have been reading over what I have written, and I stopped at the part where I speak of baby presently being able to walk and talk. Long before that, my dear Kingsley, I hope that you will be with us, and that we may be all living together. Do not think I am desirous of urging you to any other course than that which you consider right, but the happiness of our being together again would be so great! Is there any chance of Mr. Seymour coming to England and settling down here, and keeping you as his secretary at a fair salary? Then we could have a little home of our own, and you could go to Mr. Seymour in the morning and come home in the evening, and we should have one day in the week to ourselves. It is not a very great deal to ask for, but if some kind fairy would only grant it I should be supremely happy. Surely, surely, the future must have something good in store for us!
"I have told you in my letters all about Timothy Chance, and how good and helpful he has been. Well, my dear Kingsley, until baby came I looked upon Timothy as my knight, my own special cavalier whom I could depend upon for service at any hour I chose to call upon him; but I think now that he has divided his allegiance, at least half of it going to baby. Timothy is an extraordinary lad, and uncle has a great opinion of him. Putting his duties in uncle's business out of the question, and putting baby and me out of the question, Timothy seems to have only one idea--eggs and fowls. He is now the proud owner of four fine hens, and his spare minutes (not too many) are devoted to them. He reads up every book he can lay hands upon that treats of fowls, and is really very clever in his proceedings. He made me laugh by saying: 'If fowls won't lay they must be made to lay;' and he studies up food to coax them. It is very amusing; but Timothy is so earnest that you cannot help respecting him, and respecting him more because he is successful. He shows me his figures, and is really making a profit every month. He is now drawing out plans for constructing a movable fowl-house, in compartments, each compartment accommodating eight fowls, and capable of being taken down and put up again in a wonderfully short time. Uncle says the plans are as nearly perfect as possible, and that he should not wonder if Timothy made a fortune one of these fine days. Timothy has insisted upon my accepting two new-laid eggs a week. Uncle and he had some words about them at first, uncle wanting to pay for them and Timothy refusing to accept any money; but the good lad was so hurt and took it so much to heart that I persuaded uncle to let him have his way.
"Why do I write all this to you, dear Kingsley? To show you that I am in the midst of kindness, and that although you have not as yet been very fortunate, there is much to be grateful for. Remember our conversation, my darling, and never, never lose heart. Courage! courage! as you have said many times; and it will help you to feel assured that there are loving hearts beating here for you, and friends holding out willing hands. Why, if a poor, imperfectly educated lad like Timothy looks forward to making a fortune out of such simple things as eggs, what may you not do, with your advantages and education? All will be well, and there is a happy future before us.
"I am tired, and have a dozen things to do, or I would keep on talking to you for hours. But I must really finish now. Baby sends you her dearest, dearest love. Indeed she does. I asked her, and upon my word, Kingsley, dear, she crowed and laughed. She is the most wonderful thing in the world, there is no doubt of that. I kiss her a hundred times for her dear papa, and I blow her kisses to you, and kiss them into the words I am writing. Our hearts are with you; our dearest love is yours. Oh, my darling! to close this letter is like bidding you good-bye again. Take all our love, which is forever blossoming for you. I close my eyes, and think that you are by my side; and I press you to my heart, which beats only for you and our darling child. What name shall I give her?
"Good-bye, and God bless and guard you, my own dear love.
"Your faithful, loving wife,Nansie."
History repeats itself. The fortunes of Timothy Chance were turned by a fire--whether for good or evil, so far as regards himself, had yet to be proved. He was to go through another experience of a similar kind, in which, as on the first occasion, those who befriended him were the greatest sufferers.
Nansie had to wait for more than a month before she received an answer to her last letter from Kingsley. He and his employer, it appears, had been continually on the move, and the letter which Mr. Loveday had written to him could not have reached him. It was by a lucky chance that Nansie's letter with the news that he was a father fell into his hands after a long delay; and she gathered from his reply that some of his own communications to her must have miscarried. This last letter which she received was far from encouraging. It was in parts wild and incoherent; the cheerfulness which had pervaded his previous missives was missing; the writer seemed to be losing hope.
"I am learning some hard lessons," Kingsley wrote, "and am beginning to doubt whether there is any truth or justice left in the world."
This was distressingly vague, for no explanation of Kingsley's moody reflection was forthcoming. It did not even appear that he was drawing consolation, as he had often done during his absence, from the thought that Nansie was ever ready with open arms to comfort him.
"Instead of advancing myself," Kingsley wrote, "by the step I have taken, I have thrown myself back. It is a miserable confession to make, but there it is, and wherever I go I see, not the shadow, but the actual presentments of misery and injustice. Can any man inform me under what conditions of life happiness is to be found?"
As was to be expected, the letter was not wanting in affectionate endearments and in expressions of joy at the birth of their child. "He is miserable," thought Nansie, because we are not together. "When we are once more united, will it be wise to consent to another separation?" She felt that he had need for the companionship of a stronger nature than his own, and she prayed for the time to come quickly when she would be with him to keep his courage from fainting within him.
The very next day she was comforted by the receipt of another letter from Kingsley, in which was displayed his more cheerful, and perhaps more careless characteristics.
"What could I have been thinking of," he said, "when I wrote you such a strange, stupid letter as I did yesterday? I must have lost my wits, and I hasten to atone for it by sending you another in a better and more natural vein. Burn the first, my dear Nansie, so that it may not be in existence to reproach me. A nice piece of inconsistency you have married, my dear! I do not remember ever to have been so cast down as I have been for two or three days past; but I should keep that to myself, and not burden you with a share of my despondency. It has been my habit always to look with a light spirit upon circumstances, whether they were in my favor or against me; and if I am to replace that by becoming savage and morose, I shall be laying up for myself a fine stock of unhappiness. So I determine, for your sake and mine, and for the sake of your dear little bairn, to whistle dull care away, and to make the best of things instead of the worst. Here am I, then, my usual self again, loving you with all my heart and soul, longing to be with you, longing to hold our dear bairn in my arms, longing to work to some good end. The question is, how to set about it, and what kind of end I am to work for. There is the difficulty--to fall into one's groove, as we have decided when we have talked about things, and then to go sailing smoothly along. Yes, that is it, and we must set ourselves to work to find out the way. I may confess to you, my dear wife, that up to this point success has not crowned my efforts; in point of fact, to put it plainly, I am thus far a failure. However, I cannot see how I am to blame. If I had had the gift of prophecy I should never have joined Mr. Seymour, but how was one to tell what would occur? Now, my dear, you urge me to make some approaches to Mr. Seymour with respect to money matters. Well, awkward as the position is, I have endeavored to do so, but have never got far enough, I am afraid, to make myself understood. My fault, I dare say, but just consider. There is nothing of the dependent in my relations with Mr. Seymour; he received me as an equal and we have associated as equals; when we first met there was no question raised as to a salary, and there has been none since. How, then, am I to go to him and say: 'You are indebted to me in such or such a sum'? It would be so coarse, and I do not see justification for it. If I have made a mistake I must suffer for it, and must not call upon another person to do so for me. That would not be consistent, or honorable, or gentlemanly. After all, my dearest, the standard of conduct is not arbitrary. What it would be right for Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith to do would not be right for me, and the reverse. What is to be done, then? Having made a mistake, I am too proud--perhaps not quite broken in yet--to get out of it in the most honorable way I can. It is in my power to say to Mr. Seymour: 'A thousand thanks for the pleasure you have afforded me and for the courtesies you have extended towards me, but my time is precious, and I must not keep away from my wife any longer.' That would be all right, but to follow it up with a request for a loan to enable me to get back to England would be so mean and coarse that I could never bring my tongue to utter the words. Can you understand my position, my darling? It is a humiliation to me to ask the question, but I am in a cleft stick, and am positively powerless to help myself. What a pity, what a pity that my original idea of living in a travelling caravan could not be carried out! Do you remember that delicious evening, dear? I should like to pass such another, and I dare say I should commit myself again to the foolish wish that it would last forever.
"Now, my dearest, I am quite cheerful and light-hearted, but there is something I must tell you. I must warn you first, though, that this is a secret between ourselves; on no account must it be disclosed to your uncle or to any other person. Much may hang upon it--I do not know what; I prefer not to think; but at all events I must do nothing base or treacherous. If confidence has been reposed in me I must not betray it. But mark what I say, dear; it is only lately that I have come to a knowledge or a suspicion of certain things, and no hint must escape me of that knowledge or suspicion (it is a mixture of both) to any except yourself.
"In speaking of Mr. Seymour you would naturally suppose that you were speaking of an Englishman, the name being unmistakably English. But Mr. Seymour is not an Englishman, and therefore the name must be assumed. As to this I have no definite information, but it is so certainly. It did not occur to me to mention to you that Mr. Seymour was probably a foreigner, the matter seeming to be of such small importance. He speaks English fluently, with the slightest accent; speaks also French, German, Italian, and Russian, as to the precisely correct accent of any one of which I am not a competent judge. I am not given to curiosity, and have a habit of believing what I am told; that is, I do not look much below the surface of things. Now, this may lead a man into a scrape.
"Were I alone, without wife and child, I should, I dare say, allow myself to drift according to circumstances, but I am bound to consider you. Well, then, Mr. Seymour, with whose right name I am not acquainted, has ideas with which I am not sure whether I agree; he has a mission with which I am not sure whether I sympathize. There are large movements in public affairs which require deep investigation before one finally and firmly makes up one's mind. Take, for example, the revolutionary movement--the idea that all people should be upon an equality, the mission to bring this about. I had better not write to greater length upon this theme. If you do not quite understand my meaning I will explain it more fully when we are together again. In saying that I am deeply anxious to get back to England soon, and that I must by some means manage it, I am thinking more of you than of myself. Shortly before writing the letter which I sent to you yesterday, I allowed myself to be led away by certain disclosures which were made to me for the purpose of binding me to a certain course--Mr. Seymour and the friends he meets and makes thinking me ripe for it, perhaps, and giving me credit for being cleverer than I am; and it was an amateur enthusiasm which drove me to conclusions to which I would prefer not to commit myself--again, more for you and our dear little one's sake than for my own. There! The confession is made; perhaps you can thread your way through my mysterious allusions. And now, my darling--"
Then the letter went on, and was concluded with expressions of love and tenderness, and occasional drifting into whimsical by-paths, in which the nature of the old Kingsley Nansie loved so well was faithfully depicted.
On that evening Nansie nerved her courage to speak to her uncle about Kingsley's desire to return to England, and her own that he should do so without delay.
"He is wasting his time," she said, "and cannot but feel it deeply that I am living upon your kindness."
"To which you are heartily welcome, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.
"I know that, dear uncle; but is it as it should be?"
Without answering the question Mr. Loveday said: "Certainly it would be better that your husband should be at some profitable work. It is a pity, Nansie, that you did not marry a man who was accustomed to work."
"It is not a pity, uncle. There is no better man in the world than Kingsley."
"It was only a reflection of mine, my dear," said Mr. Loveday. "There is no reason why Kingsley should not do well. But the getting back--"
"There is the difficulty, uncle," said Nansie, looking at him anxiously; "the getting back to London, and the commencement of a career."
"Well, my dear, we must do what we can. You would like to send him sufficient to bring him from foreign lands into our happy family circle. Understand, Nansie, that we are to live together. You have made me so accustomed to you that if you were to leave my house you would leave desolation behind you. I shall insist upon fair play. Unfortunately, funds are rather low just now, but I will manage it. Will ten pounds be enough?"
"I think it will, uncle. It must be as a loan, though we shall never be able to repay you for what you have done."
"There is nothing to repay, Nansie; you have given me more than value. Now we will shut up shop."
"So early?"
"Yes, if you want your husband back so quickly." He called Timothy, and gave him instructions to close. "I know where I can sell a parcel of books, and I must go and strike the bargain. I will take Timothy with me. While we are gone, write to your husband, and tell him that you will send him a draft for ten pounds to-morrow. Say, if you like, that you have borrowed it from me; it will make him feel more independent, and will show that he has a sincere friend in your old uncle. There, my dear! there is nothing to make a fuss over. A nice world this would be if we did not lend a helping hand to each other!"
While he was gone Nansie wrote her letter, and, baby being asleep, ran out to post it. It was long since she had felt so happy and light-hearted. Kingsley was coming back; her beloved husband would soon be with them. Grave troubles had already entered into her life, but they seemed to vanish as she dropped her letter into the post-office box. All was bright again; Kingsley was coming back.
Returning, she related the good news to baby, and told her she must put on her best looks to welcome her papa. "And how happy we shall be, baby," she said, kissing the child again and again, "now and for evermore! You see, baby, papa is never going away again; never! never!"
The room in which she sat was the first floor front, looking out upon Church Alley, and she saw a little ragged girl lingering outside. The girl looked hungry, and Nansie, with her baby in her arms, ran down-stairs, and from the house, and gave the poor girl two-pence, which was all the money she had in her purse. The girl scudded away to the cook-shop, and Nansie went back to her room.
"There are so many," she said, addressing the baby again, "so many hundreds--ah! I am afraid, baby, so many thousands--worse off than we are; ever so much worse off, my darling pet. For they haven't got papa, have they? and they haven't got you! But the idea of my thinking that we are anything but well off, when we are going to be as happy as the days are long! I ought to be ashamed of myself, oughtn't I? You mustn't tell papa that I ever had a thought of repining, or it would grieve him. You must know, baby--I hope you are listening properly, sweet, with your great beautiful eyes so wide open, and looking so wise as you do--you must know, baby, that you have the very best and noblest papa that a baby ever had or ever could have. And he is coming home, and you must be very, very good, or you will frighten him away!"
Then she sang the child asleep, and sat in the dusk musing happily with her baby in her lap.
Suddenly she started to her feet with a look of alarm. She smelled fire. Snatching up her baby she ran into the rooms in which fires had been burning, but all was safe there, and she saw no cause for alarm. She was standing in the sitting-room looking about in her endeavor to account for the smell when a cry of "Fire!" from the adjoining house lent wings to her feet, and the next moment she was in the court, with a number of people about her in a state of great excitement. As to the cause of her alarm there was no doubt now. Tongues of flame darted from the windows, and instantaneously, as it seemed, slid into Mr. Loveday's, shop. Hustled this way and that, and pressing her baby close to her breast, Nansie was so distracted that she could not afterwards give an intelligible account of what she saw; except that there appeared to be thousands of people thronging into Church Alley and being thrust back by the police, that the air was filled with flame and smoke and wild cries, that women were wringing their hands and screaming that they were ruined, that fire-engines were dashing up the narrow path, and firemen were climbing on to the roofs of the houses, and that, turning faint and reeling to the ground, she was caught by some humane person and borne to a safe house, where she and her baby received attention. She was unconscious of this kindness for some little while, and when she came to her senses Mr. Loveday and Timothy were bending over her. Timothy's face was quite white, and he was in a state of great agitation, but Mr. Loveday was composed and grave. The people in the room were saying it was a shame that the police would not allow him to go to his burning shop, but he, in answer, said that they were right in preventing him.
"What good could I do?" he said. "I should only be a hinderance. My great anxiety was for you, Nansie, and your baby, and when I heard you were here I came on at once. You must have received a terrible fright, my dear. You were not hurt, I hope?"
"No," she answered, she was not hurt, and she marvelled at his composure. Some other person in the throng was commenting audibly upon his calmness, and received for answer the reply from a neighbor that Mr. Loveday must be well insured.
"No," he said, turning to the speakers, "I am not insured for a penny."
They were surprised to hear this bad news, and poured condolence upon him.
"Uncle," whispered Nansie, pulling his head down to hers, "will it hurt you very much?"
"That has to be seen, my dear," he replied, with a cheerful smile.
"Not in spirits," she continued, gazing at him in pity and admiration; "I know now what real courage is. But in your business."
"If what I've heard is true," said Mr. Loveday, "I am being burned out stock and block, and shall have no business left. In which case, Timothy, you will lose a situation."
"Don't think of me, sir," said Timothy, ruefully. "Think of yourself."
"I shall have plenty of time to do that, my lad."
"This is the second time," said Timothy, "that I've been burned out of a situation. I had better not take another. I do nothing but bring misfortune upon my masters."
"Nonsense, Timothy, nonsense. It is the fortune of war, and we must fight through these defeats as best we can."
He asked for the mistress of the house they were in, and inquired whether she had a furnished room to let. There happened to be one fortunately on the second floor, and Mr. Loveday at once engaged it, and assisted Nansie up-stairs. They had hardly been in the room a moment when the landlady appeared with a cradle for baby.
"It ain't mine," she observed; "Mrs. Smithson, next door, run and got it for you. She's a good creature is Mrs. Smithson, and has had seven of her own. She expects her next in about three weeks."
Nansie sent her thanks to Mrs. Smithson, and thanked the landlady also.
"Oh, that's all right," said the landlady. "Mothers are mothers, you know, and Mrs. Smithson is that fond of babies that it's my belief she could live on 'em." In which description of Mrs. Smithson's fondness for babies the landlady did not seem to consider that there was anything at all alarming. "And look here, my dear," she continued, "don't you take on. That's my advice--don't take on. The misfortune's bad enough, but there's worse, a thousand times. I'll see that you're nice and comfortable--and I say, Mr. Loveday, you can stop here a fortnight for nothing, you not being insured, and being always so kind and obliging to everybody. There's nobody better thought of than you, and it's a pity we ain't all of us rich."
"A great pity," said Mr. Loveday, shaking the landlady's hand, "and I am grateful to you for your offer; but I have no doubt we shall be able to scrape up the rent. If you could make my niece a cup of tea now."
"Ay, that I will," said the good woman, "and fresh, too, not the leavings; and she'll take it from me as a compliment, won't you, my dear?"
Nansie nodded with a cheerful smile, and the landlady, having leaned over the baby and kissed it softly, and declared that it was the sweetest, prettiest picture that ever was, departed to make the tea.
"That is the best of misfortunes like this," observed Mr. Loveday; "it brings out the bright side of human nature. Sudden prosperity often has the opposite effect."
"But is it true, uncle," said Nansie, "that you will lose everything--everything?"
"There will in all probability be salvage," said Mr. Loveday, thoughtfully, "worth a pound or two, perhaps; maybe less. I shall prepare myself for the worst. Who is there?"
This was in response to a knock at the door, and Timothy presented himself with four new-laid eggs.
"We will accept them, my lad," said Mr. Loveday. "How is the fire getting on?"
"They've got tight hold of it now, sir," replied Timothy, "and it's going down."
"And the shop, Timothy?" Timothy made no reply in words, but his face told the rueful tale. "Eh, well, it can't be helped. I'll be out presently and have a look round for myself. Yes," he continued, when Timothy was gone, "I shall be prepared for the worst. Then all will be profit that falls short of my anticipations. I might worry myself by lamenting that I did not get insured, but it would do no good. Let me get it over by declaring that it was a piece of inconceivable folly to neglect so necessary a safeguard. The mischief is that I seldom if ever kept a balance in cash. As fast as it came in I spent it in fresh stock; it was a mania of mine, and I have paid for it. I shall have to commence the world over again, that is all. Nansie, my dear, I regret what has occurred for your sake; it will, I fear, prevent my doing what I wished. We will not have anything hang over; it will be wisest to speak of what is in our minds. Did you write to your husband?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Is your letter posted?"
"Yes."
"Well, it cannot be recalled. If you will give me his address I will write to him before I go to bed, and make him acquainted with the calamity which has overtaken us. I think, Nansie, that I have learned something of your character since you came to me, and I give you credit for possessing courage."
"I am not easily daunted, uncle. We are all of us learning lessons as we pass through life."
"They come in different shapes to different persons, and those are wise who can profit by experience. Some persons are overwhelmed by visitations of trouble; to some they impart new strength and vigor. Let this be the case with us; let us resolve not to be cast down, but to be up and doing with the best courage we can summon to our aid. It is a matter for thankfulness that bodily we are uninjured, and that baby is safe and well."
"You are a true comforter, dear uncle," said Nansie, pressing his hand.
"We might continue talking for hours, and could add little more to what we have already said and resolved. Here is our good friend, the landlady, with the tea. I will leave you together, and go and see how things are getting on."
"There are three houses gutted, they say," said the landlady, "yours and the one on each side of it. It is a mercy the whole alley isn't down."
"It is, and I am glad for those who have escaped."
"Don't go without a cup of tea, Mr. Loveday," said the landlady; "I've brought up one for you. I thought you would prefer it in your own room, my dear," she said, addressing Nansie, "there's such a lot of gossiping going on down-stairs. Ah, that's sensible of you"--as Mr. Loveday took the cup of tea she poured out for him--"there's nothing like keeping up your strength.Youmust think of that, my dear, because of your baby. Half the neighborhood wanted to come up and see you, but I wouldn't let 'em. If I put my foot down upon one thing more than another, it's gossiping. They've found out how the fire occurred, Mr. Loveday."
"How was it?"
"It was that new lodger the Johnsons took in last week. He takes the room and keeps to it, and isn't known to do a stroke of work; he does nothing but drink. There was a lamp alight on the table, and some papers about. What does he do but upset the lamp, and then run away. He's drinking now at the 'Royal George.'"
"He was not hurt, then?"
"Not him! He had sense enough to run. Not that he could have done much good by stopping! But what I say is, he ought to be punished for it."
"So ought all confirmed drunkards. Fires are not the only mischief they cause. They break hearts and ruin useful lives. I will not be long, Nansie."
"What a man he is!" exclaimed the landlady, gazing after him admiringly. "There ain't another like him in all Whitechapel. Don't cry, my dear, don't cry; it won't be good for baby. With such a friend as your uncle, everything's sure to come right!"
Mr. Manners, the great contractor, sitting in his study at a table spread with legal documents and papers relating to his vast transactions, was informed by a man-servant that a stranger wished to see him.
"Who is he?" inquired Mr. Manners.
"I don't know, sir."
"Did he not give you his name?"
"I asked him for it, sir, and he said you did not know him, but that he came on very particular business, and must see you."
"Must!"
"That is what he said, sir."
Mr. Manners considered a moment. He had finished the writing upon which he had been engaged, and had a few minutes' leisure.
"What kind of man?"
"Neither one kind nor another, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"That he might be a gentleman, sir, and mightn't. It's hard to say."
"It generally is nowadays. Show him in."
The servant retired, and, ushering in Mr. Loveday, left the room.
"Well, sir?" said Mr. Manners. The contractor did not speak uncivilly, for the appearance of Mr. Loveday, who was fairly well attired, was in his favor; he might be a smaller contractor, or an inventor, or anything that was respectable.
"I have ventured to visit you, sir," said Mr. Loveday, without first seeking an introduction, "upon a matter of importance."
"My servant said upon particular business."
"He was scarcely correct, sir. I can hardly call my errand business, but it is no less important than the most important business."
"It is usual to send in a card, or a name."
"My name you will probably recognize, and I did not give it to the servant from fear that you might have refused to see me."
"This sounds like an intrusion. What may be your name?"
"Loveday, sir."
Mr. Manners did not start or betray agitation, but he looked keenly at his visitor. He was a man of method, and had on all occasions complete control over his passions. He recognized the name, the moment it was uttered, as that of the girl for whom his son had deserted him. Therefore, the name of an enemy; undoubtedly the name of an intruder.
"It is a name with which you suppose me to be familiar?"
"Yes, sir."
"I ask the question simply because there are coincidences, and I make it a rule to avoid mistakes. If you come from my son--"
"I do not, sir."
"But you are in association with him? You know him?"
"Only indirectly, sir. I have never seen your son."
"I refuse to take part in mysteries. You are related to the young woman for whom my son threw over his duty to me."
"I am the young lady's uncle."
"And your visit is in furtherance of an appeal from her or on her behalf?"
"On her behalf, but not from her. I did not inform her that I was coming."
"The information is of no interest to me. The appeal you speak of is of the usual kind. It is superfluous to ask if you are rich."
"I am not, sir."
"Poor?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
His frankness, his bearing, his aspect compelled a certain amount of respect, and it did not soften Mr. Manners to be made to feel this.
"Had you any hand in this marriage?" demanded Mr. Manners.
"None, sir. Had my advice been solicited, I should have been strongly against it. I am not going too far to say that I should not have sanctioned it, and should have thrown in what small amount of authority I possessed to prevent it, if your consent had not been first asked and obtained."
This view of the matter appeared to strike Mr. Manners, and he regarded his visitor with closer attention; but presently he frowned; it was as though the honor of the alliance was on Nansie's side instead of Kingsley's.
"I will not inquire into your reasons," he said, "except in so far as to ask whether your brother, the young woman's father, who, I understand, is dead--"
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"Whether he made any effort to prevent the marriage? I speak of it as a marriage, although I have my reasons for doubting whether it could have been legally entered into."
"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Loveday, much astonished.
"I decline discussion," said Mr. Manners. "I am not an idle speaker, and I know what I mean. We will call it a marriage. It does not affect the conduct of my son towards me. You heard my question. If you have an objection to answer it I shall not complain."
"I have no objection, sir. My brother knew nothing whatever of it until it was too late to interfere. The young people acted for themselves, without consulting a single person. It was a secret marriage."
Mr. Manners smiled. "Exactly. But my question is still not answered."
"My brother would have felt as I feel, sir. Without your sanction he would have withheld his consent, and would doubtless have succeeded in preventing the union."
"It would have been well if it had not taken place."
"I agree with you, sir."
Mr. Manners frowned again. His visitor was taking high ground.
"Come to the precise object of your visit," he said.
"The lamentable severance of the affectionate relations which existed between you and your son has been productive of much suffering. The young people have been driven hard--so hard that in the endeavor made by your son to obtain some sort of position which would hold out the hope of his being able to support her, they were compelled to separate. Your son went abroad and left his wife here in England, doubly orphaned, friendless, penniless, and unprotected. She appealed to me for shelter and temporary support, and I received her willingly, gladly. I will not indulge in sentiment, for I know you by repute to be a practical man, and it may be not only distasteful to you, but it may place me in a false light--as making a lame effort to influence you by means of which you may be suspicious; but it is due to my niece that I should declare in your presence that a sweeter, purer, more lovable woman does not breathe the breath of life. She is a lady, well-educated, gentle, and refined; and whatever value you may place upon my statement--which I solemnly avow to be true--you must agree that it is to the credit of your son that if he chose for his mate a lady who was poor, he at least chose one who, if fortune placed her in a high position, would be fitted to occupy it. Of this it is in your power to assure yourself, and you would then be able to judge whether I speak falsely or truly. Your son has been absent from England now for many months, and from his letters to his wife it may be gathered that he has been disappointed in his hopes and expectations, and it is certain that he has not benefited pecuniarily by the effort he made."
"He is reaping the fruits of his disobedience," said Mr. Manners.
Mr. Loveday made no comment on the interruption, but proceeded. "The consequence is that he has been unable to send his wife the smallest remittance. Until to-day this has been of no importance, as I was in a position to discharge the obligation I took upon myself when I received her into my home. Your son's affairs abroad became so desperate (and, in one vague sense, possibly compromising) that it was decided yesterday between my niece and myself to send him money to bring him home, in order that he might make another effort here to obtain a livelihood. I am speaking quite plainly, sir, and without ornament of any kind, and you will see to what straits your son is reduced."
"He is justly served," said Mr. Manners.
"It was but a small sum of money that was required," continued Mr. Loveday, "but I did not possess it. I had, however, books which I could sell--I am a bookseller by trade, sir--and last evening I left my house and place of business to negotiate the sale. Meanwhile my niece wrote to your son that I would supply her with the means for his return home, and that she would send him the money to-day. Upon my return, two or three hours later, I found my house in flames. The account of the fire, with my name, is in this morning's papers, and you may verify my statement. I was not insured, and nothing was saved. I am a beggar."
"It is, after all, then," said Mr. Manners, with a certain air of triumph, "on your own behalf that you are making this appeal to me."
"No, sir," replied Mr. Loveday, "I want nothing for myself; I shall rub along somehow, and hope to lift my head once more above adverse circumstance. My appeal is on behalf of your son's wife. I am unable to fulfil the promise I made to furnish her with the small sum required to bring your son home. I ask you respectfully and humbly to give it to me or to send it to her direct to this address." He laid a piece of paper, with writing on it, on the table. "If you would prefer to hand it to her personally she will call upon you for the purpose."
"You have spoken temperately," said Mr. Manners, with cold malice in his tones. "What is the amount you require?"
"Ten pounds, sir," replied Mr. Loveday, animated by a sudden and unexpected hope.
Mr. Manners touched a bell on his table. A servant appeared.
"Show this person to the door," he said.
"Is that your answer, sir?" asked Mr. Loveday, sadly.
"Show this person to the door," repeated Mr. Manners to the servant.
"I implore you," said Mr. Loveday, strongly agitated. "When I tell you that you have a grandchild but a few weeks old; that the poor lady, your son's wife, is in a delicate state of health--"
"Did you hear what I ordered?" said Mr. Manners to the servant, and repeated again: "Show this person to the door."