From that day commenced for Nansie and her uncle the hard and bitter battle of life. All that had gone before was light in comparison. Without money, without friends in a position to give them practical assistance, they had to depend upon themselves for the barest necessities. Confident and hopeful as he was, Mr. Loveday found it impossible to raise a new business out of the ashes of the fire which had ruined him.
"I must begin again," he said.
Had any employment offered he would have accepted it, however uncongenial it might have been; but nothing came his way. Golden apples only fall to those who have already won fortune's favors. To those most in need of them they are but visions.
He was not the kind of man to waste his time; besides, he knew how precious it was. An idle day now would be inviting even harder punishment in the future. As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet went to the mountain--that is, to a newspaper office, where he laid out a shilling or two in fourth and fifth editions, and bravely hawked his wares in the most likely thoroughfares. The day's labor over, he found himself the richer by nineteen pence.
"Come now," he said to Nansie, gayly, "that is not so bad. In a little while we shall grow rich."
His thought was, not that nineteen pence a day would make them rich, but would keep the wolf from the door. Strange that in this the most civilized of countries we should snatch a phrase pregnant with terror from savage times and savage lands.
"The great difficulty," he said, "is my voice. Young rascals beat me with their lungs. They ring out the news; I can but quaver out the tempting morsels of murders and suicides. How I envy the youngsters! Still I shall manage, I shall manage."
Both he and Nansie had secret thoughts which they kept from each other.
"Three mouths to feed," thought Nansie. "It would be easier for him had he but his own."
"She must not think she is a burden to me," thought Mr. Loveday, "or I shall lose her."
He would have suffered anything to prevent a separation. Strong human links grew out of her helplessness; he was Nansie's protector, and it made him glad. In those early days of the new struggle she could do nothing to help the home, which consisted of two very small rooms at the top of a working-man's house. The fright of the fire had weakened her, and weeks passed before she was strong enough to put her shoulder to the wheel. Her uncle did not tell her of his visit to Kingsley's father; silence was the truest mercy. And it happened that within a very short time doubts of Kingsley's faithfulness and honesty rose in his mind. The cause of this lay in the fact that from the day of the fire no letter from Kingsley reached them. It made him indignant to note Nansie's sufferings as day after day passed without news.
"Do you think the letters have miscarried?" she asked.
"Letters don't miscarry," replied Mr. Loveday.
She looked at him apprehensively; his voice, if not his words, conveyed an accusation against the absent one.
"You believe he has not written," she said.
"I am sure he has not written," said Mr. Loveday.
"Then something must have happened to him," she cried. "He is ill and penniless, and I cannot help him!"
"If I had but a magic ring," thought Mr. Loveday, but he said no word aloud.
He reasoned the matter out with himself. On one side an innocent, unworldly, trustful woman of the people; on the other, the son of a man of fabulous wealth awakened from his dream. For this summer-lover, here was a life of poverty and struggle; there, a life of luxury and ease. To judge by human laws, or, rather, by the laws which governed the class to which Kingsley Manners belonged, which path would the young man choose? "It is more than likely," thought Mr. Loveday, "that the scoundrel has made his peace with his father, and has resolved to cast her off. But he is her husband"-- His contemplations were suddenly arrested. Words uttered by Kingsley's father recurred to him. "I speak of it as a marriage, although I have my reasons for doubting whether it could have been legally entered into." What if there was some foundation for these words? What if they were true? He did not dare to speak to Nansie of this. She would have regarded it as base and disloyal, and the almost certain result would have been to part them forever. So he held his peace out of fear for himself, out of pity for her.
Thus three months passed. Nansie had regained her physical strength, but her heart was charged with woe.
"I cannot bear this suspense any longer," she said to her uncle. "I will go to Kingsley's father, and ask him if he has received any news of my husband."
Mr. Loveday did not attempt to dissuade her; he thought that good might come of the visit, if only in the opening of Nansie's eyes to Kingsley's perfidy, of which by this time he was fully convinced. He did not offer to accompany her, knowing that it would lessen the chances of Mr. Manners's seeing her.
She went early in the morning, and sent up her name to the great contractor, and received his reply that he would not receive her. She lingered a moment or two, and cast an imploring glance at the man-servant as though it were in his power to reverse the fiat, but the man looked impassively first at her, then at the door, and she left the house.
What a grand, stately house it was! It almost made her giddy to look to the top. She stood on the other side of the road, watching the door through which she had just passed; her mind was made up to wait, and at all risks to accost Mr. Manners when he came out. She had never seen him, but she was sure she would know him when he appeared. Kingsley had shown her the portrait of his father, and the likeness between them would render mistake impossible. She wondered whether it would have assisted her to bring her baby girl, and wondered, too, how a man so rich and powerful as Mr. Manners could have the heart to behave so harshly to his only child. She had gone no farther than the entrance hall of the stately mansion, but the evidences of wealth which met her eyes had impressed her more deeply than ever with the sacrifice Kingsley had made for her sake. A sense of wrong-doing came to her. She should not have accepted the sacrifice. She should have thought of the future, and should not have allowed herself to be led away by the impetuous passion of her lover. Even the duty she owed to her dear father had been neglected, and she had taken the most solemn step in life without consulting him. It was too late to turn back now, but could she not atone for the wrong she had done? If she said to Kingsley: "Dear husband, let us part; return to your father's home, to your father's heart, and I will never trouble you more;" would he accept the atonement? Would he, would he? A chill fell upon her heart, like the touch of an icy hand, but the sweet remembrances of the past, of the vows they had exchanged, of the undying love they had pledged to each other, brought gleams of sunshine to her. Kingsley had thrown in his lot with her for weal and woe. She would work, she would slave for him, and he should never hear one word of complaining from her lips. If only they were together again! They could be happy on a very little; she would make him happy; she would be bright and cheerful always, and he would draw gladness from her. Their baby was at home, waiting for a father's kisses, for a father's love. If he needed a stronger incentive to be true and faithful, he would find it in his child. Upon the mere suggestion of this possibility she stood up in defence of him. No stronger incentive was needed than the ties which already bound them together. But where was he? What was the reason of his long and heart-breaking silence?
She walked slowly up and down for an hour and more, never losing sight of the door of the rich man's house. She was determined not to go away without seeing him, if she had to remain the whole of the day. It was a weary, anxious time, and it was fortunate for her that she had not much longer to wait. The door opened, and Mr. Manners came forth.
How like he was to Kingsley!--only that his face was harder, and that all that was gentle and tender in Kingsley's face was depicted in his father's in hard, stern lines. But the likeness was unmistakable. He stopped as she glided swiftly to his side and timidly touched his sleeve.
"Well?"
His voice was as hard and stern as his face, and if she had not nerved herself to her task the opportunity would have been lost.
"You would not see me when I called at your house, sir, and I took the liberty of waiting for you here."
He did not ask who she was, and he showed no sign that he was touched by her gentle, pleading manner.
"What do you want?"
"I came, sir, to ask if you had any news of"--she stopped short at the name of Kingsley; he might have resented it as a familiarity--"of your son."
"Why come to me?"
"I do not know, sir," said Nansie, humbly, "whether I dreaded or hoped that you might relieve me of the trouble which is oppressing me; but you may have heard from him lately."
"I have not heard from him."
"Do you know nothing of him, sir?"
"Nothing; nor do I wish to know. When he left my house he was aware that the step he took put an end to all relations between us. I am not a man to be turned from my purpose. He chose his course deliberately, and set me at defiance."
"No, sir, no!" cried Nansie. "He had no thought of that."
"Words do not alter facts. He owed me a plain duty, and he ignored it for a stranger. The lures you used to entangle and ruin him have proved effectual. You led him on to his destruction, and you are reaping what you have sown. Finish your errand."
"It is finished, sir," said Nansie, turning mournfully away. "I cannot doubt that you have spoken truly, and that you have not heard from my husband. The last time he wrote to me he was in sore distress, without means to return home. I was in hopes that I should be able to send him a little money, but my hope was destroyed by a calamity which beggared the only friend I have."
"I have heard something in the same strain. You sent this only friend to me."
"No, sir, I did not. Do you mean my uncle?"
"I mean him. He came to me, as you know, and asked me for a sum of money to send abroad to my son."
"Indeed, indeed, sir, I did not know it."
"Which, doubtless," continued Mr. Manners, ignoring the contradiction, "he would have pocketed, with the satisfactory thought that he had got something out of me."
"You do my uncle great injustice, sir. He is noble and generous, and I honor him with my whole heart."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Manners, and there was a deeper sternness in his voice, "it is among the class to which you and he belong, and into which you have dragged my son, that honor and nobility are to be found. I have had experience of it. Once more, finish your errand."
"I have nothing more to say, sir. I fear to anger you."
"Your real purpose in seeking me was to beg for money."
"Indeed not, sir. I had no such purpose."
"And would not accept it if I offered it?"
"I cannot with truth say that, sir. We are so poor that the pride I once had is broken. Pardon me if I say that I think you have no intention of offering it."
"I have none."
She bowed, and crossed to the opposite side of the road; but before she had gone a dozen yards she heard his voice accosting her.
"It is in my mind to say something to you."
She turned to him with a sudden hope. Had he relented? Had her distress softened his heart towards her? A glance at his face dispelled the hope. There was in it no sign of pity.
"Accompany me to my house," he said.
Bewildered and surprised she walked by his side in silence, and they entered the mansion together.
"You would probably like," said Mr. Manners, "to have some better knowledge than you at present possess of the position which, by his disobedience and unfilial conduct, my son has forfeited."
He conducted her through some of the principal apartments, which had been furnished and decorated in a princely style. The pictures, the sculptures, thebric-à-bracwere of the choicest character. Her feet sank in the thick, soft carpets, and her heart fainted within her as she followed Mr. Manners through the sumptuously appointed rooms. He paused before one, and, throwing open the door,
"You may enter; it was my son's bedroom."
"She obeyed him, a rush of tears almost blinding her; Mr. Manners remained outside. She saw, not a bedroom, but a suite of rooms luxuriously furnished; a library of costly books; rare old engravings on the walls; a bath-room fitted up with all the newest appliances; everything that money could purchase to make a man's life pleasant and devoid of care. She remained there but a short time; the contrast between these rooms and the miserable attics which she and her uncle occupied, and to which she hoped to welcome Kingsley, appalled her. When she rejoined Mr. Manners in the passage he led her down-stairs and ushered her into his study.
"You may sit down," he said.
She was tired, wretched, and dispirited, and she accepted the ungracious invitation.
"I am not in the habit of boasting of my wealth," he said; "what you have seen affords proof of it. And all that you have seen, with means sufficient to keep it up ten times over, would have been my son's had you not marred his career. I will not do you an injustice; you have surprised me; I thought that my son had taken up with a common, vulgar woman; I find myself mistaken."
Again animated by hope, she looked up; again her hope was destroyed by the stern face she gazed upon.
"It is because I see that you are superior to what I anticipated that I am speaking to you now. Doubtless my son has informed you that, by my own unaided exertions, I have raised myself to what I am." She bowed her head. "The pleasure of success was great, and was precious to me, not so much for wealth itself, but for a future I had mapped out, in which my son was to play the principal part. With him absent, with him parted from me, this future vanishes, and I am left with the dead fruits of a life of successful labor. Who is to blame for this?"
She held up her hands appealingly, but he took no notice of the action.
"You are therefore my enemy, and not only my enemy, but my son's. With my assistance, with my wealth and position to help him, he would have risen to be a power in the land. You have destroyed a great future; you have deprived him of fame and distinction; but there is a remedy, and it is to propose this remedy to you that I invited you into my house. Your speech is that of an educated person, and you must be well able to judge between right and wrong. What your real character is I may learn before we part to-day. I will assume, for instance, that you are nothing but an adventuress, a schemer--do not interrupt me; the illustration is necessary to what I have to say. You may be nothing of the kind, but I assume the possibility to give force to a statement I shall make without any chance of a misunderstanding. It is this. Assuming that you played upon my son's feelings because of my being a rich man, in the expectation that, if not at once, in a little while I should open my purse to you, it will be well for you to know that there is not the remotest possibility of such an expectation being realized. Do you understand?"
She did not reply in words; the fear that she might further anger him kept her silent; she made a motion which he interpreted into assent, and accepting it so, continued:
"Assuming, on the other hand, that you did not weigh the consequences of your conduct, and that you had some sort of a liking for my son--"
"I truly loved him, sir," she could not refrain from saying.
"It shall be put to the proof. If you love him truly you will be willing to make a sacrifice for him."
"To make him happy," she said, in a low tone, "to bring about a reconciliation between you, I would sacrifice my life."
"But it is not yours to sacrifice. Something less will do. On one condition, and on one condition only, will I receive and forgive my son."
And then he paused; it was not that the anguish expressed in her face turned him from his purpose, but that he wished her to be quite calm to consider his proposition.
"I am listening, sir."
"The condition is that you shall take a step which shall separate you from my son forever."
"What step, sir?"
"There are other lands, far away, in which, under another name, you can live with your uncle. You shall have ample means; you shall have wealth secured to you as long as you observe the conditions; you shall not be interfered with in any way; you will be able to live a life of ease and comfort--"
He did not proceed. There was that in her face which arrested his flow of language.
"Is Kingsley to be consulted in this, sir?"
"To be consulted? Certainly not. He is not to know it."
"Shall I be at liberty to write and tell him that it is for his good I am leaving him?"
"You will not be at liberty to communicate with him in any way, directly or indirectly."
"He is, then, to suppose that I have deserted him?"
"He is to suppose what he pleases. That will not be your affair."
Indignation gave Nansie courage. "Is it to be yours, sir?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Manners, frowning.
"That you will have the power to invent some story to my discredit, and that your son shall be made to believe I am not worthy of him. That is my meaning, sir."
"Do you think you are serving him or yourself by the tone you are adopting?" asked Mr. Manners, rising from his chair.
It was an indication to Nansie, and she obeyed it, and stood before him.
"I have not thought of that, sir; I am thinking only of what is right. Forgive me for having intruded myself upon you, and allow me to leave you. If your son is living--sometimes, in my despair, I fear the worst, he has been so long absent--and returns home, perhaps you will inform him of the proposition you have made to me, and of the manner in which I received it."
"That is a threat that you will do so."
"No, sir, it is not; he will hear nothing from me. Heaven forbid that by any future act of mine I should help to widen the breach between you? Good-morning, sir."
She did not make her uncle acquainted with what had passed between Mr. Manners and herself; she simply said that Mr. Manners had refused to see her, that she had waited for him in the street, and that she had learned from him that he had not heard from Kingsley.
"Did he speak kindly to you?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"No; he is bitterly incensed against me, and looks upon me with aversion. If I had ever a hope that he would relent towards us it is gone now forever. Uncle, is it my fancy that you are looking strangely at me?"
"Your fancy, my dear," replied Mr. Loveday, with a smile which he endeavored to make cheerful. "Why should I look strangely at you? Your interview with Mr. Manners has unnerved you."
"Yes," said Nansie, "it must be so. When Kingsley returns he must not know of my visit to his father. It will make him angry and uncomfortable."
"I shall not tell him, my dear," said Mr. Loveday.
When Kingsley returns! Nansie suppressed a sigh as she uttered the words; but the unspoken thought was in her mind: "Would he ever return?" She flew to her baby as to a refuge and a sanctuary, but her heart was very heavy.
It was not her fancy that her uncle had looked strangely at her, and he had not behaved ingenuously in his reply to her question. He had deep cause for uneasiness, and his duty seemed to lie, for the present, in the effort to keep her in ignorance of ominous news which had come to his knowledge during her visit to Kingsley's father.
On the previous day, in the last edition of the papers he sold in the streets, he noticed a paragraph to which he had paid no particular attention. It was simply the record of an accident on a German railway, in which ten persons had been killed and considerably more than that number seriously hurt. No particulars were given, and no names were mentioned. In the first edition of this day's evening papers Mr. Loveday read the following:
"Further particulars have reached us of the railway accident in Germany, but its precise cause still remains unexplained. It appears that the train was conveying nearly two hundred travellers, of whom ten met their death, as was stated yesterday, and twenty-three were seriously injured. Among the dead was a gentleman of the name of Seymour, who was accompanied by Mr. Manners, who is supposed to have been travelling with Mr. Seymour as a kind of companion or secretary. These two are the only English names in the list given of killed and wounded. Mr. Manners is one of those who were seriously injured; he lies now in a precarious state, which precludes the possibility of any information being obtained from him which would enable the authorities to communicate with his relatives or the relatives of Mr. Seymour. As to the latter, however, some important discoveries have already been made, through documents found upon his person. Reticence has been observed in making these particulars public, but sufficient is known to warrant the statement that, despite the English name under which he travelled, he is by nationality a Russian, and that he occupied a position of responsibility in a certain secret revolutionary society whose aim it is to spread discontent and disaffection among the working classes on the Continent."
It was this paragraph which caused Mr. Loveday so much anxiety. There could be no mistake that the Mr. Manners referred to was Nansie's husband; the association of his name with that of Mr. Seymour rendered this a certainty, and it appeared to Mr. Loveday that the personal injuries he had met with in the railway accident were not the only dangers which threatened him. Mr. Loveday could not immediately make up his mind whether it would be wise to acquaint Nansie with what had come to his knowledge. It was very unlikely that she would otherwise hear of it, for the reason that she never read the newspapers; in the neighborhood in which they lived an accident so remote would pass unnoticed, and thus it would not be difficult to keep her in ignorance of her husband's peril. Kingsley's father could not have known anything of this when he and Nansie were together or he would undoubtedly have made some reference to it.
What was best to be done? That was the question which was perplexing Mr. Loveday. To take any practical step was out of his power, because that would entail the expenditure of money which he did not possess. He and Nansie were living now literally from hand to mouth; the day's earnings sufficed for bare daily food; they had not a shilling to spare from the inexorable necessities of existence. To make another appeal to Mr. Manners would be worse than useless; it would bring fresh insults and revilings upon them from the stern millionaire, whose heart was steeled against the calls of common humanity. Thus did he argue with himself as to the good that would be done by making the disclosure to Nansie; it would but intensify the sorrow caused by Kingsley's silence into a torture which would be unendurable. If any useful end could have been served by letting Nansie into the secret of her husband's peril Mr. Loveday would not have hesitated to inform her of it; but, so far as he could see, the distress of mind occasioned by the revelation would add misery to misery; and, after some long consideration of the matter, he determined to keep the matter to himself, at least for the present. Meanwhile he watched the papers for further information of the railway accident, but for some time saw no reference to it. One day, however, the following paragraph arrested his attention:
"With respect to Mr. Seymour who met his death in the railway accident in Germany, the particulars of which have been fully reported in our columns, it is now certain that he was by birth a Russian, and that he was for a number of years intimately connected with conspiracies against law and order. The documents found upon his person were of such a character, and were so drawn out, as to destroy the hope that was entertained that they would lead to the detection of the members of the secret societies with which he was associated. Great pains have evidently been taken--probably from day to day--to do away with all documentary evidence that would incriminate others, and this is an indirect proof of the dangerous nature of the conspiracies in which he was engaged. With respect to the Mr. Manners who met with serious injuries, nothing to directly implicate him has come to light. The strongest point against him is the fact of his having travelled for many months with Mr. Seymour on apparently confidential relations. Papers found in his possession lead to the conclusion that he is the son of the great contractor, Mr. Valentine Manners, whose name is known all the world over."
In the following day's paper Mr. Loveday read a letter to the following effect:
"Sir,--It is necessary for me to state that I have not been in any way acquainted with the late movements and proceedings of my son, Mr. Kingsley Manners, who is reported to have met with serious injuries in a railway accident in Germany, nor have I any knowledge of the Mr. Seymour with whom he is said to have travelled as companion."Faithfully yours,Valentine Manners."
"Sir,--It is necessary for me to state that I have not been in any way acquainted with the late movements and proceedings of my son, Mr. Kingsley Manners, who is reported to have met with serious injuries in a railway accident in Germany, nor have I any knowledge of the Mr. Seymour with whom he is said to have travelled as companion.
"Faithfully yours,Valentine Manners."
That was all. Although Mr. Loveday carefully searched the papers day after day, he saw no further reference to the matter; it dropped out of sight, as it were, and the faint interest it had excited in the public mind appeared to have died completely away. The hard battle of life continued sadly and monotonously, without the occurrence of one cheering incident to lighten the days; and as time wore on Nansie ceased to speak to her uncle of the beloved husband who was either dead or had forgotten her. In her sad musings upon the question of death or forgetfulness she did not bring the matter to an issue. Had she been compelled to do so, she would have stabbed herself with the torture that Kingsley was dead; for that he could have forgotten her, and that he could be systematically neglecting her, was in her faithful, chivalrous heart impossible. All that she could do was to wait, although hope was almost dead within her.
At an unexpected moment, however, the question was solved.
It was evening. Mr. Loveday had not returned from his daily labors, and Nansie had put her baby asleep in her cradle, and had gone out to execute some small household duties. She hurried through them as quickly as possible, and, returning home, had almost reached the street door of the house in which she lived, when a voice at her back said,
"ItisNansie!"
The pulses of her heart seemed to stop. It was her husband's voice, and so overcome was she by this sudden ray of sunshine that, when she turned, she could scarcely see before her. Again the voice came to her ears; the gay, light, happy voice of old, which expressed only joy and sweetness, and in which there was no note of sadness or sorrow.
"Why, Nansie--itisNansie! I was born under a lucky star."
And still, without seeing the speaker, she felt herself drawn to the heart of the one man in the world she loved--of the dear husband and the father of the babe sleeping peacefully at home.
"Oh, Kingsley! Is it you, is it you?"
"Of course it is, Nansie. Who else should it be? But it is very perplexing and puzzling; I don't quite see my way out of it. Tell me, Nansie--you expected me, did you not?"
"Yes, Kingsley, yes--for so long, for so long!"
"No, no, not for so long. Why, it can have been but a few days since I went away! Let me see--how was it? We had to look things in the face, and we did, and we agreed that something must be done, and then--and then--upon my word, Nansie, I think I am growing worse than ever; I not only fly off at a tangent, but I seem to be afflicted by an imp of forgetfulness. What does it matter, though? I have found you, and we are together again."
During this speech Nansie's eyes were fixed upon his face in tender love and thoughtfulness. His words were so at variance with the true nature of her position and his that she would have been unable to understand them if love had not brought wisdom to her. There was in Kingsley's eyes the same whimsical expression as of old, there was in his manner the same light-heartedness which had enabled him to look upon the future without anxiety, the tones of his voice were clear and gay, but he bore about him an unmistakable air of poverty. His clothes were worn threadbare, his hands were attenuated and almost transparent, and the lines of his face denoted that he had passed through some great suffering. He evinced no personal consciousness of these signs, and seemed to be at peace and in harmony with himself and all around him.
"Are you well, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, solicitously.
"Well, my love? Never was better in my life, and now that I have found you, there is nothing more to wish for. And yet--and yet--"
He passed his hand across his forehead, and looked at her in a kind of humorous doubt.
"Do you observe anything singular in me, my love?"
It would have been cruel to have answered him with the direct truth. It was from the deep well of pity with which her heart was filled that she drew forth the words,
"No, Kingsley, no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dear."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Nansie. I am the same as ever, eh?"
"Yes, Kingsley, the same as ever; but we will not part again."
"No, indeed! I don't intend that we shall--because, although we have been separated but a short time, my head has got full of fancies about this and that--foreign countries--outlandish places--strange people--rapid journeys--accidents even, but dreams, all of them, Nansie. They must be dreams, or I could fix them with greater certainty. Now, you know my old way, my dear; when anything was troubling me I used to say, 'What is the use? It won't make things better.' There is only one wise way to look upon life--make light of things. You remember a favorite saying of mine--it was from a song, I think, was it not? 'Never trouble trouble, till trouble troubles you.' And that is the way we will go through life together, eh, my love?"
"Yes, Kingsley," said Nansie, and would have said more, but for a sudden trembling that came over him, which caused him to cling to her for support.
"What is the matter, Kingsley?"
"To tell you the truth, my dear," he replied, with a wan, whimsical smile, "you would hardly believe it, but I think I am hungry!"
"Hungry! Oh, Kingsley!"
"Well, yes; such a careless, neglectful fellow as you have got for a husband, Nansie, never thinking of things at the right moment, never taking into account that it is necessary to eat even, until it is forced upon him that he must eat to live. And talking of eating to live--is there anything in the larder, Nansie?"
He had rallied a little, and spoke with greater firmness.
"Yes, Kingsley, plenty; come--come. Ah, my dear, my dear, with all my heart I thank God that you are with me again!"
"Dear wife," he murmured, and allowed himself to be led by her into the house, and up the dark stairs to the rooms she occupied.
But outside the door, on the landing, she whispered to him,
"Kingsley!"
"Yes, love."
"There is a great happiness within. Be prepared for it."
"There is a great happiness here"--with his arms around her. "I am really and truly thankful."
"But a greater within, Kingsley, my husband. Listen--our darling child sleeps there."
"Our darling child, our little one! Surely I have seen her in my dreams, in which I have seen so many strange things. Ah, how I have dreamed of you, Nansie, even during this short absence! But let us go in, or I shall be reproached for forgetfulness."
They entered the room together, they leaned over the cradle, they knelt by its side, and Kingsley, lowering his face to the pretty babe sleeping there, kissed her softly and tenderly.
"She is very sweet, Nansie, like you. I am sure her eyes are the color of yours."
"No, darling, she has your eyes."
"And your heart, Nansie. Happy little one, happy little one! We will make her happy, will we not, dear?"
"Yes, Kingsley."
"But, my dear, pardon me for saying so, I am really and truly hungry. Even a piece of dry bread would be acceptable."
She kept back her tears, and quickly placed bread upon the table, which he ate ravenously at first, smiling at her gratefully the while. Very soon she had prepared some hot tea, which he drank, and begged her to drink a cup with him. His hunger being appeased, he lay back in his chair, his eyes wandering round the room.
"What is our dear little one's name?" he asked; "I have forgotten it."
"No, dear," said Nansie, "you have not forgotten it, because she has not one yet; we call her 'baby,' you know."
"Yes, yes," he said, "'baby,' of course, the best, the sweetest that ever drew breath; but she must have a name, Nansie; she cannot go through life as 'baby.' Say that when she is a happy woman she marries, it would not do for her to be called 'baby' then."
"We waited for you, Kingsley, to give her a name."
"Well, then, what shall it be? But that it would introduce confusion into our little home, no better name than 'Nansie' could be found. That would not do, would it?"
"No, Kingsley. Shall we give her your mother's name?"
"My mother's? No, there must be none but good omens around her.Yourmother's, Nansie. I remember you told me it was Hester."
Then he called aloud, but in a gentle voice, "Hester!"
"She is awake, Kingsley," said Nansie, lifting the baby from the cradle and putting her into his arms.'
"This is a great joy to me," he said; "I really think she knows me; we shall be the best of friends. There is so much that is good in the world to show her--to teach her. Now, you and I together, love, will resolve to do our duty by her, and to do all that is in our power to make her happy."
An hour later, when Mr. Loveday returned home, Nansie, who had been listening for his footsteps, went out to meet him. Even in the dark he, with love's keen sight, observed that something of a pleasant nature had occurred.
"Good news, Nansie?"
"Speak low, uncle. Yes, good news. He has come home."
"Kingsley?"
"Yes, uncle. He is asleep with the baby by his side. He is very, very tired."
"How did it happen? How did he find you out?"
"It must have been almost by chance. I was out making some little purchases, when I suddenly heard a voice behind me saying, quite naturally, 'It is Nansie!' Turning, I saw him, not clearly at first, because I was almost blind with joy. You must be very gentle with him, uncle."
"I will, my dear; but there is something in your voice--gentle for any especial reason?"
"Yes, for a special reason, which you will more fully discover for yourself. I am glad that I have seen you before he meets you; it will be better that you should be prepared."
"Prepared for what, my dear?"
"Kingsley is laboring under an impression that he has been away from us but a very short time. What we know to be real he believes to be fancies. He has made no reference to his travels abroad with Mr. Seymour, nor to the railway accident in which he was injured. He speaks of dreams, and even then not clearly. It is difficult for me to make myself understood--"
"Not at all, Nansie; I think I understand. The accident he met with has affected his memory; but it is good that he is with us now. We can take care of him, we can nurse him back to strength and health."
"How kind you are, uncle! Never thinking of yourself!"
"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! It is entirely of myself that I am thinking, for I would not lose you and your dear ones for all the money the world contains. That is putting a small value upon money, though. I wish we had a little."
In his mind was the thought, "We need it all the more now," but he did not give the thought utterance.
"Is he low-spirited, despondent, Nansie?"
"No, uncle, quite the contrary. He is as light-hearted and gay as ever, and speaks in the same sweet, hopeful strains of the future, his anticipations of which led him into the error of--"
She stopped short; she did not complete the sentence. Her uncle completed it for her.
"Of marrying you, my dear. Do not regret it; accept it as a blessing, as it really is. Short-sighted mortals as we are to so constantly forget that life is short, and that its sweetest happiness is to be found in self-sacrifice--even, Nansie, in suffering!"
They entered the room together, and found Kingsley awake. He rose when his eyes lighted upon Mr. Loveday, and, with a bright smile, said:
"Nansie's uncle?"
"Yes, Kingsley," said Mr. Loveday.
And Nansie raised her uncle's hand to her lips, and kissed it in grateful recognition of the affectionate greeting.
"Now," said Kingsley, to whom strength seemed to have really returned; he held out his hand, and retained Mr. Loveday's in his as he spoke--"now what could be pleasanter, what could be brighter and more full of promise? Here, for the first time, we meet, and I recognize in you a friend. Believe me, sir, when I say a friend, it is said once and forever; it ismeantonce and forever. I am no butterfly, eh, Nansie?"
"No, dear Kingsley," she replied, pressing close to him.
He passed his arm round her.
"No butterfly," continued Kingsley, "except in the way of conversation, but that you will find out for yourself. I fly from one theme to another in the most inconsequential manner. A bad habit, sir, if it really meant anything serious, but it does not, and I have here by my side a spiritual support"--he kissed Nansie--"which never fails to recall me to the straight line at the precise and proper moment--as it does now; for looking at her, I am reminded of all we owe to you. Let me thank you in our joint names. I will not say that I hope to live to repay the debt, because there are some debts which it is good never to repay, and this is one. It is sometimes most ungracious to deliberately cancel an obligation."
"The debt is on my side, Kingsley," said Mr. Loveday, greatly won by the returned wanderer's speech and manner. "Nansie has brightened my life."
"She could do no less," said Kingsley, in a tone of grave and tender affection, "to the life of any person who has the happiness to know her."
Upon the invitation of Mr. Loveday, who knew, now that Kingsley had joined them, that certain changes were necessary in their domestic arrangements, and that Nansie could more readily effect them if she were left alone, the two men went out for a stroll. They returned after an absence of a couple of hours, and Kingsley presented Nansie with a few simple flowers, saying as he did so: "Our honeymoon is not yet over, my love."
Presently Kingsley, who, it was apparent, needed repose, was induced to retire to his bed. No sooner had he laid his head upon the pillow than he was fast asleep. Nansie and her uncle sat together in the adjoining room, and conversed in low tones.
"It is as you say," observed Mr. Loveday, "he appears to have no memory--that is, no absolute, dependable memory--of what has transpired from the time he left you. I have not directly questioned him, feeling that it might not lead to a good result, and that he is not yet strong enough to bear even a slight shock; but indirectly I threw out a veiled suggestion or two, and his responses have convinced me of his condition. He has a vague impression of a railway accident in which some person whom he knew was killed, and some person whom he knew was injured, but he does not associate either the one or the other directly with himself. You will not mind my mentioning something, my dear, because in our position there must be between us no concealment. Kingsley has no money, not a penny."
"It is as I expected, uncle; but how did you discover it? Did he say so?"
"No, my dear, it came when he paused before a woman who was selling flowers. He put his hands into his pockets, and was, I think, more perplexed than distressed. 'Now this is too bad,' he remarked, and I, divining, paid the woman for the flowers he selected. It is wonderful to me how, circumstanced as he is, he managed to make his way home."
"Providence directed him, and protected him," said Nansie, devoutly, "and will surely smooth the path before us."
"With all my heart I hope so," responded Mr. Loveday; "meanwhile, until the better fortune smiles upon us, we must work all the harder, and bring our best courage to bear upon the present."
Their conversation was interrupted by a gentle tapping at the door, and, opening it, they saw Timothy Chance, who had a covered basket on his arm which he laid upon the floor, and then respectfully greeted Mr. Loveday and Nansie, who, however, would not be content with this, but shook hands heartily with him.
A word of explanation as to Timothy's movements will here be useful.
They had not seen him since within a fortnight of the fire which had plunged them so low. When he was convinced that there was no present hope of Mr. Loveday being able to re-establish his business, he had looked out for a situation in the immediate neighborhood, in order that he might be near the friends to whom he was so devotedly attached. But his efforts were not successful; no situation presented itself which he could accept, and as he was driven by necessity, which knows no law, he was compelled to avail himself of an engagement in the country some fifteen miles away, which offered itself in the nick of time. What eventually transpired will be best related in his own words.
"You thought I'd forgotten you, sir," he said to Mr. Loveday.
"No, my lad, I did not think that. My thought was that you had not been fortunate, and that you kept away out of consideration for us."
"Thank you, sir. You have a happy way of saying things. True, too, because I was not very fortunate at first; but there has been a turn in the wheel."
"A good turn, Timothy, I hope?"
"It will prove so, sir, if I have a head upon my shoulders; always trusting that there are no more fires."
"Ah," said Mr. Loveday, "we have had enough of those experiences."
"Yes, that we have, sir," responded Timothy, gravely; "but what I say is, 'Never despair.' I have not neglected my studies, sir, and I can give you the Latin words if you like--'Nil desperandum.'"
Timothy said this proudly, and with a bright eye.
"Good lad," said Mr. Loveday. "It is not in you to despair, Timothy. You are the stuff that men are made of, and will run ahead of all of us."
"Never so far ahead, sir," said Timothy, wistfully, "that I shall lose sight of the best friends a poor boy ever had; but that sounds like boastfulness."
"Not at all, Timothy, not at all. You speak with as much modesty as resolution. This turn in the wheel, my lad--what kind of a turn?"
"I think, sir," said Timothy, with a gay laugh, "that you could guess in once."
Mr. Loveday glanced at the basket on the floor, and made a guess in merry mood, for Timothy's blithe spirits were contagious.
"Eggs, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir," said Timothy, laughing again; "you have guessed it in once--eggs. But before I tell you about it"--he turned to Nansie--"how is baby?"
"Thriving beautifully, Timothy," replied Nansie.
"May I see her?" he asked.
"Wait a moment," said Nansie, and she went to the inner room, where baby was lying in her cradle. Returning, she said: "Yes, you may see her; but you must be very quiet. Do not make the least noise, and don't be surprised at what you see. My dear husband is home."
A bright light came into Timothy's face.
"I am glad," he said, "for your sake and baby's."
He stepped softly into the bedroom, accompanied by Nansie, and stood in silence for a few moments, gazing affectionately at the sleeping child.
"May I kiss her?" he said.
"Yes, Timothy, but very, very softly."
With the gentleness of a woman he stooped and kissed the child, and then came back with Nansie to the sitting-room, closing the door softly behind him.
"Eggs, as you say, sir," he recommenced, taking up the business part of the conversation where it had broken off. "You know that I had to sell off my little stock of fowls here, so that I might get to the situation I heard of. It wasn't a very good one, and it wasn't a very bad one; I had to work hard, which is a thing I shall never complain of, and although, besides my grub, I got very little a week, I managed to save a little out of that. Well, sir, six weeks ago I had two laying hens, and there I was established again in a small way, doing business for myself outside the hours I had to work for my employer. Then came a bit of good-fortune, the turn in the wheel I spoke of. Not far from my place lives a blacksmith, and to him I've been going of a night for a little while past, teaching him to write a bit, teaching him to read a bit, and reading books to him myself that made him laugh and cry. He gets fond of me and we get talking together, especially about eggs. Says I, 'There's a fortune in eggs.' Says he, 'Is there?' Says I, 'No doubt of it.' And three weeks ago--that is, you know, three weeks after I had set up in business again with my two fowls--I put it all down in figures one night, and we went into it seriously. 'It seems all right,' says he. 'It is all right,' says I. 'Supposing you have not made a mistake,' says he, 'and that you are not being deceived by sparks.' He was hammering away on his anvil, and the sparks were flying up. 'Supposing that,' says he, 'and they are very deceptive creatures--sparks--bright as stars one moment, dead as ghosts the next, how much would it take to start the business?' 'First,' says I, 'there's the ground.' 'I've got that,' says he, 'at the back of the forge; an acre and a half.' 'Then,' says I, 'there's timber for fowl-houses, say enough for thirty to commence with.' 'I've got that,' says he, 'lying idle on the waste ground behind.' 'And nails you've got,' says I. You see, sir, I was speaking with confidence, and rather boldly, because a voice was whispering to me, 'Here's your chance, Timothy.' 'And tools to work nails and timber with,' says I. 'Labor will cost nothing; I should be carpenter and builder.' 'Should you?' says he, 'and I could give you a hand. But an acre and a half of ground and any amount of timber and nails won't lay eggs. Come to the grip--how much money to bring that about?' 'Ten pounds will be ample,' says I. 'I've got that,' says he, 'and more at the back of it. Say ten pounds then.' 'Do you mean it?' says I, my heart almost jumping out of my body. 'I never say what I don't mean,' says he, 'though I don't always say what I do. It is agreed, Timothy, that we go into partnership; rent of ground to be reckoned, nails and tools to be reckoned, timber to be reckoned, and ten pounds to be reckoned, as the capital of the firm. The sooner you start, the better.' I think you know enough of me, sir," continued Timothy, glowing, "to know that I didn't waste an hour. Waste an hour! I didn't waste a minute; and before that week was over the fowl-houses were up, not far away from the forge--because warmth, sir, is a good thing for laying hens--and there was a stock of thirty black Hamburgs to start with. Now, sir and Mrs. Manners, we have been in business just one fortnight, and everything is going on swimmingly. My partner says he never saw such fowls, and says I deal in magic; but the only thing I deal in, sir, is common-sense. So, being fairly started on my way, and having something good to tell, I burned to come and tell it to the friends I honor most; and now I must go. I have to get back to-night; but perhaps you will let me come to see you again."
"Indeed, we shall be delighted to see you at any time, Timothy," said Nansie, for he looked at her for an answer. "No one is more rejoiced at your good-fortune, and at the prospect before you, than ourselves."
"I know that," said Timothy. "Good-night, and God bless you."
"Your basket, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday.
"Oh, if you will excuse me, sir, it is yours, and not mine. I have brought it for you, and I hope you will not take it amiss." And off Timothy went, without another word.
Opening the basket when he was gone, they took out a score of new-laid eggs and a young fowl trussed for roasting. Tears came into Nansie's eyes.
"Did I not say, uncle," she murmured, "that Providence will smooth the path before us?"