Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
by B. L. Farjeon · English · Gutenberg #42974 · 670,258 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
Author: B. L. Farjeon
Release date: June 18, 2013 [eBook #42974]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOILERS OF BABYLON: A NOVEL ***
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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
TOILERS OF BABYLON
A Novel
BY
B. L. FARJEON
AUTHOR OF
"PERIL OF RICHARD PARDON" "GREAT PORTER SQUARE"
"AUNT PARKER" ETC.
_For life the prologue is to death
And love its sweetest flower
And death is as the spring of life
And love its richest dower_
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1889
B. L. FARJEON'S NOVELS.
* * *
AN ISLAND PEARL. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
AUNT PARLER. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
GOLDEN GRAIN. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
GREAT PORTER SQUARE. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
JESSIE TRIM. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
JOSHUA MARVEL. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.
LOVE'S HARVEST. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.
LOVE'S VICTORY. 8vo, Paper, 20 cents.
MISER FAREBROTHER. Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 25 cents.
SELF-DOOMED. 12mo, Paper, 25 cts.
SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
THE BELLS OF PENRAVEN. 4to, Paper, 10 cents.
THE BRIGHT STAR OF LIFE. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents.
THE KING OF NO-LAND. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE NINE OF HEARTS. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
THE PERIL OF RICHARD PARDON. Ill'd. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents.
THE SACRED NUGGET. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents.
TOILERS OF BABYLON. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.
* * * *
Published By HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
==>_Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to
any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the
price_.
TOILERS OF BABYLON.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER I.
The horse was very old, the caravan very dilapidated. As it was
dragged slowly along the country roads it shook and creaked and
wheezed, protesting, as it were, that it had performed its duty in
life and that its long labors justly entitled it to permanent repose.
The horse, with its burden behind it, had long ago given over
complaining, and, although its plight was no less woful, was
demonstrative only through physical compulsion. With drooping head,
lustreless eyes, and laboring breath, it plodded on, with many a
longing look at tempting morsels out of its reach.
At the present moment it was at rest, released from the shafts, and
partaking of a spare meal, humanly provided, eking it out with sweet
tid-bits, not too abundant, munched from the fragrant earth. Sitting
on the ground at the back of the caravan was a man with a book in his
hand, which sometimes he read with the air of one who was in the
company of an old and beloved friend; at other times he gazed around
with pensive delight upon the beauties of nature, which in no part of
the world find more exquisite representation than in the county of
Surrey. In the rear of the caravan were lovely stretches of woodland,
through vistas of which visions of cathedral aisles could be seen by
the poetical eye. Across the narrow road was a scene which brought to
the man's mind some lines in the book he held. Turning over its pages,
he called out, in a voice not strong, but clear:
"William Browne might have camped on this very spot, Nansie, and drawn
its picture. The resemblance is wonderful." Then he read from the
book:
"'Here the curious cutting of a hedge,
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge;
Here the fine setting of well-shading trees,
The walks there mounting up by small degrees;
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
They, with the rest, drawing on your lingering eye.
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds; and herbs of price,
As if it were another paradise,
So please the smelling sense that you are fain,
Where you last walked, to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as it floats.'"
A practical flight of wooden steps at the back of the caravan afforded
means of getting in and out, and when the man began to speak aloud a
young woman issued from the interior of the conveyance, and stood upon
the top of the little ladder, listening to his words.
"It is very beautiful, father," she said. "To think that it was
written nearly three hundred years ago!"
"Yes, Nansie, in the days of Shakespeare; and it might be to-day. That
is the marvel of it."
He fell to his book again, and Nansie, who held a teapot in her hand,
beat a retreat and resumed her domestic duties.
A peculiar feature of the caravan was that it was commercially empty.
In times gone by it had been used for trading and speculative
purposes, by gypsies, by enterprising travellers, by venders of
basketware, by dealers in birds. It had served as mart and
dwelling-house, and had played its part in numberless fairs when they
were in fashion. Now it contained nothing marketable, and bore about
it no sign to denote that its denizens were travelling for profit; but
that, even in its old age, it was being put to pleasant use was proved
by the smoke curling from the little chimney projecting through the
roof.
In due time Nansie reappeared, bearing two loose boards which she laid
upon a pair of low trestles, spreading over them a white cloth. Upon
this improvised table she set a smoking teapot, milk and sugar, and a
plate of bread-and-butter, cut reasonably thick.
"Tea is ready, father."
She ate with an appetite. Her father ate more daintily. Before putting
the food into his mouth he cut it into devices of fish and bird, which
he then proceeded to slice and carve, evidently adding thereby to his
enjoyment of the humble fare. And yet through all, whether he ate or
read or mused, there was about him a conspicuous air of melancholy.
It was the evening hour, and the season was spring. It was a warmer
spring than usual; there was a taste of summer in the air. They ate in
silence, until the man remarked:
"You did not hear the nightingale last night?"
"No, father."
"It sang for hours, Nansie."
She nodded, and said: "I wish you could sleep as soundly as I do,
father."
"I used to in my young days, and must be content. I am glad you sleep
well. You have other wishes."
"Yes," said Nansie, calmly.
"You have a fine trick of composure, Nansie. What stirs within does
not always find outward expression."
"I take after you, father," said Nansie, in an affectionate tone. "I
have you to thank for all that is good in me."
"It is a pleasant hearing, but it cuts both ways. Do not your other
wishes trouble you?"
"A little; but everything will come right."
"A comfortable philosophy, my dear child; but womanly."
"It was mother's," said Nansie. "I caught it from her."
"I know; and I could never make the dear mother understand that it was
inadequate for the practical purposes of life. Eventually we may be
satisfied that everything will come right, but before the end is
reached there are many turnings. The mischief of it is"--and there was
now in his face as he turned it more fully towards her an expression
both whimsical and sad--"that we carpet the turning we wish to take
with flowers of fancy which, as we proceed, fade utterly away. That is
a human experience."
"I am human," said Nansie, and she pressed her young face to his.
"I could laugh and I could weep," he said, responding fondly to her
caress. "In truth, my dear child, you perplex me."
"Or," suggested Nansie, "is it you who are perplexing yourself?"
He shrugged his shoulders affectionately, and did not reply.
The young woman was fair and beautiful. Though cast in a delicate
mould, she was strong and redolent of health. Her face was slightly
browned, and harmonized with her brown hair and brown eyes, the light
in which was bright and tender. The man looked old, but was barely
forty-five, and on his face were signs of suffering, patiently borne.
They were dressed like persons in humble life, but with a certain
refinement, observable more in the woman than in the man. For five
evenings they had tarried on this spot. Each morning they had
harnessed the horse to the caravan, and had journeyed slowly and
aimlessly onward till noon, and then had turned back towards their
camping-ground, which lay in the shadow of the beautiful Surrey woods,
at a sufficient distance from the narrow road to escape casual
observation. The right of doing so probably did not belong to the
wayfarers, and this had disturbed the man somewhat, but he had fixed
upon the spot for a particular purpose, and up to this evening had not
been interfered with.
"At what hour last night," said Nansie, presently, "did you hear the
nightingale?"
"It must have been near midnight," replied her father. "At the same
time to-night it will sing again. Have you finished your tea?"
"Yes, father."
"Then go again to the post-office, and see if there is a letter for
me. I am growing anxious at not receiving one. You need not stop to
clear these things; I will put them away."
She rose and stood for a moment with her hand resting lightly on his
shoulder. He drew her face down to his, and kissed her. With a bright
nod she left him, carrying with her a written order authorizing the
delivery of any letters which might be lying in the post-office for
her father.
Godalming, the town for which she was bound, was within a mile, and
she stepped out briskly. But when she was about midway, and no one was
in sight, she made a little detour into the woods, and drew from her
bosom a picture. It was the portrait of a young man, and she gazed
fondly at it, and kissed it as fondly. Then she drew forth a letter,
and read it and pressed it to her lips; after which she replaced the
letter and the portrait, and proceeded on her errand. Her thoughts may
be thus fashioned into words:
"I wrote to him yesterday, and I sent him a telegram in the evening,
knowing we should be here to-day. He may be absent. I hope not; I hope
he has received both. Will he write, or will he come? Will he be angry
that I have accompanied my father? At all events he knows, and he is
never unjust. Ah! if he were here with us, how happy I should be! I
love him, I love him, I love him!"
She blew a kiss into the air.
In less than half an hour she was in the Godalming post-office, making
her inquiry.
"Mr. James Loveday," said the female clerk, looking at the order
handed to her by Nansie--she was familiar with it, having seen it on
each of the three previous days. "Yes, there is, I think."
She sorted some letters and handed one to Nansie, who, after
hesitating a little, asked:
"Is there a letter for Miss Loveday?
"Are you Miss Loveday?"
"Yes."
"No, there are none."
"Or for Miss Nansie Loveday? N-a-n-s-i-e."
"That's a curious way to spell Nancy," said the clerk. "No, there
are none."
Nansie lingered.
"Or for Manners?" she asked, with singular timidity and bashfulness.
"Mrs. or Miss?" inquired the clerk.
Nansie's face and neck were scarlet as she replied: "Mrs."
"None for that name," said the clerk.
She lingered still, and said, with a kind of pathetic imploring:
"Would a telegram be received here if addressed to the post-office
till called for?"
"Yes."
"I sent one yesterday, and expected an answer. Is there any for either
name?"
"No."
"Thank you," said Nansie, and walked out of the office, and set her
face towards the caravan.
The female clerk looked after her sympathizingly. There was a love
note in her voice, and the post-office girl had a little sweethearting
of her own on hand.
CHAPTER II.
Nansie walked on, turning the letter in her hand, and glancing at it
occasionally. The writing was strange to her, and on the envelope was
the London post-mark. When, at the end of twenty minutes, she stood by
her father's side, he was asleep.
"Father!" she said, bending over him.
He opened his eyes instantly, and smiled at her.
"Ah, Nansie, it is you. I drop off constantly now, on the smallest
provocation from silence or solitude. But it can scarcely be called
sleep; I am conscious of all that is going on around me." He observed
the letter in her hand, and he said, eagerly, "You have one!" and took
it from her. "Yes, it is from my brother Joseph; I was beginning to
fear that he was dead."
He opened the letter and read it, and then remained a little while in
thought. Presently he resumed the conversation.
"You saw your uncle once, Nansie. Have you a recollection of him?"
"Hardly any, father. How old could I have been when mother took me to
see him? Not more than four or five, I think. I had a white dress and
a blue sash, and I took him a bunch of flowers. He gave me some
sweetmeats, I remember, and a shilling. But I have no recollection of
his face. He lived in London, in a street off Whitechapel; that I
know."
"He lives there now. Your mother never spoke to you of him?"
"Never."
"You should be made acquainted with the story, Nansie, while I am here
to relate it."
She stopped the current of his speech.
"Father, these last three or four weeks you have dropped hints which
make me very anxious; they weigh heavily upon me. I know you are not
well, but you harp upon it as if it were a serious illness. Tell me,
father."
They were sitting side by side now, and he was smoothing her hair with
his hand.
"I am far from well, Nansie."
She interrupted him again, and now spoke with tremulous impetuosity.
"You should take advice, father. You should go to a doctor."
"There are reasons why I do not do so. First, Nansie, I have no money.
Figuratively speaking, twopence ha'penny is all my fortune. To be
exact, twenty-three shillings represents my worldly wealth. I am
afraid I have been unwise, and yet I do not see what else I could have
done. This Quixotic wandering of ours--I own it, it _is_ Quixotic--was
in a certain measure forced upon me. Poor old Fleming, who owed me
money, bequeathed his horse and caravan to me, his only creditor, and
then he died. Had he left behind him wife or child I should have
transferred to them this delightfully awkward property. Satisfying
myself that it was legally and morally mine, the idea entered my head
that a wandering tour through our lovely country lanes would
invigorate me, would put new life into me. And for a companion, who
more sweet than my own dear Nansie!"
"There was another reason, father," said Nansie, gravely.
"There was another reason," said Mr. Loveday, apprehensively. "I am
coming to it. It would have been useless to consult physicians. I have
consulted them again and again, and the result was always the same. A
fever? Yes, there would be a fair chance of curing it. A toothache,
a cold in the head, a chill? Yes, they could prescribe for those
ills--but not for mine. It is my old heart-complaint, of which I have
been repeatedly warned. When I was a lad it was thought I should not
grow to manhood, but I did, as you see, and married your mother, and
have by my side a dear child to cheer and comfort me. It is well to be
prepared-- Why, Nansie, crying?"
"I cannot help it, father, you speak so solemnly." She conquered her
agitation and said: "That is not the reason I mean. There is another."
"Concerning myself, Nansie?"
"Concerning me, father."
"You wish me to speak of it?"
"It will be best."
"So be it. I have not been always with you, Nansie, to guide and
counsel you. Worldly circumstances would not permit me. I have cause
to reproach myself. Had I been a carpenter or a bootmaker I might have
been better able to fulfil my duties."
"No one can reproach you, father; and I, who love you with my heart
and soul, less than any in the world."
"I thank you, child, and am grateful. At all events, something was
done; I fitted you for the sphere of a private governess, and you
obtained a situation. From time to time I came to see you, and you
seemed to be happy."
"I was happy, father."
"You filled the situation two years, and then the sudden removal to
another country of the family in which you were employed deprived you
of it, and threw you upon the world. You did not inform me of this at
the time, Nansie."
"You had troubles and struggles of your own, father, and I did not
wish to harass you."
"Your endeavors to obtain another situation were unsuccessful; the
gentleman who engaged you as governess to his children went away in
your debt; you were almost at the end of your resources. Of all this I
was ignorant until a few weeks since when I came to see you. Then and
then only did I learn what had occurred; then and then only did I
realize the dangerous position in which you were placed; then and then
only did I discover that your affections were engaged to a gentleman
whose father is a man of great wealth. My duty was clear; I had come
into possession of this legacy, and it seemed to afford a favorable
opportunity for the distraction of an unhealthy fancy-- You place your
hand on my arm; you wish to speak."
"No, father, no," said Nansie, struggling with her feelings; in the
gathering dusk her father could not see the play of emotion in her
features; and, indeed, during this latter recital she kept her face
averted from him; "I am not yet at liberty to do so. Go on."
"For the distraction of an unhealthy fancy," he resumed, "which might
grow into a disease--which might wreck the happiness of a life most
dear to me, I called upon you by the tie which binds and unites us--I
am not wrong, dear child, in saying it unites us?"
"No, my dear father, it unites us now and ever."
"My child!' I called upon you to accompany me in my wanderings, and
you consented. I think I have stated it fairly Nansie?"
"Quite fairly, father."
"Have you anything new to say about it?"
"Nothing, except"--and a delicious smile played upon her lips--"except
that I love Kingsley."
"That is not new," he said, in a tone of whimsical reproach; "it is
old. You have told me that before."
"It is always new to me, father. And there is something else I _must_
say."
"Say it, Nansie."
"Kingsley loves me."
"Neither is that new. Apart from this I sometimes have an odd idea
that you have a secret which you are keeping from me."
"If I said I had, it would be half revealing it. Father, time will
show."
"That is a wiser philosophy than that 'Everything will come right.'
Time does and will show. Shall I now relate the story of your uncle?"
"If you please, father."
"It will not take me long. Your mother, my dear Nansie, had two ardent
lovers, your father and your uncle."
"That was sad."
"These are strokes of fate not to be avoided, and love, which unites,
sometimes severs. It severed me and my brother, and neither he nor I,
nor your mother, Nansie, was to blame for it. In youth we had a great
affection for each other, although our characters were dissimilar. Our
father was a poor gentleman--our family boat never floated into a
golden stream--and he gave us as good an education as we could have
gained in schools And colleges. He had a taste for books, and he
cultivated the taste in us, his only children. He had ideas, too, and
to be in his company was an entertainment. When he died he left each
of us a little money, not more than a hundred pounds apiece, with
which we were to seek our fortunes. We remained together, and in this
association we became acquainted with your mother. By that time I had
grown into a dreamer, and, I am afraid, a vagrant; your uncle was a
dreamer also, but his visions were not entirely Utopian, and he was
less of a Bohemian than I. He loved your mother passionately, and by
force of fate we were rivals. We both tried our fortunes with her; it
was not a case of one supplanting the other, but fair play on both
sides; he failed and I succeeded. Your mother was a sweet and
beautiful lady, and how I won her I know not."
"Father," whispered Nansie, "you have a silver tongue and the heart of
a man. That is how you won my mother."
"Well, well, child, I should be past these flatteries, but as you said
of yourself a while ago, I am human. My brother, learning that he had
lost what he would have given the world to gain, cut himself adrift
from us. He would not listen to reason, and I do not wonder at it.
When was love really reasonable? What he did he did with
determination, and all my implorings could not move him. He vowed that
he and I should evermore be strangers, and so departed, and from that
day we have not met. After my marriage I wrote to him from time to
time, but he never replied to one of my letters. It was only when you
and your mother returned from the visit you paid him that I learned he
kept a bookshop in the East of London. I see his handwriting now for
the first time in twenty years. Your mother and I constantly spoke
about him; he possessed many admirable qualities; but, were I pushed
to it, I should find it very difficult to say into what kind of a man
he would grow, except that he would be constant and steadfast in his
opinions. It was in the hope that he would soften towards me that,
when you were a child, I sent you with your mother to see him. I see
you now as you recalled yourself, in your little, white dress and blue
sash, with the bunch of flowers you were to present to him. These are
a part of a woman's innocently cunning ways, and I know it was in your
dear mother's heart that, through you, your uncle should be won over
to us. But the hopes in which we indulged were not realized. Your
uncle was true to his word. It used to be said of him as a boy that he
would die rather than break it--in which, when it becomes fixed in an
earnest nature, there is sometimes a touch of folly or injustice--and
I can recall many small incidents as a proof of his possession of this
quality."
"But he has written to you at last, father?"
"Yes, Nansie."
"In a kindly spirit?"
"Yes, I am thankful to say."
"This is good. Is my uncle married?"
"No. In our last interview he vowed that he would never marry, and I
doubt whether he would ever have yielded to the sentiment of love had
his heart been again that way inclined. I deeply regret it. Life
without love is at best a barren affair."
With a sweet look Nansie raised her dewy eyes to his. He divined what,
in the darkness, he could not clearly see.
"It must be an honorable, honest, earnest love, child. You understand
that?"
"I understand it, father."
"We will renew the subject another time. I am tired, and night has
fallen. It is almost like summer--the sweetest spring in my
remembrance. There is a fascination in shadows--spiritual suggestions
and possibilities which cannot occur to the mind in sunlight. The
night is dark and beautiful:
"'And silence girt the wood. No warbling tongue
Talked to the echo,
And all the upper world lay in a trance.'
"Life is a dream, dear child. May yours be a happy one!"
Then they did not speak for many minutes, and then it was Nansie's
voice that was first heard.
"What did you say to my uncle in the letter you wrote to him, father?"
"I spoke to him of my illness, and of you. When your mother died I
wrote informing him; but he took no notice of my letter. This time I
appealed to him. I said, if anything happened to me you would be
without a home. His answer is that you can find a home with him. My
mind is greatly relieved. Now, my dear child, we will retire."
"I will see to the beds, father. I shall not be long."
She ascended the little flight of wooden steps, and the next moment
a light from within the caravan was shining through one of the
windows. This delightfully primitive dwelling-house contained three
rooms or compartments. One was the kitchen, where the meals were
cooked, and, in bad weather, partaken of. The other two were the
sleeping-apartments of Nansie and her father. In each of these
bedrooms was a window with a double sash, opening up and down.
The beds were soon ready, and then Nansie called her father. He
ascended the steps, and, pulling them up after him, made them fast.
Father and daughter were thus in a stronghold, as it were, safe from
invasion. Before entering the castle Mr. Loveday had seen that the old
horse was safe, and had tethered it by a rope to one of the wheels.
Then, kissing Nansie with much tenderness, he retired to rest. He
slept in the back room, Nansie in the front, and the only means of
ingress and egress was the back door in Mr. Loveday's bedroom. Thus he
served as a kind of watch-dog to his daughter. She, partly disrobing,
sat awhile by the open window, looking out upon the shadows. She had
much to think of--her father's illness, their worldly circumstances,
her absent lover; but her mind was as healthy as her body, and she
looked upon all things hopefully. She did not muse long; finishing her
preparations for bed, she closed the windows, and slid between the
sheets. She slept for an hour, and awoke; slept again for a little
while, and again awoke. This was not her usual habit; as a rule she
could sleep seven or eight hours at a stretch. Perhaps she was
listening for the nightingale's song. It came, and she listened in
delight to the bird of love calling for its mate; and as she lay awake
another sound reached her ears, as of a heavy body moving softly
outside. It was not the old horse. What could it be? She slipped out
of bed, and listened at the door which led from her room to her
father's. She heard his soft breathing; he seemed to be peacefully
sleeping. Presently, as she stood in darkness, she heard a whispering
voice which caused her heart to throb wild with joy.
"Nansie!"
She glided to the window and raised the lower sash.
"Kingsley!" she whispered, musically, in reply.
"You are here, my darling! I have found you!"
"Hush! Speak softly, or you will awake my father. What a time to come!
How good you are!"
"I received your letter and telegram, and could not rest What a hunt I
have had for you! I must speak to you, Nansie. Can't you come out?"
"Not to-night, Kingsley; it is impossible. Oh, Kingsley, how happy you
have made me!"
"What else do I live for? But I must speak to you, I say. I cannot
wait."
"You must--till to-morrow morning. Listen to the nightingale. Is it
not sweet?"
"To-morrow morning, you say. An eternity! How am I to be sure you will
not disappear before then?"
"I shall be here, in the woods, at sunrise. Could I keep away, knowing
you were waiting for me? There--you make me say foolish things!"
"Give me your hand, Nansie."
She put her hand out of the window; her white arm was partly bared by
the loosened sleeve. He, standing on the spoke of the wheel, took her
hand and kissed it, and then did not relinquish it.
"You are well, Nansie?"
"Yes, Kingsley."
"Quite well?"
"Quite well."
"And your father?"
"He is not well, I grieve to say."
"We will make him so, you and I. But what a freak--to live like this!"
"It is delightful."
"Without me?"
"I mean now that you are here. Good-night, Kingsley."
"A moment yet. I will wait till the nightingale has finished its
song."
"You foolish Kingsley! It will sing for hours."
"Nansie, I have so much to tell you!"
"And I to tell you; but this is not the time. To-morrow at sunrise."
"Yes, to-morrow at sunrise." He kissed her hand again. "Nansie, my
father has arrived home."
"At last!" There was a tremor of apprehension in her voice. "Have you
seen him?"
"Not yet. But he has sent for me, and I am going to him after seeing
you to-morrow."
"Where will you sleep, Kingsley?"
"I have a bed at Godalming; but I am in no humor for sleep."
"Be reasonable, Kingsley, if you love me." She leaned forward, raised
his hand to her lips, and kissed it. "Now are you content?"
"I should be false to you if I were to say I am. There, I have given
you back your hand. Are _you_ content?"
"It is yours forever and ever. Good-night, my love!"
"Good-night, my heart! To-morrow at sunrise. Mind--not a moment later!
Do not close the window yet."
He managed to pluck some daisies, and he threw them up at her. She
caught them, and even in the dark she could distinguish the golden
tufts within their silver crowns.
"Good-night, my love," she sighed again, pressing the flowers to her
lips.
"Good-night, my heart!"
She listened to the last faint echo of his footfall, and then she
sought her bed, and, smiling happily, fell asleep, with the daisies on
her pillow.
CHAPTER III.
Between midnight and sunrise a slight shower had fallen, scarcely
damping the ground, but sufficient to draw out the perfume of the
young flowers. The promise of spring was fulfilled, and tender bloom
peeped up in places, and in others showed itself more boldly. About
the trunks of ancient trees the sweet woodruff lurked; in sunny
hedges the "cuckoo buds of yellow hue" proclaimed themselves; the
heart-shaped leaves of the Irish shamrock were slowly unfolding;
species of wild geranium and the strangely shaped orchises were
abundant, the general commonwealth being represented by myriads of
golden buttercups. Nansie and Kingsley stood near a great hawthorn,
not yet in full bud, but already emitting a deliciously fine fragrance
born of the light rain which had fallen during the night.
"Why, Nansie," Kingsley was saying to her, "I never suspected you had
gypsy blood in you."
"I have none, as you know," was her response. "It was my father's
whim, for which, I dare say, if he were here and was inclined to do
so, he could give you several reasons. You can guess some of them,
Kingsley."
"The first and foremost is that he wished to keep us apart. He has not
succeeded. I would hunt you all over the world, Nansie."
"You must not be unjust to my father," said Nansie, "He was always
full of fancies, Kingsley, but never harbored a bad one; and you must
remember he does not know our secret yet. I love and honor him; he is
a good man."
"Or you could not have been his daughter. Full of fancies, indeed!"
And Kingsley turned his head in the direction of the caravan. "Surely
this is the strangest that ever entered the head of man! A gentleman
and a scholar--for he is both, Nansie, and I suppose it was partly
through your breeding that I was drawn to you--to go wandering through
the land with his daughter, as though they belonged to the lost
tribes! But there is an odd pleasantry about it that tickles one,
after all."
"You would enjoy it, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a delicious laugh,
nestling close to him; "it has really been delightful."
"Ah, you said that last night, and I asked you, in surprise, how it
could have been, without me?"
"And I did not have wit enough to answer you properly. Think of the
hour! I was scarcely half awake. And Kingsley, having the fullest
trust in you, which nothing ever can shake, you would not wish me to
be unhappy even when we are parted. I can think of you in a happy mood
when you are not with me, if only by looking forward to the time when
we shall always be together. It will be soon, will it not?"
"It must, it shall, either way," he replied; "but I do not think I was
wrong in asking you to wait a little while."
"You have done everything for the best, so far as I am concerned-- But
for yourself!" Nansie paused and sighed.
"But for myself," he said, taking up her words, "I have done that
which is happiest and best, and that which falls to the lot of few
men."
"Ah, Kingsley?" she said, hiding her face on his shoulder.
"I have won a faithful heart. What more could I desire?"
"It is sweet to hear you say so; but if your father should be angry--"
"What then? We are young and strong and willing, and shall be able to
manage. I have friends who will give me a helping hand, as I would
give them were our places changed. New men spring up every day,
Nansie; the ladder is full of them, rising higher and higher. Why
should I not be one of them? Why should I not be fortunate--in money,
I mean; I am content with everything else--as my father was? When he
was my age he had little more than I have. See what he is now. A
power, mixing with those who bear historic names. And there are others
as he is. The old ranks are widening, new men creep in, hold their
heads high, and occupy positions of power and profit. The question
will presently be, who are the masters? No, no, Nansie, I don't
despair. I should not be worthy of you if I did. What ennobles a man?
Rank? Hardly. He can prove himself worthy of it--that is all; then he
may consider himself truly distinguished. Rank is mortal. Love is
immortal. Ask the poets. Not that they know much better than any one
else. After all, it is the heart that should be followed."
"I have followed mine," said Nansie, looking fondly at him.
She did not understand the drift of all he said, nor, indeed, did he
himself, nor was he aware that his speech was of a wandering nature.
He spoke enthusiastically, and sometimes he ran his fingers through
his hair; and although he did this rather perplexedly, there was no
indication in his manner of any want of confidence in himself or his
opinions. When Nansie said she had followed her heart, he kissed her
and said:
"And I followed mine; it led me here to your side, my dearest, and I
am happy. This is the loveliest morning! The rain has sweetened
everything--for us! You are teaching me things, Nansie. I had no idea
the early morning was so beautiful. The flowers, the dew--it is
wonderful. If I were a poet I should say the earth was covered with
jewels."
"You are a poet, Kingsley."
"No, no; I see things through your eyes. It is you who are the poet.
But I have written verses, too. The fellows say poetry doesn't pay,
and you must not encourage me. We must be sensibly worldly. What some
of the fellows used to say was that I was prone to be discursive, but
they were not judges. Between you and me, they were a little jealous
because I could talk. Well, the gift of oratory is not a bad one--I
don't say I have it, but I am seldom at a loss for words. It may not
be a gift--it may be an art which a man may cultivate. That brings me
back to my father. He was always fond of hearing me talk. He has often
said, 'Talk away, Kingsley; you shall be in the House one day.' You
know what I mean by the House, Nansie?--Parliament."
"I like to hear you speak of your father, Kingsley, and that he loves
you."
"He does, sincerely. He says I am to do great things, and that all his
hopes are centred in me. Why do you sigh, Nansie?"
"Did I sigh, Kingsley?" she asked, with feminine duplicity. "It must
be because I am overjoyed that we are together."
"Dear girl! The reason I ramble on so about my father is because I
wish you to know him thoroughly. He is very practical--so am I.
Sentiment does not run in our family. Only he must be humored, because
everything depends upon him. He is rather proud; he has a right to be
so, being a self-made man. And obstinate; so am I. You do not know all
sides of me yet, Nansie. I have heard it said of a man who has raised
himself by his own exertions: 'Oh, he is only a man who has made
money!' Now that is an exhibition of ignorance. For a man who was once
poor to become a magnate--well, there is an element of romance in it.
Look at Whittington. My father was a poor boy; his parents were poor,
and could not afford to give him a good education. What he knows he
has learned since he became a man. That opens up the question whether
it was of any use sending me to college; whether a mistake was not
made in not throwing me upon the world, as he was thrown? He has
spoken to me of the philosopher's stone, and said he found it when he
was young. 'Make use of others,' he says, and has furnished
illustrations. 'Take a thousand workingmen,' he says, 'bricklayers,
stonemasons, carpenters, anything. They work a certain number of hours
per day for a certain number of shillings per week. So manage that
from their labor you reap a profit of half an hour a day out of each
man. That is a profit of five hundred hours per day for the organizer.
At eight working hours per day you thus put, roughly speaking, into
your pocket the earnings of sixty men out of the thousand.' That is
the way in which my father became a contractor. Bridges, canals,
foreign railways, he has made them all, and has had as many as eight
thousand men working for him at one time. And all out of nothing. But
this is prosaic stuff. Let us talk of ourselves. Your father is ill,
you said. What is the matter with him?"
"He suffers from his heart, Kingsley; I am in deep distress about
him."
"Perhaps he is frightening himself unnecessarily, my dear. He must
consult the best physicians. Thorough rest, freedom from anxiety, a
warmer climate--leave it to me, Nansie. It is only a matter of money."
Nansie thought with sadness of the disclosure made by her father of
the extent of his worldly resources, and at that moment the subject of
her thoughts made his appearance. Mr. Loveday did not betray surprise
at finding his daughter with Kingsley, but she blushed scarlet when
she saw him, and Kingsley was not free from a certain embarrassment.
"You rose before me this morning," said Mr. Loveday to Nansie. "Have
you been out long?"
"About half an hour, father," she replied.
"You have not met Mr. Manners by accident," he observed.
"No, father; Kingsley and I made the appointment last night."
"Last night! At what strange hour, then, and where?" Kingsley looked
at her encouragingly, and whispered: "Be brave. I will tell him all."
This gave her courage.
"The appointment, father," she said, archly, "was made last night when
the nightingale was singing."
He allowed his eyes to rest for a brief space upon hers, and he saw
truth and innocence so clearly depicted therein that a deep breath
escaped him, as though a weight had been lifted off his heart. But
this assurance of his daughter's guilelessness was another argument
against the man who, in the father's opinion, was playing upon her
feelings.
"Go and prepare breakfast, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday. "I will join you
presently."
"And Kingsley?" she asked. "He will also come?"
"We shall see, we shall see," said Mr. Loveday, fretfully. "He and I
have much to say to each other."
"But I shall expect him," she said, kissing her father; then, with a
bright look at Kingsley, she departed.
"It was the only way to get rid of her," said Mr. Loveday, with a look
of displeasure at the young man. "Even a father is compelled sometimes
to practise deceit in his dealings with his children."
The implied accusation in this remark was acknowledged by Kingsley in
silence. Impulsive and wayward as he was, he was apt to resent an
imputation reflecting upon his honor.
"But then," continued Mr. Loveday, "a father is often justified in his
deceit, especially in such a case as this, when he has to deal with a
young and inexperienced girl."
His manner was as unfortunate as his matter, and it was impossible to
mistake his meaning; but Kingsley exhibited no resentment.
"You are bringing an accusation against me, sir," he said. "The least
you can do is to set it forth in plain terms."
"I will do so. Were I disposed to be lenient--which I am not, because
the welfare of my daughter is too near to my heart--I should call your
conduct rash and inconsiderate. As it is, I have no hesitation in
declaring it to be criminal."
"I am glad Nansie is not present to hear you, sir."
"I, also, am glad. You know as well as I do that I would not dare
to speak so plainly were she here. I should have to temporize with
her--in plainer terms, to use some of the arts you have used to
entangle her."
"Have I used such arts to such a purpose?" asked Kingsley. He was not
accustomed to be addressed in such a manner and to be misjudged so
promptly. "You make me aware of it for the first time."
"Use none with me; be straightforward, if it is in your power. I am my
daughter's protector, and I intend to protect her with firmness and
authority." And yet as he spoke he pressed his hand to his heart, and
looked before him apprehensively for a moment with the manner of a man
to whom a spiritual warning had presented itself. Firm and confident
as he endeavored to make his speech, he felt his powerlessness. He was
a beggar, and the shadow of death hovered over him. Nevertheless he
bravely pursued what he conceived to be his duty. "I have called your
conduct criminal. You have some knowledge of the world. In what other
words would you describe the behavior of a young man of fashion--you
see I do you justice--"
"You do not," interrupted Kingsley, "you do me a gross injustice, as
you will be compelled to acknowledge before we have done."
"How other than criminal is the conduct of a young man of fashion when
he makes an appointment with a pure and innocent girl such as this in
which I have surprised you? What construction would the world place
upon it?"
"I care little for the world, sir, where my affections are concerned."
"That is to say, that you care little for the consequences of
wrong-doing. I know, I know; it is the fashion of your set."
"Upon my honor, sir," said Kingsley, warmly, "I cannot make up my mind
how to take you. The attitude you have assumed rather puts me on my
mettle, and though I could easily disarm you, perhaps it is as well
that I should first hear you out."
"The attitude _you_ assume, young gentleman, is an utterly
unwarrantable one. I am speaking strongly, I admit, but I am justified
by my duty as a parent."
"And yet, sir, I may have equal justice on my side."
"There can be no question of equality in this matter."
"Pardon me, sir," said Kingsley--hurt as he was, his bearing towards
Nansie's father was, if not deferential, respectful--"I thought this
was a matter of the affections." And, conscious of his integrity, he
could not help adding: "Shall your daughter be the judge, sir, between
us?"
In Mr. Loveday's eyes this was an added offence.
"It is an unworthy challenge, Mr. Manners. It is not difficult for an
inexperienced girl to choose between a lover and a father. Old
affections, old ties, all records of a parent's anxious care, fade
into nothingness when her heart is touched by the new love." He spoke
now plaintively, and he noted the sympathizing look in Kingsley's
face. It inspired him with hope; his voice became more gentle, his
manner more appealing. "Mr. Manners, have pity on me. Let us speak as
honest man to honest man."
"Agreed, sir," said Kingsley, heartily.
"My daughter is a poor girl; I am a poor man, and have been so all my
life. There is no great misfortune in this; as much happiness is to be
found in the ranks of the poor as in the ranks of the rich. When, some
short time since, it first came to my knowledge that my daughter
entertained an affection for you, there was but one course open to
me--to effect a separation between you, in the hope that time and
distance might work a healthful cure, and cause her to forget you."
"But why, sir?" asked Kingsley, with smiling eyes.
"You ask why? Surely you can yourself supply the answer. There is
between you a disparity which renders it impossible that any good can
spring from such an affection."
"No, no, sir; not impossible. Pardon me for interrupting you."
"I, as a matter of course, can form some reasonable conception of the
future that lies before my child. She is poor; she will live among the
poor; it is her lot, and not a hard one. It is only temptation, it is
only a longing for what is out of her reach, that is likely to spoil
her life, as it has spoiled the lives of many who have not had the
strength to resist. Will you help to spoil the life of a child who is
very dear to me?"
"No," said Kingsley, fervently, "as Heaven is my judge, no!"
"Mr. Manners," said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to the young
man, "you said a moment or two since that I was doing you an injustice,
and that I should be compelled to acknowledge it. I acknowledge it
now, and I ask your pardon. You have been simply thoughtless. The time
may come when, with children of your own to protect, you will look
back to this meeting with satisfaction."
"I shall always do that, sir. And now, sir, as we are on better terms,
I may ask what it is you expect of me."
"That you never see my daughter more; that you give me your promise
not to intrude yourself upon her, nor write to her, and in that way
help her in the task that lies before her, the task of forgetfulness."
"A hard task, sir."
"It may be, and all the sweeter when it is accomplished, because of
the dangers from which its performance saves her. You promise me
this?"
"A moment, sir. If your daughter and I had been equal in
station--which we are not; she is far above me." Being more at his
ease, he relapsed now into his old manner of discursiveness. "If you
knew me better you would excuse me for flying off at a tangent. It is
a butterfly habit of mine, though I hope there is something of the
grub in me! It may be needed by and by. If, as I was about to say,
your daughter and I were equal in worldly station, both being equally
poor or equally rich, and I asked you for her hand, would you refuse
it to me?"
"I think not," replied Mr. Loveday. "But knowing so little of you it
would be necessary that I should know more, that I should be to some
extent satisfied as to your past life."
"And your inquiries in that respect being satisfactory," interrupted
Kingsley, "you would not refuse?"
"My daughter's heart should decide for me."
"Let it decide for you now, sir," said Kingsley, in a tone both light
and earnest. "No, do not take it amiss that I make this proposition,
but listen to me a moment. Hitherto I have been pretty well thrust
aside in this matter, as if I were a bit of stone, without feelings,
or something very nearly resembling a monster with them. I am quite
conscious that I am of an erratic disposition, flying hither and
thither as the whim seizes me--almost as bad, my dear sir, as your
eccentric wanderings in a caravan--but I am not at all conscious that
I have any very distinct vice in me; the explanation of which may be
that I lack strength of character, a proof that it is as undesirable
in one man as it is desirable in another. I am not speaking in praise
of myself, except perhaps in a negative way, which is not much to
one's credit. Though I may tell you, sir, that I have not unfrequently
been called a radical, and a radical is a personage. What I am
endeavoring to express is that I have feelings, and that I should
prefer rather to be happy than miserable. There is nothing
unreasonable in that, I hope."
As he paused for a reply, Mr. Loveday, somewhat mystified, said: "No,
there is nothing unreasonable in such a desire."
"That much being admitted," continued Kingsley, "I repeat my request
that your daughter's heart should decide for you, as you would allow
it to decide for you if you supposed me to be a poor man. And this
sends me flying off again. My father is a rich man; I am nothing but
what he makes me. If he were to turn me off, my entire worldly wealth
would consist of an inconsiderable sum of six hundred pounds, the
whole of which would be swallowed up in paying my debts. Give me
credit for frankness, sir."
"I do. Your frankness convinces me that for your own sake, as well as
for my daughter's, it is best that you and she should not meet again."
"But she expects me, sir, and in your company. I would wager that she
has prepared breakfast for me-- There, sir, don't turn impatiently
away; it is the fault of my temperament that I can be light and
serious in a breath, that I can mean much and seem to mean little.
This I promise. If you will allow me to accompany you to the caravan,
where your daughter is waiting for us, I will abide by your decision,
to be arrived at within five short minutes after we are together, as
to whether I shall remain to breakfast or bid you farewell. Come, sir,
I can't speak fairer."
There was an irresistible ingenuousness in Kingsley's voice and
manner, and Mr. Loveday led the way to the caravan. Breakfast was
laid, and Nansie, busy within the dwelling-house on wheels, cried out
in the cheerfullest of voices:
"Is that you, father?"
"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.
"And Kingsley?"
"Yes, Nansie," said the young man. "Never mind the teapot. Come out at
once; I have only five minutes' grace."
Nansie immediately ran down the little flight of wooden steps, and
looked from one to the other of the men, both so dear to her.
"Nansie," said Kingsley, "I said that I would tell your father all.
Forgive me; I have not done so."
"Why, Kingsley?"
"Because I left it to you."
"I may speak, then?"
"Yes."
And now there were tears in Nansie's eyes, happy tears. She approached
closer to her father and took his hand.
"You said last night, father, that you thought I had a secret which I
was keeping from you."
"Yes, child."
"I had; but I had given Kingsley a promise not to reveal it without
his permission. I have his permission now, and I will tell it." Her
bosom heaved, her lips trembled; she gazed fondly at her father.
"Well, child?"
"You will not be angry, father?"
"I do not know, Nansie."
"Father," said Nansie--her arms were round his neck, and her face half
hidden on his breast--"Kingsley and I are married."
"Married!" cried Mr. Loveday, in a tone of wondering happiness.
"Yes, dear, married. Kingsley thought it best to wait until his
father, who has been for some time abroad, returned home before we
made it known; but I am glad that you know it earlier--glad and happy,
my dear father. I wrote to Kingsley--I could not help it, father; I
was afraid of losing him, we were wandering about so--and he came last
night, when you were asleep. I was awake, listening to the
nightingale. Kingsley being outside and I in, we could not talk
comfortably together; that is how we met this morning at sunrise. You
will forgive us, father, will you not?"
"Forgive you, dear child!" said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to
Kingsley, who took it and pressed it warmly. "What can I have to
forgive, seeing you and Kingsley so happy, and knowing that you have a
protector? It is I who should ask forgiveness of him."
"Not at all, my dear sir, not at all," cried Kingsley, hastily. "I was
to blame for allowing you to labor a moment under a misapprehension."
"My dear Nansie! my dear, dear child!" murmured the happy father.
Then, turning to Kingsley: "When do you expect your father home?" As
he asked the question his face became grave. He saw the difficulties
in their way.
"He has arrived, sir. I had a letter from him yesterday, and I am
going to him, to confess all. It was partly that, and partly because
of Nansie's letter, but chiefly because I could not exist without
seeing her before I went to my father, which brought me here. But,
sir, my father is not the question."
"What is, then, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Loveday, still very grave.
"The question is, whether you are going to ask me to stay to breakfast
with you."
Mr. Loveday brightened; there was something contagious in the young
man's gay spirits.
"I invite you, Kingsley," he said.
"Thank you, sir; I am famished, Nansie."
Standing upon the wooden steps, she turned and gazed fondly at her
father and her husband, and as her bright eyes shone upon them there
issued from a thicket of trees a most wonderful chorus of birds. And
Mr. Loveday, quoting from his favorite poet, said:
"'See, the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet the morn with melody.'"
And Nansie, going slowly into the caravan, thought that life was very
sweet and the world very beautiful.
CHAPTER IV.
On the evening of the following day Kingsley arrived at his father's
house in London. It was situated in the centre of fashion, and had
been built by the rich contractor himself upon part of a freehold
which he had purchased upon terms so advantageous that, as he was in
the habit of boasting, his own mansion "stood him in next to nothing,"
occasionally adding that he could find a purchaser for it at a day's
notice for seventy-five thousand pounds. He was fond of dealing in
large sums even in figures of speech, and he was to some extent
justified in this habit by the circumstances of his career.
It was a wonderful career, commencing with nothing and marching into
millions. A poor boy, doubly orphaned and thrown upon the world before
he could stand upright, without a friend, without a penny, without
shoes to his feet, he had grown somehow into a sturdy manhood, and
when he was twenty years of age he stood six feet two in his
stockings, and could fell an ox with his fist. Therefore, even at that
humble period in his career, he was renowned among his fellows, and
held a distinguished position. No man could equal him in strength;
many tried and were laid low; giants travelled from afar to try
conclusions with Val Manners, and all met with the same fate. Had he
cared he might have developed into the greatest prizefighter the world
had ever known, and have worn diamonded belts and jewelled stars, and
become as a king among men. Newspapers would have heralded his doings
in large type; he could have travelled in state like an ambassador; he
might have exhibited himself and earned a princely income; the
aristocracy would have patted his broad back, and titled ladies would
have cast admiring glances at him. For this is the age of muscle as
well as intellect, and a bully may take rank with Homer.
But Val Manners was not a bully, and his tastes were not for the
prize-ring. He was proud of his great strength, because it gave him
the mastery, and he used it upon needed occasions to maintain his
position; but he did not love fighting for fighting's sake. In his
early life he knew that he had biceps of steel and a constitution
which defied wind and weather; but he did not know that he had a
subtle brain and a talent for administration which were to lead him to
eminence and enormous wealth. This knowledge dawned upon him
afterwards, when he began to make successes, when he began to gauge
men and understand them.
He commenced life as a bricklayer, and even as a boy his strength and
fearlessness were quoted, and he found himself in demand. He did not
seem to know what fear was; he could climb the shakiest and tallest of
ladders, carrying wonderful weights; he could stand upon dizzy heights
and look smilingly down. His possession of these qualities caused him
to be selected for dangerous tasks, and he was never known to shrink
from one, however perilous. All this time he earned barely sufficient
to appease his enormous appetite. He received no education, but he had
a native gift of figures. It was not till he reached his third decade
that he could read and write. Long before that, however, his
arithmetical talents had laid the foundation of his fortune. It was a
fortune made partly out of stone and metal, but chiefly out of other
men's labor.
Chance threw into his way a small contract. A retired pawnbroker
wanted a house built in North Islington, and was not satisfied with
the estimates he received from established firms. "It ought to be done
for seven and a half per cent. less," said he, and he called Val
Manners to his aid, having had occasion to observe the calm and
skilful manner in which the young artisan went about his work. "He
does the work of two men," said the pawnbroker, "and is probably paid
for the work of one." He ascertained, upon inquiry, that this was the
case; Val Manners, working so many hours a day, was paid so much a
week. It was not that, out of boastfulness, he desired to do more work
in a given time than comrades less strong and capable than himself, it
was simply that he did his work honestly without regard to
comparisons. The pawnbroker discovered in his first interview with Val
Manners that the huge, common-looking man had a head for figures. He
put the matter of his house before Val Manners, and asked him to
prepare an estimate. The result was that Val Manners threw up his
situation, and became a master builder in a small way; the result also
was that the pawnbroker got his house built for twelve per cent, less
than the lowest of the estimates submitted to him by old-established
firms.
In this first operation the brain power of Val Manners made itself
manifest. He worked himself, of course, and thereby saved one man's
labor; this went into his own pocket. Indeed, being stirred and
excited by this higher flight into life's struggles, he worked harder
than had been his usual habit, and may be said to have done the work
of at least two men and a half in the building of the pawnbroker's
house; and this extra money also went into his pocket. Then, again, in
the selection of men but of work who applied to be taken on, he chose
the strongest, and, being always on the spot, saw that he was not
cheated out of a quarter of an hour by one and ten minutes by another.
Thus, when the contract was finished, he was a great many days to the
good, and he found that he was richer by sixty pounds than he would
have been had he continued to be a servant. This set him thinking.
The pawnbroker was so satisfied with the bargain that he proposed the
building of a row of houses in a poor locality. Val Manners was ready
and glad, and pursued the same tactics as before, and worked harder
than ever. The second contract being finished to everybody's
satisfaction, Val Manners reckoned up his gains. He was master of a
capital of three hundred pounds.
From this point his career was a succession of triumphs, until his
capital amounted to a hundred thousand pounds. It was wonderful how
his money accumulated; it grew while he slept, for he often had relays
of men working for him by night as well as by day. He was a hard
taskmaster, perfectly just in his dealings, keeping to his word and
his engagements with unerring fidelity, but exacting from those in his
employ an absolute faithfulness, the least infringement of which meant
instant dismissal. It was no longer Val Manners, but Mr. Manners, the
great Mr. Manners, who had plumped into the very richest part of a Tom
Tiddler's ground open to every enterprising man, and picked and
pocketed the plums growing therein. He did not allow himself to become
bewildered by his success, but pursued his way calmly and masterfully
as regarded his own undertakings, and with a vigilant watchfulness
which frequently turned a probable loss into a certain profit. He
undertook no more small contracts; all his business dealings were now
on a vast scale, and no project was too stupendous for him to grapple
with. It was not England alone that supplied his master mind with
material to expend its energies upon; he sought abroad for contracts,
and laid railways in deserts, built huge bridges touching the clouds,
and made wonderful waterways for facilities of commerce. He became
world-renowned, and the name of Manners, the great contractor, was a
passport in every part of the globe.
It was to his advantage that he married young, his partner being no
other than the daughter of his first patron, the pawnbroker. She was
not in any sense a remarkable person, but she had an ambition to shine
in society, and it was from her that Mr. Manners received the limited
education which enabled him, at thirty years of age, to read and
write. His ideal as to social position also grew with his wealth; but
he had tact enough to understand that it was not possible for him to
occupy a foremost position as a public leader. This, however, did not
prevent him from building a grand house in the heart of fashionable
London, nor from mixing among the best. He was not out of place there,
for he had the rare wisdom of being able to hold his tongue, and never
to speak assertively except upon the business with which he was
familiar. On those occasions he was listened to with respect and
deference, and his words had weight; he trod upon no man's corns by
expressing opinions upon matters of which he had not made himself
master; he was content that his works should speak for him. Eloquent,
indeed, was the record which, so far as he himself was concerned, he
bore about him in silence. The railroads he had constructed in savage
countries, the seas he had joined, were not these matters of history?
And he, whose constructive and administrative talents had compassed
these difficulties, became in a sense historical. Stories were related
of his great courage, of his amazing strength, of his daring and skill
in moments of difficulty, putting his own shoulders to the wheel and
showing his workmen how a thing was to be done. Women love the
personification of strength in a man; it means power, manliness,
nobility, in their eyes; and numbers gazed in admiration upon the
massive frame of the great contractor for whom no undertaking was too
vast. He was a striking figure in fashionable assemblies, towering
above all, and moving like a mountain through the packed crowd of male
and female exquisites. He only moved when he had occasion; he had not
within him that restless, fretful spirit which weakens the character
of many men; as he knew the value of silence, so also did he know the
value of repose. In all gatherings of men and women the art of
standing still with dignity and without self-consciousness is
invaluable. This art Mr. Manners possessed, so that, taking him for
all in all, he was no charlatan, trading upon false pretences.
The day previous to that upon which Kingsley entered his father's
house, with the intention of making a clean breast of it with respect
to Nansie, Mr. Manners himself had returned from Russia where he had
been for five months superintending a railway contract for the Russian
government, which he had brought to a successful conclusion.
CHAPTER V.
Father and son greeted each other cordially, but after the
undemonstrative manner of Englishmen.
"Well, father?"
"Well, Kingsley?"
Then they shook hands, and smiled and nodded at each other.
"Has everything gone off well, father?"
"Everything. The balance on the right side will be larger than I
expected."
"That is better than being the other way."
"Perhaps; but I prefer matters to come out exactly as I planned them.
It is altogether more satisfactory. I will tell you all about it
to-night, when we must have a long talk. I have a lot of letters to
attend to now."
Kingsley took the hint, and, after seeing his mother, went to his
room. The first thing he did there was to take out Nansie's portrait
and gaze fondly on it and kiss it. He had parted from her and her
father in the morning, and had promised to write to her before he went
to bed. As he had an hour now to spare, he thought he could not better
employ it than in covering four sheets of paper to the girl he loved,
so he sat down and enjoyed himself to his heart's content. His letter
was full of the usual lover's rhapsodies, and need not here be
transcribed. There was in it something better than rhapsodies, the
evidence of an earnest, faithful spirit, which made it the sweetest of
reading to Nansie when she received it on the following day. Kingsley
mentioned that he and his father were to have a long talk together
that night, and that, if he found a favorable opportunity, he would
take advantage of it to make confession to his father; also if he had
any good news to communicate, he might write again before he went to
bed. And then, with fond and constant love and untold kisses, he was
forever and ever her faithful lover, and so on, and so on. Very
precious and comforting are these lovers' sweet trivialities.
Dinner over, Kingsley and his father sat together in the contractor's
study, at a table upon which were wine and cigars. Mr. Manners drank
always in great moderation, and did not smoke. Kingsley's habits were
after a freer fashion, and his father did not disapprove. The first
hour was occupied in a description by Mr. Manners of the operations in
which he had been engaged in Russia, and of the difficulties which he
had to surmount. He made light of these, but he was proud of his last
success.
"There were mountains to cut through, Kingsley," he said, "and Russian
prejudices to overcome; I hardly know which of the two was the more
difficult job."
"There were dangers, father, as well as difficulties," observed
Kingsley.
"Yes, there were dangers; you have heard something of them?"
"I have seen accounts in the papers from time to time. You see,
father, the railway you have laid down is a step nearer to India."
"I am pleased to hear you say that, Kingsley."
"Why?" asked Kingsley, rather surprised.
"Because it shows you take an interest in politics."
"I have done that for some time past, as you know, father."
"Yes, and it pleases me. A step nearer to India. That is so, but it is
no business of mine. It may," with a light touch of his finger on his
son's breast, "by and by be business of yours, when you are a
statesman. About the dangers? What did you read?"
"There were pestilent morasses to be bridged over or cut through, and
there was great loss of life."
"Quite correct; the mortality was serious; fortunately I employed
native labor."
"But it was human life, father, whether Russian or English."
"Quite true again, Kingsley."
"Holding views as I do, father," said Kingsley, "there appears to me
something anomalous--that is putting it very mildly--in this last
operation of yours."
Mr. Manners smiled good-humoredly, and nodded his head in pleasant
approval.
"Go on, Kingsley."
"For instance, the matter of Russia's nearer approach to India being
facilitated by an Englishman. Is not that anomalous?"
"No more anomalous than selling Russia a few millions of our best
rifles and a few hundred millions of our best bullets."
"Would you do that?"
"I should like to get the contract."
Kingsley shifted uneasily in his chair.
"It is either right or wrong," he said.
"Being at peace with Russia, Kingsley, it is right. Of course, it
would be wrong if we were at war with the country."
"But we provide it with rifles and bullets and railways beforehand."
"Quite so--in the way of business. I like a conversation such as this,
Kingsley, in which there is no need for anything to be settled. As to
the future before you, it doesn't matter to me which side you take, so
long as you become what I hope you will be. Men like myself, sprung
from the ranks and making such fortunes as I have made, generally
become Conservatives. I am neither one thing nor another, and shall
not attempt to dictate to you. But into this question of bullets and
rifles and railways let us import a little common-sense. If that sort
of trading is wrong in times of peace, every country would have to cut
itself aloof from every other country, and to live as if it were shut
up in a box. I can't express myself as well as you, but I dare say you
understand me."
"You can always make people understand you, father," said Kingsley.
"Yes, I have always been able to do that. They respect you all the
more for it." Here he laughed quite gayly. "Even in Russia, where I
did not know one word of the language, I made myself understood. I saw
some great people there, Kingsley, and had interviews with them. Of
course, I had a man to interpret for me, but I think I could have
managed even without him. Some of the great men spoke English, but not
a laborer I employed did. It was no more necessary for them to know
our language, than for me to know theirs. The point was that there was
work to do, and that it must be done within the stipulated time. With
a stern master over him the Russian is a good workman, and values his
life less than an Englishman. Take the pestilential ground we had to
work over. No English workman would remain there a day; the Russian
shrugged his shoulders and took the risk. Now, Kingsley, we will
proceed to matters more immediately concerning ourselves."
"With pleasure, father."
"As between father and son there should be as few secrets as possible.
You have some knowledge of my career; it is one I have no need to be
ashamed of, and I propose to commence with the story of my life, and
to make you fully acquainted with the secret of my rise in the world."
Upon that Mr. Manners entered unreservedly upon his relation, and
spoke of matters in respect of his successful struggles with which the
reader is already familiar. It was not all new to Kingsley, but he
listened patiently and admiringly.
"I think I have made it plain to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners,
when he had finished the recital, "that I owe everything to myself. I
make no boast of it, and I have no doubt there are numbers of men as
capable and clever as I am, only they have either not had the courage
to launch out or have missed their opportunities. Now, my lad, I am
sensible of my own deficiencies; I do not deceive myself by saying
that I am as good as others with whom my money places me on an
equality; I am a contractor, nothing more, and every shoemaker to his
last. I shall stick to mine, and make more money. If I entered
Parliament, which I could do without difficulty, I should have to sit
mumchance, and play a silent part, unless something in my own
particular line started up; and that would be once in a blue moon. Now
taking a back seat in anything in which I am engaged would not suit
me; I am accustomed to be master, and master I intend to continue to
be. If I were a good speaker the matter would be different; I could
carry all before me, though I am ignorant of Greek and Latin. When I
was a lad I did not have what you call ambition; I took a pride in
making sensible contracts which would bring me in a profit, and I
crept along steadily, never dreaming that I should ever reach my
present position. But the case is altered now, and I have a real
ambition--not directly for myself, but for you. I have no expectation
that you will disappoint me."
"I will endeavor not to do so, father."
"That is a good lad. You will be one of the richest men in the
country, but I want you to be something more; I want you to be one of
the most influential. I want people to say as I walk along; 'There
goes the father of the prime-minister.'"
"That is looking a long way ahead," said Kingsley, considerably
startled by this flight.
"Not a bit too far; it can be worked up to, and with your gifts it
shall be. I have already told you that it matters little to me whether
you are a Conservative, or a Liberal, or a Radical; that is your
affair. If you are prime-minister and a Radical it will show that
Radicalism is popular. I stop short of Socialism, mind you."
"So do I."
"Good. There is nothing nowadays that a man with a good education and
a long purse cannot accomplish. I have the long purse, but not the
education. I can talk sensibly enough to you here in a room, and in
fairly good English, thanks to your mother and to my perseverance, but
put me in the House of Commons and ask me to make a long speech upon
large matters of state, and I should make a fool of myself. Therefore
it is impossible _I_ could ever become prime-minister."
"It is not every man who would speak so plainly and disparagingly of
himself."
"Perhaps not, but I happen to know the length of my tether; I happen
to know what I am fitted for and what I am not. I don't want you to
suppose that I am making a sacrifice; nothing of the kind. I keep my
place; you work up to yours; then I shall be perfectly satisfied. I
have had this in my mind for years, and instead of making you a
contractor I have made you a gentleman. That is what other fathers
have done, whose beginnings have been as humble as mine. New families
are springing up, my boy, to take the place of the old; you, Kingsley,
shall found a family which shall become illustrious, and I shall be
content to look on and say: 'This is my doing; this is my work.' We
shall show these old lords what new blood can do."
"Why, father," said Kingsley, laughing despite the uneasy feeling that
was creeping over him, "you are a Radical."
"Perhaps I am, but we will keep it to ourselves. Now, Kingsley, it is
my method when I am going in for a big contract to master beforehand
everything in connection with it. I study it again and again; I verify
my figures and calculations a dozen times before I set my name to it.
That is what I have done in this affair. I have mastered the whole of
the details, and I know exactly what is necessary. The first thing to
make sure of when a great house is to be built, a house that is to
last through sunshine and storm, a house that is to stand for
centuries, is the foundation. That is out of sight, but it must be
firm, and strong, and substantial. I am the foundation of this house I
wish to build, and I am out of sight. Good. What is fine and beautiful
to the eye you will supply--that is, you and your connections, in
which, for convenience, we will say your mother and I do not count."
"My connections!" exclaimed Kingsley. "Apart from you and my mother!"
"Quite so. There are families of the highest rank who would not shrink
from admitting you, upon the closest terms, into their circle. Some
are tottering, and fear the fall. Old estates are mortgaged up to
their value, and every year makes their position worse. We, with our
full purses, step in and set them right, and bury the ghosts which
haunt them. There is nothing low and common about you, my boy. You
are, in appearance, manners, and education, as good as the best of
them, and lady mothers will only be too glad to welcome you. The first
thing you must do is to marry."
"Sir!"
"And to marry well. I have authority for saying that you can marry the
daughter of a duchess. I don't wonder that you look startled. I have
seen the young lady; she is nineteen years of age, and very beautiful.
Of course she knows nothing of the scheme. It is for you to win
her--of which I have no fears. You can make settlements upon her,
Kingsley, which would satisfy the most exacting of duchesses. The
family has influence, great influence, socially and politically.
Married to her, with your talents, your future is assured, if you have
only a fair amount of industry. I have set my heart upon it,
Kingsley."
"There is the question of love, father," said Kingsley, in a low tone.
It seemed to him that his father had cut the ground from under his
feet.
"Quite so. There is the question of love. You will win your way to her
heart, without a doubt."
CHAPTER VI.
There occurred here a pause. Kingsley did not know what to say. His
father was waiting for him to speak.
"No man should think of marrying," said Kingsley, presently, "unless
there is love on both sides."
"There is no occasion to discuss that point," said Mr. Manners. "As
you will win your way to the young lady's heart, so will she win her
way to yours. Wait till you see her, and meanwhile give me your
promise that you will do your best to further my wishes. I do not
expect a blind compliance; you shall go to her with your eyes open,
and if you do not say she is very beautiful you must be a poor judge
of beauty."
"But," murmured Kingsley, "to have an affair like this cut and dried
beforehand for the man who is most deeply concerned--well, father,
there is something sordid and mercenary in it."
"There might be," said Mr. Manners, calmly, "if the young lady knew
anything of it; but she knows nothing."
"Yet you said you spoke with authority."
"Quite so. The young lady's mother has been indirectly sounded, and I
spoke the truth. Listen, Kingsley," and Mr. Manners's more serious
tone increased Kingsley's discomfort. "I said I have set my heart upon
the projects I have unfolded concerning your future. I have set
something more than my heart upon them--I have set all my hopes upon
them. You are my only child, and will be my heir if everything is
right between us. You will come into an enormous fortune, greater than
you have any idea of, and by its means and a suitable marriage you
will rise to power. There are few men who would not jump at the
proposition I have made, which, plainly explained, means your coming
into everything that can make life desirable. If I were asking you to
marry a lady who was ugly or had some deformity I could understand
your hesitation. Do you still refuse to give me the promise I ask?"
"I cannot give it to you, father."
"Why?" demanded Mr. Manners, in a stern voice; but he did not give
Kingsley time to reply. "Listen further to me before you speak." He
took a pocket-book from his pocket, and drew from it a paper which he
consulted. "I can make excuses for slight faults of conduct, but will
not pardon an opposition which threatens to destroy the most earnest
wish of my life. You are acquainted with a person of the name of
Loveday."
"I have the honor of his acquaintance," said Kingsley, nerving himself
for the contest which he saw impending, and considerably surprised at
his father's acquaintance with the name.
"He is a person of no character," said Mr. Manners.
"He is a gentleman," interrupted Kingsley.
"That is news to me," said Mr. Manners, "and is not in accordance with
the information I have received."
"Have you been playing the spy upon me?" asked Kingsley, with some
warmth.
"I should require to be in two places at once to have done that. This
time last week I was in Russia."
"Then you have been paying some one to watch me. By what right,
father?"
"You jump too hastily at conclusions. You make a statement which is
not true, and you proceed to question me upon it."
"I beg your pardon; but you must have obtained your information from
some source."
"Quite so."
"Will you tell me from whom?
"I may or I may not before we part to-night. You refused to give me a
promise; I refuse to give you one. I might well take offence at the
imputation that I have paid a spy to watch you."
"I withdrew the imputation, father."
"The suspicion was in itself an offence. I have allowed you to go your
way, Kingsley, in the belief and hope that your way and mine were one,
and that you would do nothing to disgrace me."
"I have done nothing to disgrace you."
"We may take different views. As a young man you have had what is
called your 'fling.' I made you a most liberal allowance--"
"For which I have always been deeply grateful, father," said Kingsley,
hoping to turn the current of his father's wrath. It smote him with
keen apprehension, for Nansie's sake and his own, that the anger his
father displayed when he first mentioned the name of Loveday should be
no longer apparent, and that Mr. Manners spoke in his usual calm and
masterful voice.
"I made you a most liberal allowance," repeated Mr. Manners, "which you
freely spent. I did not demur to that; it pleased me that you should
be liberal and extravagant, and prove yourself the equal in fortune,
as you are in education and manners, of those with whom you mixed. You
committed some follies, which I overlooked--and paid for."
"It is the truth, father. I got into debt and you cleared me."
"Did I reproach you?"
"No, sir."
"If I am not mistaken--and in figures I seldom am--I paid your debts
for you on three occasions."
"It is true, sir."
"And always cheerfully."
"Always, sir."
"I am not wishful to take undue credit to myself by reminding you of
this; it is only that I would have you bear in mind that I have
endeavored to make your life easy and pleasurable, and to do my duty
by you. Nor will I make any comparison between your career as a young
man and mine at the same age. I am satisfied, and I suppose you are
the same."
"I think, father," said Kingsley, "that I should have been content to
work as you did."
"Not as I did, because we started from different standpoints. Pounds,
shillings, and pence were of great importance to me, and I used to
count them very jealously. I value money now perhaps as little as you
do, but I know its value better than you, and what it can buy in a
large way--in the way I have already explained to you. For that
reason, and for no other, it is precious to me. There are men who have
risen to wealth by discreditable means; that is not my case; what I
possess has been fairly worked for and fairly earned. All through my
life I have acted honorably and straightforwardly."
"All through my life, father," said Kingsley, with spirit, "I shall do
the same."
"Well and good. I have a special reason, Kingsley, in speaking of
myself in the way I have done."
"Will you favor me with your reason, father?"
"Yes. It is to put a strong emphasis upon what you will lose if you
cut yourself away from me."
"Is there any fear of that, father?" asked Kingsley, with a sinking
heart.
"It will be for you, not for me, to answer that question; and it will
be answered, I presume, more in acts than in words. I return to the
Mr. Loveday, who is described to me as a person of no character, and
whom you describe as a gentleman."
"He is one, father, believe me," said Kingsley, earnestly.
"Do gentlemen travel about the country in caravans, sleeping in them
by the roadsides?"
Kingsley could not help smiling. "Not generally, father, but some men
are whimsical."
"Let us keep to the point, Kingsley. According to your account we are
speaking of a gentleman."
"We are," said Kingsley, somewhat nettled at this pinning down.
"Then you mean that some gentlemen are whimsical?"
"I mean that."
"In what respect is this Mr. Loveday a gentleman? Does he come of an
old family?"
"I do not know."
"Do you know anything of his family?"
"Nothing."
"Is he a man of means?"
"No."
"A poor man, then?"
"Yes."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
"And travels about in a broken-down caravan, and you wish me to
believe he is a gentleman. I would prefer to take your word, Kingsley,
against that of my informant, but in this instance I cannot do so. It
would be stretching the limits too far."
"We will not argue it out, father."
"Very well. But Mr. Loveday does not travel alone in this caravan; he
has a person he calls his daughter with him."
"It is coming," thought Kingsley, and he set his teeth fast, and
said': "His daughter, a lady, travels with him."
"So far, then, my facts are indisputable. This young woman is
described to me as an artful, designing person who has used all her
arts to entangle you--because you have a rich father."
"Who dares say that?" cried Kingsley, starting up with flashing eyes.
"My informant. I understand, also, that some months since she
contracted secretly a disreputable marriage, and that her husband--do
not interrupt me for a moment, Kingsley--has conveniently disappeared
in order to give her time to bleed you, through your rich father. To
go through the ceremony again would be a light matter with her."
"It is a horrible calumny," cried Kingsley, in great excitement.
"Although," pursued Mr. Manners, exhibiting no agitation in his voice
or manner, "the circumstances of my own private life have not made me
personally familiar with the tricks of adventuresses, I have in the
course of my experiences learned sufficient of them to make me abhor
them. How much deeper must be my abhorrence now when such a woman
steps in between me and my son to destroy a cherished design which can
only be carried out in his person! I will listen to no vindication,
Kingsley. Before you arrived home to-night I had a strong hope that
some mistake had been made in the information which has reached me
concerning your proceedings. I was wrong; it is unhappily too true."
"You received the information from an enemy of mine."
"No, Kingsley, from a friend."
"Ah!" There was here, even in the utterance of the simple word, a
singular resemblance between father and son. Kingsley's voice no
longer betrayed excitement, and his manner became outwardly calm.
"There is only one so-called friend who could have supplied you with
the information--my cousin, Mark Inglefield."
Mr. Manners was silent.
"Was it he, sir?" asked Kingsley.
Still Mr. Manners was silent.
"I judge from your silence, sir, that Mark Inglefield is the man I
have to thank."
During his silence Mr. Manners had been considering.
"I must say something here, Kingsley. I have no right to betray
another man's confidence, and you no right to betray mine."
"It would be the last of my wishes, father."
"If I tell you who is my informant, will you hold it as a sacred
confidence?"
It was Kingsley's turn now to consider. He was convinced that Mark
Inglefield was his enemy, and by giving his father the desired promise
of a sacred confidence, he would be shutting himself off from all
chance of reprisal. On the other hand, he might be mistaken; and his
father might also refuse to continue the interview, which Kingsley
felt could not be broken at this point; and after all, how could he
hope to help himself or Nansie by a personal encounter with his cousin
or by further angering his father, who, he knew only too well, was now
in a dangerous mood?
"Do you insist upon my holding it as a sacred confidence, father?"
"I insist upon it," said Mr. Manners, coldly.
"I will hold it so."
"On your honor as a man? Not as a gentleman, for our views differ
there."
"On my honor as a man."
"You were right," said Mr. Manners. "I received the information from
your cousin, Mark Inglefield."
"As I expected. I must now relate to you, father, the circumstances of
my acquaintance with Mr. Loveday and his daughter, and the manner in
which my cousin Mark comes into connection with it."
"I will listen to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners. "Our conversation
has assumed a complexion which may be productive of the most serious
results to you and myself. I do not hold this out as a threat; I state
a fact. I am, in my convictions, inflexible. Once I am resolved, no
power on earth can move me. And do not lose sight of another thing.
Mark Inglefield is your mother's nephew, and therefore your cousin.
That I have given him the advantage of a university education, and
that I sent you both to college at the same time, is my affair. I
should have done the same by you had you been my nephew and he my son.
It was always my intention to advance him in life, and it is my
intention still. He is worthy of it. He is your equal in birth and
attainments. Therefore speak of him with becoming respect. I shall
know the exact value to place upon intemperate language in a case like
this, where the passions are involved."
"I will do my best to obey you, father," said Kingsley, "but a pure
reputation is at stake, and I may fail in my endeavor. It was my
cousin, Mark Inglefield, who first introduced me to Miss Loveday. He
spoke to me of her, as he spoke to others, in a light tone, and I do
not know what it was that induced me to give ear to his boastings,
although I entertained a contempt for him and a doubt of his truth.
One day, while we were walking together and he was indulging with
greater freedom and boisterousness than usual--though his ordinary
habit was bad enough--of his acquaintanceship with Miss Loveday, it
happened that we met her. He could do no less than introduce me, and I
had not been in her company five minutes before I suspected that his
vaporings about her were those of a base man, of one who was dead to
honor. A true man is respectful and modest when he makes reference to
a lady for whom he entertains an affection, and the doubts I had
previously entertained of my cousin when he indulged in the
outpourings of his coarse vanity were now confirmed. I followed up the
introduction by courting Miss Loveday's intimacy, and she grew to
respect me, to rely upon me. The more I saw of her the more I esteemed
her. Never had I met a lady so pure and gentle, and it was a proud
moment in my life when she asked me to protect her from my cousin's
insolent advances. I spoke to him, in a manner not too gentle, I own,
for my indignation was aroused, and from that time he and I were
enemies. I know it now; I did not know it then. He was far too subtle
for me, and I, perhaps too much in the habit of wearing my heart upon
my sleeve, was, as I now discover, sadly at a disadvantage with him.
He showed no anger at my supplanting him, and this should have warned
me; your cold-blooded man is a dangerous animal when he becomes your
enemy; but I suppose I was too deeply in love and too happy to harbor
suspicion against one who had no real cause for enmity against me. Nor
did I consider the consequences--not to myself but to the lady I
loved--of my frequent visits and meetings with her. There is no doubt
that she was compromised by them, but she was as guileless and
innocent as myself, and it was not till it was forced upon me that her
reputation was in my hands that I prevailed upon her to take the step
which gave the lie to malicious rumor."
"And that step, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I married her. She is my wife."
"You think so?"
"Think so, father! What do you mean? Am I a man with reason, gifted
with some standard of intelligence, that I should think--which implies
a doubt--where I am sure?"
"You are a man deluded, Kingsley, as other men have been by other
women. This woman has deceived you."
"No, sir, truly as I live."
"The farce would not be complete unless you protested. It is the least
you can do. All that you have said confirms your cousin's story. He
has not erred in one particular, except in what is excusable in him,
and perhaps in you. Mischief is done, but it can be remedied. An
impulsive man like yourself is no match for an artful woman."
"I will not hear the lady I love and esteem so spoken of," said
Kingsley, with warmth.
To this remark Mr. Manners was about to reply with equal warmth, but
he checked himself, and did not speak for a few moments. When he
resumed the conversation he spoke in his usual calm tone, a tone which
never failed in impressing upon his hearers a conviction of the
speaker's absolute sincerity and indomitable will.
"It has happened--fortunately for others--but rarely in my life,
Kingsley, that such a crisis as this has occurred; and I regret this
difference in our ideas all the more because its consequences may be
fatal to you and may shatter hopes upon which I have set great store.
When you say to me that you will not hear me speak in such or such a
manner, because it displeases you, you behave in a manner to which I
am not accustomed. When you place yourself in opposition to my wishes
you treat me to a new experience which I do not welcome. Were I
holding this interview with any other than yourself I should have put
an end to it some time since; after that there would be nothing more
to be said on either side. I am not used to disappointments, but I
should be able to bear them; I am rather fond of difficulties because
it is a pleasure to overcome them. I am inclined to regard this
difference of opinion between us as a difficulty which may be overcome
without much trouble, if you are reasonable."
"It is not a difference of opinion, father," said Kingsley, moderating
his tone; the interests at stake were too serious to allow him to give
his indignation free play, "it is a difference as to facts, of which
I, and not you, am cognizant."
"I hold to what I say, Kingsley," replied Mr. Manners. "I have
received a certain statement of particulars which I choose to accept
as true; you have imparted to me certain information which I do not
choose to accept in the manner you wish. Setting aside for a moment
all question of the young woman of whose character we have formed
different estimates, I ask you, supposing you to be legally married,
what is the kind of respect you have shown me, a father who has never
crossed your wishes, by contracting a lifelong obligation without
consulting me?"
"It was wrong, father," said Kingsley, with contrition. "I have only
the excuse to make that I loved her and was eager to defend her
reputation."
"It is an excuse I cannot accept. And the deliberate committal of a
fault so fatally grave as this, with a full knowledge of the
consequences, cannot be condoned by the weak confession, when it is
too late to repair the fault, that you were wrong. There is a
repentance which comes too late, Kingsley. But even that I might have
forgiven had I reason to approve of your choice."
"You have but to see her, father," said Kingsley, eagerly. "Let me
bring her to you! You will be as proud of her as I am; you will know
then that I have not chosen unworthily."
"No," said Mr. Manners, "if I see her at all I must see her alone."
"Give me a minute or two to consider, father."
"Certainly, Kingsley."
The young man turned aside, and allowed his thoughts to travel to
Nansie, and to dwell upon the beauty of her character. He knew her to
be patient and long-suffering, and that she would not shrink from
making a sacrifice for one she loved as she loved him; he knew also
that these qualities were allied to a spirit of independence which,
while it would enable her to bear up outwardly under the pressure of a
great wrong, would rather intensify than abate the anguish which would
wring her soul were such a wrong forced upon her. It would be a
lifelong anguish, and would rack her till her dying day. His father,
with his iron will, was just the man to force the sacrifice upon her,
was just the man to so prevail upon her that she might, at his
persuasion, remove herself forever not only from the presence but from
the knowledge of the man she loved and had vowed to love while life
remained. Poor, helpless, dependent, and alone in the world--for
Kingsley had an inward conviction that her father's days were
numbered--to what a future would he, the man who had sworn to love and
cherish her, be condemning her if he permitted his father to have his
way in this matter! The crime would be his, not his father's; upon his
soul would rest the sin. And then the image of Nansie rose before him,
not at first sad and despondent, but bright and sweet, and full of
innocent, joyous life; and in that image he saw a sunshine of
happiness which he and Nansie would enjoy together if he played a true
man's part in this contention. He saw also with his mind's eye the
other side of the picture in the figure of a heart-broken woman
brooding over the misery and the torture of life, and praying for
death. This sad figure vanished, and he and Nansie were sitting
together hand in hand, their hearts beating with the sacred love which
sweetens and makes life holy, and she was whispering to him that her
greatest joy lay in the knowledge that he was true to her.
He had shaded his eyes with his hand during this contemplation. He now
removed it, and raised his eyes to his father's face.
"I cannot consent, father," he said, in a low, firm tone, "to your
seeing her alone."
"You have come deliberately to that determination?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I have, father."
"It is irrevocable?"
"It is irrevocable."
"I will still not hold you to it," said Mr. Manners. "It would grieve
me in the future to think that the matter was too hastily decided. You
owe me some kind of obedience, some kind of duty."
"I acknowledge it, father. In all that becomes me to yield you shall
have no cause of complaint against me."
"Very well. Let there be some slight pause before the final word is
pronounced. Remain here a week, and give the matter a calmer and
longer deliberation. Its issues are sufficiently important to make my
request reasonable."
"I will do as you wish, father," said Kingsley, after a slight
hesitation, "on two conditions."
"Name them."
"First, that you do not invite my cousin, Mark Inglefield, here during
the time."
"I agree."
"Second, that you do not seek my wife for the purpose of relating what
has passed between us."
"I agree to that also. I will not seek your--the young woman for that
or for any purpose. Are you content, Kingsley?"
"Yes, father, I am content."
"As you admit that you owe me some small measure of duty and
obedience, you will not object to my request that you hold no
correspondence with her until the week is past."
"It is a hard request, father, but I will obey you."
"There remains, then, in this connection, but one thing in respect of
your future which I think it necessary to impress upon you. As I have
made my fortune by my own efforts it is mine to dispose of as I
please. Comply with my wishes, and the bulk of it is yours. Oppose
them, and not one shilling of it will be yours to enjoy. To this I
pledge myself. And now, Kingsley, we will drop the conversation."
Kingsley had a reason for consenting to the week's delay. He had a
hope that within that period his father would relent. It was a faint
hope, but it seemed to him that it would be criminal to let it slip.
CHAPTER VII.
On the fourth day of his probation Kingsley received a letter from
Nansie. No further words upon the subject of their recent conversation
had passed between him and his father; neither of them had broken
faith in respect of the promises given, and everything went on in the
house as usual. Mr. Manners passed the greater portion of his time in
looking over specifications and making calculations for fresh
contracts of magnitude; he was accustomed to attend personally to
these matters, and never left anything to chance, or solely in the
hands of any other man. It was not without an object that he requested
Kingsley to assist him in his labors during these days. He wished his
son to become sensible of what he would lose if he persisted in his
opposition to his father's wishes. With this end in view he made
Kingsley familiar with all the channels in which his fortune was
invested. Kingsley was amazed at its extent, and was also amazed at
the wisdom of his father's investments. There were no chance risks;
every shilling was as safe as human judgment could make it. He owned a
great deal of property in land upon which other men had built houses,
and the land was situated in the most thriving and most fashionable
neighborhoods; he held a vast number of government securities, and
those only of the most stable governments. Companies he had avoided,
their alluring prospectuses having no temptation for him. He had
advanced scores of thousands of pounds upon first mortgages, and not a
doubtful one among them.
"I was never a gambler," he said to Kingsley, "but I never let my
money lie idle. I have the offer now of a great estate in the country,
which, if all goes well, I shall buy. It is in one of the best
counties, and the simple possession of it will give a man a standing
in the country which would occupy all the years of a man's life to
gain. A stroke of the pen will do it."
Kingsley knew what he meant when he said "if all goes well," but each
kept the open expression of his thoughts to himself. On the evening
before Nansie's letter arrived, Mr. Manners told Kingsley that his
income was not less than sixty thousand pounds a year; and he added
that he was not spending a tenth part of it.
In the solitude of his chamber Kingsley opened Nansie's letter; it had
been written from day to day, only for her lover's and husband's eyes:
"My Beloved Kingsley,--It is night, and I am writing in my little room
in the caravan. Father is asleep, and everything around is still and
peaceful. It is the best of all time to write to you and think of you,
but indeed you are never out of my thoughts. It is a beautiful night,
and I have made up my mind not to go to sleep till I have heard the
nightingale, so how can I employ my time better than in the way I am
doing? All the day long I have been thinking of you. 'Now he is in the
train,' I said, 'now he is so much nearer London, now he is in London,
now he is at home and talking to his father.' Of me? I could not
decide that. Perhaps you will wait till to-morrow, but I am with you
in spirit, Kingsley, as you are with me. Yes, I am sure of that, and
it makes me very, very happy. Kingsley is at home, in his father's
house. Is he really at home? My home is with you; there is no home for
me without you. How ungrateful it sounds, with my father so close to
me; but I cannot help it; it is the truth. And then this caravan--can
one call it a home? Though there are people, father says, who are very
happy in caravans--as I should be with you; or anywhere, Kingsley.
Indeed it is so; it will not matter to me so long as we are together.
"I am writing cheerfully and hopefully, am I not? And yet my father
has been uneasy in his mind to-day. He has been speaking a great deal
of your father, and he fears that he will not approve of our marriage.
'For your sake, Nansie,' father said, 'I wish Kingsley's father was a
poor man.' Kingsley dear, I wish that too; but then your father was
once as poor as we are, and perhaps that will make a difference. I
hope with all my heart I have not done you wrong by marrying you; but
how could I help it, loving you as I did and do, and how could I help
it when you persuaded me so? Oh, my dear love, I will do all that a
woman can do to make you happy! I can do no more. To me it does not
matter how we live, but will it matter to you if your father is angry
and will not receive me? I cannot bear to think of it; my heart grows
cold, and I stretch forth my hands imploring an angel to come and help
me. But that is not needed, is it, Kingsley? and you have good reason
to be angry with me, for what I have written is almost like a doubt,
and to doubt you is to doubt that there is any goodness in the world.
No, Kingsley, I will not doubt; it would be treason to love. . . .
"I have not written for an hour. I have been thinking, thinking,
thinking, and I should have gone on thinking, just as if I was in a
waking trance, if it had not been for my father talking in his sleep.
'Nansie, Nansie!' he called, and I went in to him, but he was fast
asleep, and his forehead was quite damp. I wiped it softly, but it did
not wake him, and he kept on murmuring my name and yours, and calling
on the angels to guard us. Dear father! we have not been a great deal
together, but he loves me truly, and I think he is reproaching himself
for not having been with me more. I could not love him more than I do,
but I might have known him better. He is a good man, Kingsley, and I
think if he had been rich he would have made a name in the world.
There! I have written 'if he had been rich.' To be happy it is not
necessary to be rich, is it, dear? Father says not. That is when he is
awake. What did he mean by saying in his sleep: 'Money is a blessing
and a curse?' Well, yes, I can understand it. It depends upon how it
is used. Oh, Kingsley, I hope your father is not very rich. By my
father's side was his favorite book, 'William Browne.' I took it away
to my room. Before I go to bed I will put it back, for it is like meat
and wine to him. More precious than those, I am sure. What are you
doing at this very moment, Kingsley?
"There again. I have been in dreamland for an hour and more. And then,
waking up, I read a little of 'William Browne', and took my pen in my
hand to go on writing, but I did not know what to say. Kingsley, dear,
the errand you have gone upon haunts me. So much do I fear that I
hardly know what to think. Even my favorite saying that father does
not consider wisdom, 'Everything will come right,' does not comfort me
somehow. I don't know why, except it is that we are not together.
Suspense is dreadful, is it not, dear? And just now everything seems
in suspense. Oh, hark! The nightingale! It is an omen of joy and
gladness. Thank God for all sweet sounds, for all that is sweet and
good--and the world is full of sweetness and gladness. And I was
reading of it in 'William Browne:'
"'But the nightingale i' th' dark
Singing, woke the mountain lark;
She records her love.
The sun hath not with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams,
Rising from the sea;
Mists do crown the mountain-tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops;
'Tis but newly day.'
"There, my dear love, I have copied it exactly, apostrophes and all,
and it seems to bring me nearer to you. How wonderful is the gift of
poetry! ''Tis but newly day.' It is day in my heart. Yes, everything
will come right. Good-night, dear love, with a thousand kisses. I send
them from my window through the night, which soon will be day. Heaven
shield you....
"Another day has passed. Oh, Kingsley, what joy and delight your dear,
dear letter brought to me! Your letters are the sweetest that ever
were written, that ever could be written. Heaven bless your father for
being so kind to you. How glad he must have been to see you after such
a long absence! I am sure he must be the best of men. But Kingsley,
dear Kingsley, how shall I tell you? My dear father is worse. I know
he is, although he has not complained. We sat together this evening,
watching the sunset in silence. He held my hand, and sometimes he
gripped it hard. It was because he was in pain, but he would not have
it so. He said it was because he loved me so dearly. When the sun went
down he spoke, oh, so solemnly and beautifully, Kingsley, of the
sunset of life, and said he would be perfectly happy and contented if
he knew that I was safe. 'You mean safe with Kingsley, dear father,' I
said. 'Yes,' he answered, 'safe with Kingsley.' Then I read your
letter to him--every word, Kingsley; I was not ashamed--and it
comforted him. 'He is the man I would have chosen for you, Nansie,' he
said, and then he spoiled it all by adding: 'Only, only, if his father
were not rich.' I reproved him gently, and said he must not doubt you,
but must have in you the perfect faith that I have, and he said that I
was right, and that it was only a father's fears that disturbed him.
We must not blame him, dear; we are so poor, you know, and he does not
know you as I do. I can write but a few lines now, I am so anxious
about father. Shall I receive a letter from you to-morrow? If one does
not come, I shall be sorry, of course, but only sorry, nothing more.
For you and your father must have so much to talk about, and, as you
told me so seriously, you must wait for a favorable opportunity before
you spoke to him of me. Ah, poor me! What a worry I am! But I will
make it all up to you, my dearest, in the happy days to come. Father
is calling to me; I must go. I kiss you and kiss you, and indeed there
are kisses on my lips for you only--and ah! for my poor, dear father.
Through all time to come I am ever and ever your own loving Nansie....
"Oh, Kingsley, my dear husband, how shall I tell you? My hand trembles
so that I can scarcely write the words. My father, my dear, dear
father is dead!
"I look at the words I have written, and they seem to move, to live,
though _he_ is dead. I go from the page upon which I write to the bed
upon which he is lying, and I can scarcely believe that it is true, he
looks so sweet, so peaceful and calm. 'Father, father!' I call, but he
does not answer me. His spirit is with God. But surely with me, too,
surely with me! Oh, Kingsley, I feel as if my heart were breaking!
"I do not know when his spirit passed away. We sat up late last night,
and he seemed in his usual health, but weak. He made no complaint, but
he must have had a premonition of what was hastening to him, for he
talked to me of the life beyond this, and dwelt upon it with hope and
rapture. We sat in the dark; he would not have a light. Ah, me! I must
have been blind and deaf not to have guessed that he believed his end
to be approaching when he spoke so much of you, and desired me to give
you his dear love and his heartfelt wishes for a bright and happy
life. 'With me, father,' I whispered. 'Yes, my daughter, with you,' he
answered. 'Kingsley could not be happy without you.' Ah, how glad I
was to hear him say that! It proved that he had faith and confidence
in you, and yet I might have been warned of what was to come by his
solemn voice and by his addressing me as his daughter. He had never
done so before. It was always: 'My dear,' or 'Nansie, child,' or 'My
dear Nansie.' Ah, Kingsley, if you had heard what he said you could
never have forgotten it. 'Life is a breath,' he said, 'a dream, and
its end should be welcomed with joy, for it opens the door to a
higher, holier life. Happy is the mortal who can approach that
threshold with a consciousness that he has done no wrong to his
fellow-creature.' And then he said that there should be no vain
thirstings and yearnings for knowledge that was wisely hidden from us,
but that every human being should strive to keep shining within him
three stars, faith, duty, and love. I cannot now recall all that he
said, but I know that his last dear conversation with me left me
better than I had been, and that with all my heart and soul I thank
him for his gentle teaching.
"It was past midnight when he went to bed, and I intended then to
continue my letter to you, but he called to me before I commenced, and
asked me to sit by his side. I did so, holding his hand, until two in
the morning, and all this time he lay quite quiet and still, sometimes
opening his eyes and smiling upon me. At length he said, 'Kiss me, my
dear,' and I stooped and kissed him. Then he bade me go to bed, and,
indeed, I was glad to obey him, Kingsley, for my eyes were closing. I
awoke at my usual hour this morning, and went to him. He had not
stirred. Ah, how still and beautiful he was! I spoke to him and he did
not reply. I called louder, and still he did not speak. Then, smitten
with a dreadful fear, I placed my hand on his heart; it was pulseless,
and I knew that my dear, dear father had passed away.
"I can write no more. I have much to do, and the last duties of love
will occupy every moment of my time. I shall have him taken to
Godalming, where I shall be if you can come to me. If that is not
possible, I shall go after the funeral to my uncle in London, whose
address you have. There you will find me. Pity me, Kingsley, and do
not leave me long alone. I have only you in the world. Believe me.
"Ever your loving wife, Nansie."
Deeply shocked and grieved, Kingsley went to his father with Nansie's
letter in his hand. "I want you to release me from my promise," he
said.
"I never release a man from a promise given," was his father's cold
reply, "and I never ask to be released from one I have made."
"You cannot refuse me," said Kingsley, whose eyes were bedewed with
tears.
"I do refuse you," said Mr. Manners, sternly.
Kingsley gazed irresolutely around, but his irresolution lasted for a
moment or two only. "I must go," he said, straightening himself.
"Against my will?" asked Mr. Manners.
"Yes, father, against your will, if you refuse."
"I have refused."
Kingsley was silent.
"It is what I will never forgive," said Mr. Manners.
"I cannot help it, father. There are duties which _must_ be performed,
and one is before me." He held out the last page of Nansie's letter,
but his father thrust it aside.
"I do not wish to see it. I will not see it. It is from that woman."
"It is from my wife."
"And you are going to her?"
"I am going to her."
"If you leave my house now you never enter its doors again. If you
persist in your madness I cut you out of my heart forever. I shall
have no longer a son, and for evermore you and I are strangers."
"It is cruel--it is pitiful, but I must go."
"You understand the consequences of your disobedience?"
"You have made them only too plain to me, father," said Kingsley,
mournfully.
"And you still persist?"
"There is no other course open to me. I am a man, not a dog."
"You are an ingrate. Go!--and never let me look upon your face again.
From this moment I do not know you."
CHAPTER VIII.
There are extant numerous clippings from famous writers which, coming
"trippingly off the tongue," have grown into popular favor and are
generally accepted as the essence of wisdom, but which will not stand
the test of cold and logical analysis. Hence it is that so many
familiar proverbs belie themselves. Among these popular sayings may be
classed the description of life as a fitful fever. There are few men
and women to whom this will apply; with the great majority of human
beings life glides from one groove into another with ease and
naturalness, and the most startling changes are effected without
violent strain. Poor men grow rich, rich men grow poor, the lowly
mount, the high slip into the downward paths, and one and all accept
the reversals of position with a certain innate philosophy which makes
life desirable, and often sweet, however wide the gulf which separates
the present from the past. It is something to be genuinely grateful
for; were it otherwise, existence would become an intolerable burden,
and every waking moment would be charged with pain.
These observations are pertinent to the course of our story, in
respect of which the incidents already narrated may be accepted as a
kind of prologue. The scene changes to the busy East of this mighty
city, the precise locality being a second-hand bookshop in Church
Alley. The proprietor of this shop was Mr. Joseph Loveday, Nansie's
uncle, and that the reflections upon the shiftings in life's
kaleidoscope are not out of place was proved by words which fell from
his lips as he sorted a pile of books which he had purchased at
auction.
"Change, change, change--nothing but change. Some drop out, some
remain, and time rolls on. I live, with a likelihood of living for
many years; he is dying, with the certainty of death in the course of
a few days. So he says in his letter, and in serious affairs he was
never given to light talk. Presently he will leave the world behind
him. What matters?"
The question, addressed with mingled bitterness and mournfulness to
himself, aroused him from his reverie.
"It does matter," he said. "We are not exactly lumber."
He was a man of middle age, a bachelor, and he conducted his business
alone, without assistance of any kind, taking down his shutters in the
morning and putting them up again at night, arranging the books on his
shelves within and on the stall without, and knowing where to lay his
hand, almost blindfold, upon any volume which he or a customer
required. In this lonely mode of carrying on his trade there were
inconveniences which were beginning to tell upon him. The toilers
round about were not as a rule blessed with libraries of any value,
and although he was always ready to purchase any odd lots that were
brought to him, he picked up very little stock in this way. The
greater portion of his treasures was bought at book auctions in the
West, and whenever he attended one of these sales he was under the
necessity of shutting up his shop and taking the key with him. Of late
he had thought seriously of employing an assistant, but the difficulty
was to find one to suit both his business and his peculiarities. In
his domestic arrangements he was compelled to call in assistance. He
employed a charwoman twice a week, for half a day on each occasion, to
clean his place and set it in order; his breakfasts, teas, and suppers
he prepared himself with his own hands, and when he did not purchase
his dinner at a convenient cook-shop, it was sent in to him by Mrs.
Peeper, keeper of a wardrobe-shop in Church Alley. He looked older
than he was, and had too early acquired a stoop from poring over
books; he had blue eyes, large and shapely hands, and features
furrowed with lines of thoughtfulness. When he was not called
away to attend an auction or upon other business, he would be seen
sitting at his counter, or upon the floor, sorting books and making
lists of them, or standing at his door in slippers, wearing a loose
dressing-gown and a plain skull-cap, and with a pair of spectacles
resting generally above his eyebrows. His reputation extended far
beyond the immediate East in which his shop was situated. In the
course of his career it had been his good-fortune to light upon rare
books in the odd lots he had picked up at auction, and book-hunters
from afar would come to look over his stock of treasures. On the day
of his introduction to the reader he had been much exercised. There
was the letter from his brother, to which he had replied in terms with
which we are familiar; it had taken his thoughts to the past, and old
memories had troubled his mind; domestic and business worries were
also troubling him. The charwoman he had employed for years, and who
was now up-stairs making a noise which annoyed him, had, during the
last few weeks, generally made her appearance in a state of
inebriation. He had expostulated with her upon this new and evil
departure, but his remonstrances had not effected an improvement, and
now, as he sat musing and sorting his books, a sudden crash in the
room above caused him to start to his feet with an angry exclamation.
He calmed himself instantly, having a great power of self-control,
and, going to the staircase, called out:
"What is the matter, Mrs. Chizlet?"
"Only the wash'and basin, sir," replied a voice from above.
"Oh," he said.
"And the jug, sir."
"Oh."
"And the soap-dish, sir."
"Oh."
Then there was a pause and an ominous stillness.
"Have you broken anything else?" he asked.
"I didn't break 'em, sir," was the reply. "It was the cat."
"There's no cat in the house. Come down."
"In a minute, sir, when I've recovered myself."
He waited the minute, and down came the woman, with a vacant smile on
her face, and a number of pieces of broken crockery in her hands,
which she let fall with a crash on the floor of the shop.
"The cat, eh?"
"Yes, sir, the cat."
"Where did it come from? The sky? What is that sticking out of your
pocket? The skeleton of the cat? No. A bottle. Empty, of course."
"Yes, sir, worse luck."
"Mrs. Chizlet," said Mr. Loveday, gravely, "last Friday you broke two
dishes."
"Not me, sir."
"Well, the cat. This day week the cat broke all my cups and saucers.
If I keep you in my service, in the course of another week there will
not be a sound piece of crockery or glass in the place. Therefore I
will not trouble you to come here again."
"We're all born, and none buried," said the charwoman, with a silly
smile.
And having received her half-day's wage, she departed contentedly, and
made her way to the nearest public-house.
Mr. Joseph Loveday gazed disconsolately around; it was not the broken
crockery that annoyed him, it was the disarrangement of domestic
custom. Having discharged the woman who had served him so long, it was
a settled thing that she would never be employed by him again. Where
could he find another who would serve him more faithfully? He detested
strangers, and a break in his usual habits was a great discomfort to
him. He was in a mood to exaggerate the discomfort, and in a few
minutes he had magnified it considerably. It is not from the most
important disasters of life, but from its pins and needles, that we
draw our acutest miseries. Everything had been going wrong with Mr.
Loveday lately. During the past week he had missed three books from
his stall outside, and had been unable to discover the thief. Even if
he had been successful in catching him he would have hesitated to
prosecute him, because of the loss of time it would entail. Then, Mrs.
Peeper, proprietor of the wardrobe shop, who occasionally cooked his
dinners for him, had been behaving badly, keeping him waiting an hour
and more, and placing before him food, so villainously cooked that he
could not eat it. Some change was decidedly necessary to restore the
harmony of his days. As he was debating with himself in what way the
change could be made, he raised his eyes and saw through the window a
lad standing at the stall outside, turning over the leaves of a book.
The age of this lad was twelve, and his name was Timothy Chance.
"I might do worse," thought Mr. Loveday. The drawback was that Timothy
was a bundle of rags.
He was turning over the leaves of the book he had lifted at haphazard
from the stall, but he was not reading it. Every now and then he
directed a furtive glance towards the interior of the shop, in the
hope, without obtruding himself, of attracting favorable attention.
Hanging on his left arm was an old open-work basket, and sitting
therein was a bedraggled hen. Mr. Loveday stepped to the shop door,
and said:
"Well, Timothy."
"Yes, sir," said the lad, looking up with a cheerful smile, and
speaking in quite respectable English, "here I am, back again, like a
bad penny."
"Come in," said Mr. Loveday.
Timothy gladly obeyed the summons, and entered. Placing his basket
with the hen in it upon the floor, he stood respectfully before the
bookseller. In classic story a goose became historical; in this modern
tale, wherein heroic deeds are not heralded by clang of trumpets, it
may by and by be admitted that the fowl which Timothy Chance set down
deserves no less a fame.
CHAPTER IX.
Poor and ragged as he was, the lad's bearing was distinguished by a
bright manliness--even thus early shown--which could scarcely fail to
win favor. The circumstances of his young life were singular, and
deserve, and need, brief mention.
Somewhat less than twelve years before this day on which, in obedience
to Mr. Loveday's summons, he entered the bookseller's shop, Mr.
Loveday turned into Church Alley, after a walk he was in the habit of
taking through the markets of the East where the humble folk make
their purchases for the day of rest. It was therefore Saturday night,
and the hour was a little past midnight. In front of the pawnbroker's
shop, at the corner of Church Alley, stood the pawnbroker himself in a
state of perturbation, taking a few steps this way and a few that in
an uncertain, undecided fashion. His shutters were up, and the day's
business was at an end. He pounced upon Mr. Loveday, whose position
then, as at present, was one of authority among his neighbors, who
tacitly and willingly acknowledged him to be a man of superior stamp.
"Ah, Mr. Loveday," said the pawnbroker, laying his hand on the
bookseller's arm, "did you see a woman running away as you came
along?"
"Not that I noticed," replied Mr. Loveday, observing that something
unusual was agitating the pawnbroker.
"Or a man?" asked the pawnbroker.
"No."
"It is altogether the most extraordinary thing," said the pawnbroker,
scratching his head, "the most ex-tra-or-di-na-ry. I never heard of
anything like it."
"Like what?"
"Would you mind," said the pawnbroker, "stepping inside, and giving me
your advice?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Loveday.
He followed the pawnbroker into the shop, and there upon the counter,
in one of the divisions used by persons who came to pledge their goods
or redeem them, lay an old shawl containing, as was evidenced by a
gentle and regular upheaving, an animate object.
"What do you think of this?" exclaimed the pawnbroker, unfolding the
shawl.
"A very fine baby," said Mr. Loveday, "though I don't pretend to be a
judge--and fast asleep."
"Proving," added the pawnbroker, "that it's been well stuffed."
"Stuffed!"
"Had plenty to drink--got its belly full. That's the artfulness of
it."
"The baby's artfulness?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.
"No--of the trick that's been played upon me. Put comfortably to
sleep, satisfied, so that it shouldn't excite suspicion by as much as
a whimper."
"But explain," said Mr. Loveday, as much in the dark as ever. "Is it
your baby?"
"No, sir," replied the pawnbroker, energetically, "it is not."
"Then how comes it here?"
"That's what I'd like to know. If you'll believe me, Mr. Loveday, I'll
tell you all about it--no, not all, as much I as know myself."
"Of course I'll believe you," said Mr. Loveday, his interest growing
fast.
"Here am I," commenced the pawnbroker, excitedly, "all alone by myself
in the shop--well, not exactly here where we stand, but in my room at
the back there. Business over an hour ago--close at eleven, you know.
Shutters put up, and my assistant gone home. Front door left ajar,
because it's a hot night, and the gas has been flaring away. My wife
and the children all asleep up-stairs; no one to disturb me. There's a
bit of supper on the table. Mr. Loveday," he said, breaking off
abruptly, "my wife is a most peculiar woman--a most pe-cu-li-ar
woman."
"Go on with your story," said Mr. Loveday, calmly.
"Usually she stops up with me, and we have a bit of supper together,
especially on Saturday nights, the busiest time of the week for me.
But, as luck will have it, she doesn't feel quite the thing to-night,
and she goes to bed early. There I am, then, eating my supper and
making up my accounts. Everything very quiet, nothing wrong, as far as
I can see. I'll take my oath, Mr. Loveday, that when my assistant
wishes me good-night all the parcels are cleared away, and there's
nothing left on the counters, not as much as a pin. Well, sir, I come
to the end of my supper and my accounts, and feel easy in my mind.
Three ha'pence wrong in the reckoning up, but it's on the right side.
I put my money and books in the safe, lock it, pocket the key, fill my
pipe, and get up to come to the door to have a whiff of tobacco and
fresh air. I've got to pass through the shop to get to the street
door, and as I come up to this counter here, this bundle stares me in
the face. 'Hallo?' says I--to myself, you know--'Hallo! here's
something been overlooked;' and I takes hold of the bundle, and starts
back as if I was shot. I feel something moving inside. I come up to it
again, and open it, and there's this baby staring me in the face--no,
not staring me in the face, because it's fast asleep; but there's this
baby. How would you have felt?"
"Very much astonished."
"I was flabbergasted. How did it come here? Who brought it? What's the
meaning of it? While I was sitting in the back room I didn't hear a
sound, but it must have been then that the street door was pushed
softly open, and this--this _thing_ put on my counter. If I caught the
woman who did it I'd make it warm for her."
"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Loveday, "it is done for a joke."
"A joke!" cried the pawnbroker. "A nice joke to play a married
man--and at this time of the night!"
"At all events you have lent nothing on it."
"Find me the pawnbroker," retorted the distressed man, "who _would_
lend money on a baby!"
"Truly," observed Mr. Loveday, with grim suggestiveness, "flesh and
blood is not at a premium in this neighborhood."
"But, Mr. Loveday," implored the pawnbroker, "what am I to do with
it?"
"I can hardly advise you. You can't very well put it among your other
pledges, and you can't very well throw it into the streets."
In his heart of hearts the pawnbroker, although not in the main an
ill-natured man, was for the moment mad with himself for having taken
Mr. Loveday into his confidence. If he had kept the matter to himself,
he might, failing all other ways of getting rid of the encumbrance,
have deposited it on a doorstep in such a manner and at such a time
that it could not fail to come under the notice of a policeman, who,
in the exercise of his duty, could not have allowed it to remain
there. It was a warm night, the child was strong and healthy, and was
sleeping comfortably; it could scarcely have taken cold. But this
proceeding was not open to him now that Mr. Loveday was in possession
of the particulars.
"They wouldn't take it in at the workhouse," said Mr. Loveday.
"Why not? They've a better right to it than I have."
"It would have to be proved that it belonged to the parish. It is such
a queer story, you see."
"Do you mean to say it wouldn't be believed?"
"I can't hazard an opinion. Suppose you call your wife down, and ask
her to take care of it till you find out something about it."
"What!" cried the unhappy pawnbroker, "I should have the house pulled
over my ears."
Mr. Loveday shrugged his shoulders. Not that he was indifferent; the
adventure was so novel that it interested him; but he could not
exactly tell what could be done.
"After all," he said, "it may be as I suggested, a joke. The person who
left it here will probably call for it presently. Wait awhile."
"I must, I suppose, but I shall go crazy if I'm left alone with it. Do
a charity, and smoke a pipe with me."
"I don't smoke, but I'll keep you company for half an hour. Before
that time the mystery may be solved."
But though they waited up till two o'clock there were no further
developments. There they sat, for the most part in silence, and there
lay the baby in his shawl, sleeping soundly and placidly.
At length Mr. Loveday rose and said he must go. The pawnbroker began
to implore again.
"You're a single man; you've got no one to take care of but yourself;
I've got six children of my own to look after. Take it home with you
and give it a bed."
"No, no," said Mr. Loveday, laughing, "I couldn't think of such a
thing. If I were a woman--perhaps; or if I had a female housekeeper in
my house. The child needs a woman's care, and your wife is at hand."
The pawnbroker groaned. He heard a policeman's footsteps outside, and
in his despair he called him in and repeated his story.
The policeman listened gravely, threw the light of his dark lantern on
the sleeping child.
"I don't see what I can do," he said.
"I give it into custody," cried the pawnbroker.
"What's the charge?" asked the policeman.
The pawnbroker wrung his hands. Finally the policeman departed,
recommending the pawnbroker, before he left, to follow Mr. Loveday's
advice and call down his wife. Mr. Loveday also went home, and the
pawnbroker was left alone with his new and startling responsibility.
"I'll call in the morning," said Mr. Loveday, "to see how you've got
along with it."
When he called he learned that nothing further had been discovered.
The pawnbroker had passed a disturbed and sleepless night; the
pawnbroker's wife was in the worst of tempers, and declared that
either she or the baby would have to leave the house. Mr. Loveday
calmed her down, and then entered into a sensible consideration of the
case.
"So many hours have passed," he said, "since the child was left here,
that it seems more than likely that the person who placed it on your
counter has no intention of redeeming the pledge. In a few days, or
weeks, the matter may be traced; in the meantime something must be
done. I suggest that a woman be sought who, for three or four
shillings a week, will undertake the care of the child. I don't mind
bearing half the expense if you will bear the other half."
The benevolent offer was eagerly accepted by the pawnbroker, whose
only anxiety now was to get the baby out of his house. Before the
evening a poor woman was found who consented to take charge of the
helpless bundle of humanity. Having come into the neighborhood by a
mysterious chance, the child was called Chance, to which, when or how
could not afterwards be recalled, the Christian name of Timothy was
prefixed. Endeavors were made to solve the mystery of his birth, but,
in the absence of the slightest clew, nothing was discovered. For four
years Mr. Loveday and the pawnbroker paid the expenses of the child's
bringing up between them; then, somehow or other, Timothy Chance began
to take care of himself, nursing babies bigger than himself for
mothers whose quivers were too full, and getting a bit of straw to
sleep on and a crust of bread to keep life in him. He was full of
health and strength, and willingness, and even in those early days he
developed a surprising independence which served him in good stead. As
he grew in years the task of looking after himself and obtaining
shelter and food became less difficult; he throve where others would
have starved; if he could not get crumb he put up with crust; if he
could not get straw to lie upon he put up with boards, if not boards
the earth, if not a roof the sky. From time to time he disappeared
from the neighborhood, went hopping in the season, attaching himself
to some family bent on the same errand, took service with a tinker and
went about the country, and did anything and everything to keep body
and soul together. He succeeded in a good and worthy way, and the
partnership of his boyish frame with a cheerful, willing spirit, was a
passport wherever he went, and would have carried him all over the
world. He did well for others, and better for himself, as will be
seen, although he was penniless nine days out of ten. This did not
trouble him; he was healthy, strong, and happy, and had ideas--in the
germ at present, and not by himself understood; but there they were,
working in his fertile, healthy brain, to ripen and bear fruit one day
perhaps. Such, imperfectly limned, was Timothy Chance as he stood
before Mr. Loveday the bookseller.
CHAPTER X.
"Just come back, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir, just come back."
"You've been away a long time?"
"Seven months, sir."
"Done any good for yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, you've got a pocketful of money, then?"
"Not a penny, sir."
"Yet you say you've done well?"
"Yes, sir. I've worked hard, and had plenty to eat, and I'm stronger
than ever."
"Ah, that's what you mean by doing well?"
"Yes, sir, and I'm willinger--I mean, more willing than ever."
At this slip of language and its correction Mr. Loveday cocked up his
ears, and took a longer look at the lad. Timothy met his gaze
ingenuously.
"I think there's an improvement in you, Timothy."
"I hope so, sir."
"Where have you been?"
"In a lot of places, sir, but most of the time in a school."
"Oh, in a school. Doing what? Studying?"
"A little, sir," said Timothy, modestly; "but I wasn't engaged for
that."
"For what, then?"
"Garden work, knife-cleaning, boot-cleaning, running of errands,
making myself generally useful."
"And picking up scholarship."
"As much of it as ever I could, sir."
"There is certainly an improvement in you, Timothy. You speak more
correctly than you did."
Timothy was silent, but his face flushed with pleasure.
"How did you get into the school?"
"By a bit of good-luck, sir--though it wasn't good-luck to another boy
who had the place."
"What is one man's meat, Timothy, is another man's poison."
"Is it, sir?"
"So they say, and so it often happens. Go on."
"I was in Essex, sir, looking for a job. It was half-past ten in the
morning."
"Carried a watch, eh?"
"No, sir, I was passing a church. But I didn't pass it. I stopped.
"What for?"
"There was a fight going on. Two boys, pegging away at each other like
one o'clock. The road was muddy, and they rolled over and over in it,
then got up and went at it again. When they'd had enough they ran off
different ways, and I lost sight of 'em. I was walking off myself when
I noticed something in the mud. It was a letter, and I picked it up
and looked at it. I couldn't read the address, it had been dug into
the mud so; but in a corner, in very plain writing, I saw the name of
Dr. Porter. I went into a baker's shop, and asked if they knew Dr.
Porter, and they said he kept a school a little way off. I asked them
to show me where it was, as I thought it wouldn't be a bad thing to
take the letter to him myself and ask him for a job. They showed me,
and I saw Dr. Porter himself; he was in the grounds in front of the
schoolhouse, and one of the boys who had been fighting was there too.
I gave the doctor the letter, and asked him if it was his, and he said
it was. I found out afterwards that it was a very particular letter,
and had some money in it. The boy was sent out to post it, and he got
fighting and dropped it in the mud. Then the doctor said he supposed I
wanted a reward, and I said no, that I wanted a job. Not to make too
long a story, sir, he put a lot of questions to me, and seemed pleased
with me, and he sent the fighting boy away and took me on in his place
to do the rough work."
"How much a week, Timothy?" inquired Mr. Loveday.
"Two shillings a week and my keep."
"You slept there?"
"Yes, sir."
"And out of the two shillings a week for some months you saved
nothing? You come back here without a penny?"
"You shall hear, sir. My clothes were pretty bad, the same as I've got
on now, and I thought I'd save as much as I could, and buy a new suit.
I did buy a new suit the week before last, but I didn't wear 'em for
garden work. Well, sir, while I was with the doctor I was very happy.
Plenty of work, but plenty to eat. He hadn't many young gentlemen to
teach, and I've found out that he wasn't well off. He had a daughter,
a beautiful young lady, not as old as I am, and she had a bit of
garden that I used to look after for her. I took a lot of pains with
her flowers, and she was so pleased that she used to give me lessons.
I can write pretty well, sir."
"You can, eh? I'll try you presently. Go on with your story."
"I learnt a bit of grammar, and a bit of history, and a bit of
arithmetic. It was a great bit of luck for me, but it ended badly."
Timothy paused and sighed, and his face became grave. "I used to stop
up late at night to study, and I picked up a lot. Dr. Porter seemed
always to have a peck of trouble on him, but he helped me, too, a bit,
by lending me books, and Mrs. Porter helped me as well. I was never so
happy before. I bought a new suit of clothes, as I've told you, sir.
Everything was going on swimmingly till last week." Timothy paused
again.
"What happened then, Timothy?"
"I went to bed very late; I'd had a good hard night of it, and I had
to get up very early to do something I wanted to Miss Emily's bit of
garden."
"Miss Emily is the doctor's daughter?"
"Yes, sir. I don't know how long I'd been asleep, but it was dark when
I woke up all of a sudden with a singing in my ears, and a lot of
other sounds that I can't describe. Then I heard some one sing out
'Fire!' I'm pretty quick, sir, as a rule, and I got into my old
clothes in less than no time, and ran out of the room. Sure enough,
the house was on fire. Miss Emily was crying for her mother, and Dr.
Porter was running about like a madman. I raced to Mrs. Porter's room,
and helped to get her out, and then we stood and watched the fire
burning up the house. There wasn't a drop of water except what
we could get from the pump, and that came out with a dribble. A
fire-engine came up when it was too late. By that time the house was a
mass of flames. There wasn't one bit of furniture saved, nor a book.
All their clothes were burnt, and everything they had, except what
they stood upright in. My new suit of clothes went too, but I didn't
think of that; I was too sorry for Miss Emily and her mother and
father. We had a dreadful time, and when daylight came the whole house
and everything in it was a heap of ashes. Some friends took Dr. Porter
and his wife and Miss Emily away, and I hung about, almost dazed out
of my senses. I saved one thing, though--this fowl here, and the
basket. The next day I saw Dr. Porter. 'My lad,' he said, 'I owe you a
week's wages; here's your florin; I'm a ruined man, and you must look
out for another situation.' He spoke nothing but the truth, sir; he
_was_ ruined; he wasn't insured for a penny. I wouldn't take the
florin; I told him about this fowl that I'd saved, and I asked him to
let me have that instead. 'Take it and welcome,' he said, 'and your
florin too.' But I wouldn't. I wanted badly to see Miss Emily to tell
her how sorry I was, and to wish her good-bye, but Dr. Porter had sent
her off I don't know where, so I had to come away without seeing her.
That's the whole story, sir."
"A sad story, Timothy."
"Yes, sir, you may well say that."
"What are you going to do now?"
"That's what's puzzling me, sir." And Timothy cast a wistful look at
the bookseller.
"Take this book in your hand. Open it anywhere. Now read."
Timothy opened the book, and with great fluency read from the top of
the page.
"That will do," said Mr. Loveday. "You can write, you say. Sit down
there; here's paper, here's a pen. Now write what I say. 'The world is
filled with fools and bunglers, and a few clever men. A small
proportion of these clever men grow rich, because they are that way
inclined; the majority die poor, because they are not entirely
sordid-minded. The fools and bunglers grow so in a small measure from
inheritance, in a large measure from indolence and a lack of judicious
training.' Give it to me."
He examined the paper carefully.
"Ah! Writing tolerably good. Not a bad style; improvement will come by
industry. I think you have that, Timothy Chance."
"I think I have, sir."
"Three mistakes in spelling. Bunglers is not spelled b u n g e l.
Inheritance is not spelled without an h and with two e's in the last
syllable. Judicious is not spelled j e w. For the rest, all right. A
bit of arithmetic, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Be ready with your pen and paper. I buy a parcel of twenty-eight
books at auction for three and sixpence; three I sell for waste-paper,
sixteen at twopence each, five at threepence each, two at fourpence,
and one for a shilling. What's the result?"
"You lay out three and sixpence, sir," said Timothy, almost
instantaneously; he was sharp at most things, but especially sharp at
figures; "and you get back five and sevenpence. Two and a penny
profit."
"Quite right. Anything else?"
"The three books you sell for waste-paper will bring in something;
perhaps they're big ones."
"Perhaps they're little ones. We won't reckon them. Anything else?"
"You bought twenty-eight books, sir; you only gave me twenty-seven to
figure out. One short, sir."
"That was stolen, Timothy."
"Where from, sir?"
"From the stall outside."
"It couldn't have been, sir, if you had a sharp boy to attend to it
for you."
"Ah! The question is, where to find that particularly sharp boy?"
"He's handy, sir, almost at your elbow." Now, although these words
betokened a certain confidence and were spoken with a certain
boldness, it is a fact that there was a tremor in Timothy's voice as
he uttered them. The conversation between him and Mr. Loveday had been
strangely in accordance with his earnest desire to be taken into Mr.
Loveday's service. He had been upheld by this hope as he tramped from
Essex after the schoolhouse had been burned down, and he had hurried
back to London more swiftly than he would have done without it.
Mr. Loveday ruminated; Timothy Chance waited anxiously.
"I'm rather a peculiar fellow, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday, presently;
"not at all unpleasant out of business, unless you quarrel with my
social crotchets, and you're not old enough to do that yet, Timothy,
but very strict in business matters, however trifling. That fowl of
yours is beginning to crow, Timothy."
"It's all right, sir," said Timothy, in a tone of wistful expectation,
"please finish."
"This strictness of mine in business matters may make me a hard
master; I haven't tried my hand in that line much, as I've always
attended to my shop myself, but I will not deny that I'm half inclined
to engage a lad."
"Make it a whole mind, sir, and engage me."
Timothy's occasionally apt replies tickled and pleased Mr. Loveday;
they betokened a kind of cleverness which he appreciated.
"As we stand now," continued Mr. Loveday, "man and boy, not master and
servant, we have a mutual respect for each other."
"Thank you, sir."
"It would be a pity to weaken this feeling."
"It might be made stronger, sir."
"There are numberless things to consider. If I say, 'Up at six every
morning,' up at six it would have to be."
"And should be, sir."
"If I say, 'Every day's work completely done, every day's accounts
satisfactorily made up, before the next day commences,' it would have
to be. That fowl of yours is crowing louder, Timothy. No shirking of
work by the excuse that it doesn't belong to the duties I engage a lad
for. You understand all this?"
"I understand it, sir."
"On the other hand, satisfaction given, the cart would run along
smoothly. There might be a little time in the evening for study and
reading; there might be sundry pleasant interludes which one can't
think of right off. Eh, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had it in your mind?"
"I did, sir."
"But," said Mr. Loveday, glancing at the lad, "there is one most
important question--the question of respectability."
"There's nothing against me, sir. You may inquire of everybody I've
worked for."
"I mean the question of a respectable appearance. Now, Timothy, you
will not have the assurance to assert that _you_ present a respectable
appearance?"
"Cluck! cluck! cluck?" went the fowl in the basket.
Timothy's eyes wandered dolefully over his ragged garments.
"If my new suit of clothes hadn't been burnt," he murmured--
"But they are burnt. Spilled milk, you know. The long and the short of
it is, if you can obtain a decent suit of clothes, I'll give you a
trial, Timothy."
"Cluck! cluck! cluck! Cluck! cluck! cluck!" from the basket. A
jubilant, noisy, triumphant flourish of trumpets, to force upon the
world the knowledge of a great event. Timothy knelt down, put his hand
in the basket, and drew forth a new-laid egg.
"The world's mine oyster, which I with knife will ope." But surely
that knife never presented itself, as it did at the present moment, in
the form of a new laid-egg.
CHAPTER XI.
Church Alley, in which Mr. Loveday's second-hand bookshop was
situated, was not in the most squalid part of the East, wherein may be
found horrible patches, in comparison with which the haunts of
heathens in savage lands are a veritable paradise. It was, indeed, in
close contiguity to the most respectable part of it, lying to the
eastward of the famous butchers' mart, which, in the present day, is
shorn of its doubtful glories. The alley was a slit in the main
thoroughfare, running parallel with it, about sixty yards in length,
and containing thirty-four tenements, sixteen of which were private
dwellings and eighteen places of business. In the flourishing West it
would have been converted into an arcade, and dignified with an
imposing name drawn from royal or martial records; in the toiling East
it was simply what it professed to be--an alley, very narrow, very
shabby, and generally very dark. When winter fogs lay thick upon the
mighty city they reached perfection by the time they floated to Church
Alley and settled there. Then was the darkness truly Egyptian, and
there the gloom remained, as if in proud assertion of the fitness of
things, long after surrounding thoroughfares were bright. The sun rose
later there and set earlier, and in freezing time it was a very heaven
of slides days after surrounding space was thawing. The explanation of
these unusual phenomena may be found in the circumstance that when
"weather" got into Church Alley it could not easily get out. There was
no roadway for horses and carts; between the rows of houses ran a
footpath ten feet in width. The enterprising builder who purchased the
land and designed the estate had husbanded his inches with a shrewd
eye to the greatest possible number of rents to be squeezed out of
them, and it must be confessed that his efforts were crowned with
complete success.
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen," and this applies to
weeds as well as flowers. Persons not acquainted with the intricacies
of the neighborhood would have passed Church Alley without noticing
it, even without being aware that there was such a thoroughfare within
hail; it seemed, as it were, to shrink from notice, and to have been
formed with a view to the enjoyment of the pleasures of obscurity,
notwithstanding that it had at one end a public-house and a
pawnbroker's shop, and at the other end a pawnbroker's shop and a
public-house. These four establishments may be said to have been the
archways to the paradise of Church Alley, and from the commencement to
the end of the year, in rain or shine, in winter or summer, lost and
wretched Peris could always be seen there, lingering at the gates.
Public-houses and pawnbroker's shops are as the very breath of life in
the East of London, and are important and degrading elements in the
education of the dwellers therein. Children from their earliest days
are familiar with them, and grow into the knowledge (which fair minds
cannot dispute) that these institutions are planted there especially
for their behoof. Brewers and distillers grow fat upon vice, and go
smilingly through the world, conveniently blind to the fact that the
richer they grow the more crowded become the ranks of those wretched
ones from whose midst our prisons are filled, and whose lives are a
standing reproach to humanity and civilization. It is not the fair
use, but the gross abuse, of a system which is here deplored. The axe
should be laid to it, despite the Moloch called vested interests,
which is set up at the least remonstrance to frighten the timid. Let
there be beer-shops and public-houses within limits, but it is
infamous legislation which sanctions and encourages (as is to be
verified to-day in slices of the East) every fifth or sixth tenement
to be either one or the other. To contend, in respect of these
hot-beds of vice, that the law of supply follows the law of demand, is
an unblushing falsehood; they are distinctly forced upon the people by
the very men who fatten upon the degradation, and who are often to be
seen upon public platforms deploring the evils of which they are the
creators. The sermons these moralists preach--to win votes, or to
prove themselves qualified for public office, or to air their spurious
philanthropy--are the bitterest of mockeries.
Between the particular public-houses and pawnbrokers' shops which
flanked Church Alley were dotted other notable places of business.
To wit, Mr. Joseph Loveday's second-hand bookshop, to which we
have been already introduced, a sweet-stuff shop, a cook-shop, a
wardrobe-shop, and a printer's office, in which the master worked at
case and press as his own journeyman. To the small boys and girls in
the vicinity of Church Alley these shops were a great attraction, and
they patronized them generously. The wardrobe-shop, which, like the
bookshop, dealt only in second-hand goods, was as alluring to the
grown-up folk of the female sex as it was to the youngsters, and
longing were the eyes cast upon the faded silks and satins displayed
in the dingy window. A shrewd, wise woman was Mrs. Peeper, the keeper
thereof, a woman deeply and strangely versed in the desires and
temptations of the lowly female heart. A woman of attainments, too,
who might have won a name as a writer of fiction had her steps been
led in that direction. In her shop-window would be displayed a
much-worn and frayed satin dress, with a train so long as to set
female mouths watering, and to this dress would be attached the
legend, "From the wardrobe of her Royal Highness the P----ss of
W----s." The legend set afloat would go the rounds, and girls and
women would flock to gaze at the dress which had once adorned the
figure of a royal princess. At another time Mrs. Peeper would arrange
in her window several pairs of shoes, boots, and silk stockings, which
she would announce as "Direct from B----cking----m P----l----ce;" at
another time a flounced petticoat from a duchess; at other times hats,
feathers, gloves, trimmings, capes, and various items of vanity, which
she would cunningly bait with tempting legends to catch her fish. Mrs.
Peeper might be accounted somewhat of a magician, for she filled the
minds of many females with fancies which played their parts in dreams,
changing charwomen into duchesses, young girls into princesses, and
garrets into palaces. Mrs. Peeper seldom failed to land her fish, and
the royal garments would be sold at singularly moderate prices, and,
moreover, payment taken at so much per week.
Then there was the printer, Mr. Edenborough. In his window were
displayed specimens of cheap printing, cards, billheads, handbills,
and what not, but there were clear spaces through which the children
could peep at the master printer at his work. His stock in trade
consisted of one frame, containing about a dozen cases of fancy type,
which, with three pairs of cases of small pica, comprised his
treasures in metal; there was also a rack of large wood letter for
display bills; also an old Albion press. The youngsters stared their
eyes out at him as he stood before the frame, composing-stick in hand,
picking up the types with that swaying motion of his body which the
spectators did not know was the sign of an inferior workman, for the
skilful and expert compositor, the one who has generally earned his
reputation as a "whip," keeps his body still as his hands travel over
the case; they stared the harder when they saw him lock up the chase
in which the card or handbill was inserted; and they stared the harder
still when he worked ink-roller and press, and pulled off the
impressions of the job in hand. He was rather proud of his audience,
and made no attempt to disperse them; their admiration was a tribute,
and it sweetened his labors.
Then there was the cook-shop, in which, at stated hours of the day,
hot dishes made their appearance, smoking. A great attraction, these;
tantalizing perhaps, but at all events the youngsters had the smell
for nothing. Sometimes a stray ha'penny from the juvenile throng found
its way into the cook-shop till. Thereafter would ensue, in some
convenient nook, such a feast as Caligula never enjoyed.
Then there was Mr. Sly, the proprietor of the sweet-stuff shop. Such
mysteries of sweetness, sticky or otherwise, but generally sticky,
were in his window, that the children, once they got there, had the
greatest difficulty in tearing themselves away. Ha'pence and
farthings--the latter largely predominating--burned holes in the
pockets of small breeches, and invariably, unless the plum-duff of the
cook-shop stopped the way, were swept into Mr. Sly's till. There was,
besides, in this man's establishment a strange and overwhelming
temptation which lured the children on, and filled them now with
visions of ineffable happiness, and now with visions of dark despair.
The exquisite feelings of Manfred were repeated again and again in
the breasts of these small morsels of mortality. In a little room at
the back of his shop Mr. Sly kept what was spoken of as a "dolly,"
which may be described as a species of roulette board, the ball--a
marble--being sent spinning down a corkscrew tower till it reached the
numbers, and finally settled in its resting-place. The rule of this
gambling game was the easiest imaginable, and will be understood by
the words "double or quits," a system which, in its results, was
painfully comprehensible to the young reprobates who patronized it. A
case in point occurred at the precise time that Mr. Loveday and
Timothy Chance were talking together, and what ensued may be accepted
as an illustration of Mr. Sly's method of conducting that part of his
business.
A juvenile of the male sex had come unexpectedly into possession of a
farthing. It had not been given to him "to be good;" he had picked it
up in Church Alley. He looked at it first in wonder and delight at his
good luck, then he flourished it triumphantly. Forthwith he was
surrounded, and far and wide the news spread that "Billy Forester had
picked up a farden." This caused the meeting to be a numerous one.
Before proceeding to discuss how it should be spent there was a
difficulty to smooth over.
"I cried, ''Arves!'" said little Bob Bracey.
"You didn't," said Billy Forester.
"I did!"
"You didn't!"
"Look 'ere; I'll fight you for it!"
"No, yer won't. It's mine, and I means to stick to it."
"What are you goin' to do with it?" was asked in a chorus.
"Spend it," said Billy.
"In course he is. The farden's Billy's, and he's goin' to spend it.
We'll all 'ave a lick."
Then ensued a discussion upon ways and means.
"I think," said Billy, "I'll spend it in burnt almonds."
This caused dismay. A farthing's worth of burnt almonds among so many,
Billy by right taking the lion's share, would go a very little way;
the majority of Billy's comrades would not get even a "lick."
"I tell yer wot to do, Billy," said a shrewd youngster. "'Ave a spin
at old Sly's dolly, and double it."
"Yes, do, Billy, and double it ag'in. Then we'll all 'ave a taste."
Why they called Mr. Sly "old Sly" cannot be explained, the vender of
sweet-stuff being comparatively a young man; but it is a way poor
children have.
Billy Forester was at heart a gambler.
"I'll do it," he said.
Away he marched, followed by the admiring crowd. Billy, having found a
farthing, was a hero.
"Now then," said Mr. Sly as they flocked into his shop, "not so many
of yer. Hallo, Billy, it's you. What do you want?"
Billy replied by crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction
of Mr. Sly's back room. That the gambling had to be carried on in
secrecy made it all the more tempting to the juveniles. It was
supposed by many that Mr. Sly would be beheaded if the government
caught him at it.
"All right," said Mr. Sly, "you and me, Billy. Now, clear out, every
one of yer, or I'll shut up shop. You can wait outside for Billy."
He hustled them out like a flock of sheep, and they clustered in the
alley in pleasurable expectation, waiting for Billy. Meanwhile Mr. Sly
conducted the hero to the little back room.
"'Ow much for, Billy?" asked Mr. Sly.
"A farden."
"Only a farden! Well, never mind; little fish is sweet. 'And it over."
Billy parted with his farthing.
"Will you go fust, Billy?"
"No, you," said Bill.
"'Ere goes, then." Down the screw turret went the marble, spinning
round and round, and when it landed Mr. Sly called, "Eight. Rather a
low number that, Billy."
Billy took the marble, spitting first in his hand for luck, and put it
in the hole at the top of the tower.
"Twelve," said Mr. Sly.
Billy, having won, was entitled to one half-penny's worth of
sweet-stuff for his farthing. He could choose, at liberty,
almond-rock, acid drops, peppermint-stick, barley-sugar, hard-bake,
toffee, treacle-rock, or any other sweet condiment he preferred. He
was debating what to do when the voice of Mephistopheles fell upon his
ear.
"You've got a ha'porth, Billy. Make it a penn'orth. Go in and win."
Billy remembered what one in the meeting had said, "and double it
ag'in." He would.
"I'll go fust this time, Mr. Sly," he said.
Down went the marble, and, with a long face, Mr. Sly called out
"Twenty-three. But it's to be beaten, Billy."
He did not beat it, however, his number being fourteen.
"That makes a penn'orth, Mr. Sly," said Billy, exultantly.
"That makes a penn'orth," said Mr. Sly, despondently. "Make it
tuppence or nothink. Yer sure to win."
"Am I?"
"Sure. You'll see."
Billy, in a kind of desperation, seized the fatal marble, and sent it
spinning down the corkscrew turret.
"The same number ag'in," he cried. "Twenty-three."
"A true bill," said Mr. Sly, his face darkening. "Down I go. Well, of
all the luck! Twenty-two."
"I've won," said Billy, trembling from excitement.
"I told yer yer would, and yer'll win ag'in if yer not chicken
'earted. Fourpence or nothink? What do yer say?"
"I say, yes," replied Billy, in a loud tone, he was tasting for the
first time the delirious excitement of gambling and winning largely,
and his blood was in a ferment. "Fourpence or nothink. 'Ere goes."
There did go the marble, and landed in twenty-one. Mr. Sly was not
more fortunate than before. His number was seven. His face grew darker
and darker.
"Fourpenn'orth!" cried Billy. "Hooray!"
"Try ag'in," urged Mephistopheles. "Eightpenn'orth or nothink! Why,
yer in sech luck that yer'd break the Bank of England. There's no
standing ag'in yer. I'm desperate, I am. I shouldn't wonder if yer was
to break me."
Flushed with victory, and dazzled with visions of armsful of
sweet-stuff, Billy for the fifth time sent the marble down, and for
the fifth time won. He screamed out the fact at the top of his voice.
"That's Billy cryin' out," said one of the throng outside. "He's
winnin'."
"He'll 'ave the 'ole bloomin' shop," said another.
"If I was Billy I'd stash it," remarked a clear-brained juvenile. "I
know 'ow it'll end. I've been there myself."
"Oh, you? you've got no pluck! Go in and win, Billy!"
This exhortation was shouted out, and it reached Billy's ears.
"There," said Mr. Sly, in a tone of suppressed excitement, and
striving hard to smother his resentment at Billy's good-fortune,
"d'yer 'ear wot they say? 'Go in and win.' Yer've got eightpenn'orth,
make it sixteenpenn'orth or nothink. There was a boy 'ere last
week"--and Mr. Sly gazed meditatively before him at the visionary boy
he was referring to--"who commenced with a farden, just like you, and
he won nine times runnin'. It's nothink much at fust---a farden, a
ha'penny, a penny. It's _now_ that it begins to mount up. Yes, nine
times running he won--ten shillings and eightpence, that's wot
he got the worth of. He went out loaded. Four pound of 'ard-bake, a
pound of burnt almonds, a pound of barley-sugar, three pound of
peppermint-rock, same of toffee, and I don't know what else. I didn't
mind a bit; it did me good. That's the way to make a forchen."
The recital of the catalogue of treasures was too much for Billy, and
the marble being insidiously slipped into his palm by the cunning
tradesman--who was quite aware that if you go on doubling or nothing
it must eventually come to nothing--Billy, with quivering nerves,
dropped it down the corkscrew turret.
"Three!" shouted Mr. Sly. "But I might git one or two. 'Ere goes.
Seventeen! Nothink."
Billy was sobered. Ruined and chapfallen he preceded Mr. Sly into the
shop, and thence emerged into the alley, where he related his
misfortune, while Mr. Sly, standing at the door, wiped his heated
brows, and called out:
"Never say die, Billy. Better luck next time."
But Billy was not to be consoled. His companions, disgusted with his
bad luck and disappointed in their expectations, fell off from him one
by one, and he was left quite alone. A few minutes ago he was a
personage, now he was nobody. He felt the fall.
CHAPTER XII.
Timothy Chance went from Mr. Loveday's shop with the warm new-laid egg
in his hand. By permission of the bookseller he left his one
possession, the fowl rescued from the burning schoolhouse, behind him,
Mr. Loveday saying, jocosely,
"If it lays another egg to-day, Timothy, I shall claim it."
"All right, sir," Timothy had replied. "It won't lay another to-day,
but there will be one to-morrow. It's a bird that can earn its own
living."
A remark which caused Mr. Loveday to laugh, and to think: "You're a
clever fellow, Timothy. There's stuff in you."
Nearly everybody within hail of Church Alley who was familiar with
Timothy's face was always pleased to see him, and indeed it may with
truth be averred that he had not an enemy. This pleasant fact was the
reward of his willing and cheerful spirit, which invariably prompted
him to do a good turn if it was in his power. But he had one especial
friend for whom, above all others, he had a deep regard. The name of
this friend was Teddy Meadows, a lad about the same age as himself,
and of about the same build. The liking for each other which existed
between these lads might have ripened into a firm and lasting bond of
friendship in their manhood, had circumstances been favorable. It had
commenced with a timely service which Timothy rendered Teddy some
years before. Teddy, although as tall as Timothy, was of a weakly
constitution, and suffered from lameness. One day, while crossing the
Whitechapel Road, he fell under the feet of a horse which was drawing
a loaded hay-cart, and had it not been for Timothy rushing forward and
dragging him away, he would probably have received fatal injuries. As
it was, he was much shaken, and Timothy had to carry him home. The
parents were grateful to Timothy for the rescue, and thus the bond
between him and Teddy was commenced. Teddy's father was a carpenter,
and not a bad one, and being a steady man and a capable, was
successful in obtaining pretty steady work. He had a fairly
comfortable home, and, without being able to put by much money for a
rainy day, kept his family in comfort. Their one sorrow was Teddy's
lameness and his weak constitution.
It was to Teddy's house that Timothy wended his way when he left Mr.
Loveday's shop, not only because of his desire to see his friend and
to relate his adventures, but because he had a vague hope that Teddy
might be able to advise how he was to obtain a decent suit of clothes.
On the road he met Mr. Meadows, and he fancied that Teddy's father was
graver than usual; there were certainly signs of trouble in Mr.
Meadows's face. "Perhaps he's out of work," thought Timothy. He went
up to Mr. Meadows, and accosted him.
"It's a long time since we've seen you," said Mr. Meadows. He spoke
absently, and did not seem to observe how poorly Timothy was dressed.
"I've been in the country," said Timothy, "but the gentleman I worked
for was burnt out last week."
"That's unfortunate," said Mr. Meadows. "There's more trouble in the
world than there ought to be."
Timothy supposed that Mr. Meadows made this remark because he was out
of employment, and he did not think it right to comment upon it. From
a young lad to a grown man with a family it might savor of
impertinence.
"I have just come back to London," he said, "and I was going to see
Teddy."
"Were you?" The father's face brightened a little, then fell again.
"He'll be glad to see you. He has often spoken of you, especially
lately. My poor boy!" He almost broke down.
Timothy's heart sank within him.
"Is Teddy unwell?" he asked.
"He is very ill," replied Mr. Meadows, turning his head.
"Very ill?" said Timothy, with sudden terror.
"Very, very ill." He turned his face again to Timothy, grateful for
the note of sympathy in the lad's voice, and then Timothy saw that his
eyes were filled with tears.
"Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry!" said Timothy, unable to restrain his
own tears. "Not seriously, Mr. Meadows; not seriously, I hope."
"Yes, seriously," said Mr. Meadows, sadly, and he laid a kind hand on
Timothy's shoulder. "But go and see him. He will be glad." And saying
this, and afraid to trust himself further, Mr. Meadows hurried away to
his work.
Timothy walked slowly on, greatly shocked by the sorrowful news. Mr.
Meadows's voice and manner denoted that he feared the worst. The
worst? Yes, perhaps death.
It stirred Timothy's heart deeply; a wave of sorrow was passing over
it, and he had never till this moment realized how much he loved the
young friend who was lying in such peril. His own troubles were
forgotten; he thought only of poor Teddy.
He quickened his steps, and soon reached Mr. Meadows's house. He was
about to knock at the street door, when it opened, and a gentleman
came from the house, saying to Mrs. Meadows, who stood on the
door-step:
"Remember--a new-laid egg."
Timothy started, and looked after the doctor. Then he went up to Mrs.
Meadows.
"Oh, Tim!" sobbed the woman, "my poor boy is dying!"
"Is the new-laid egg for Teddy?" asked Timothy, in a shaking voice.
"Yes. It is the only thing, mixed with a little wine, the doctor says,
that will keep strength in him till his father comes back from work."
"I have brought one, Mrs. Meadows," said Timothy, sadly. "You may be
sure it is new-laid--only half an hour ago."
"God bless you!" said Mrs. Meadows. "Come in, my dear. Teddy will be
so glad to see you!"
CHAPTER XIII.
In all his after-life Timothy never forgot that night he spent with
Teddy. It left upon him an abiding impression for good, and if in his
manhood he stepped out of his way to do a kindness, he would sometimes
think that he was urged to it by the spirit of his dear friend.
Teddy was more than glad to see him; he said it was the one thing he
had been wishing for before he--, and then he stopped, and looked at
his friend with a half-wistful, half-whimsical expression on his face.
"Before you what, Teddy?" asked Timothy, a great lump rising in his
throat.
"Before I go to another place," replied Teddy.
"Where?"
"Ah! now you ask a question, Tim." He paused awhile, and added: "But
somewhere. You've been talking to mother, haven't you?"
"Yes--and I met your father as I was coming here."
"He was cut up, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Speaking of me?"
"Yes. He could hardly get his words out."
"He has been a good father--I couldn't have had a better; no boy
could. My dear, good mother, too, she will feel it. They told you I
was dying, didn't they?"
The mournful look in Timothy's eyes was an eloquent answer.
"It's true, Tim; I knew it before they did, before even the doctor
did. Long ago I knew I should never live to be a man. I don't
know whether I'm sorry or glad. There's Shakespeare and Sir Walter
Scott--I say, isn't 'Ivanhoe' splendid?"
"I don't know, Teddy. I never read it. But what about Shakespeare and
Sir Walter Scott?"
"They're dead, aren't they?"
"Of course they are."
"There it is, you see. It comes to the same thing. The only difference
is in being born earlier or later."
"I say, Teddy, where did you get all this from?"
"All what, Tim?"
"This way of talking."
"Wasn't I always so?"
"Not quite so; it's new, a lot of it--at least to me."
"Comes from reading, I suppose, and thinking a bit, like a parrot."
His mother here entered the room, with a tumbler of wine in which
Timothy's new-laid egg was beaten up.
"Timothy brought the egg, my love," she said; "it is new-laid."
"Did he, now? Lift me up, Tim, please."
Timothy raised the dying lad, and supported him in his arms, and Teddy
drank the wine and egg slowly.
"It's nice," he said; "it seems to make me strong."
"The doctor said it would, my dear," said his mother; "it will help
to make you well."
Teddy looked tenderly at her.
"Kiss me, mother."
She took him from Timothy's arms, and for a little while the mother
and son lay in a close embrace. When she was gone Teddy said:
"Did you bring the new-laid egg for me, Tim?"
"I must have done," replied Timothy, more cheerfully, hailing with
hope the delusive sign of renewed strength in his friend, "because
you've eaten it."
"But intentionally?"
"No Teddy, not intentionally."
"It's funny you should have had one, though, just when the doctor
ordered it for me. Perhaps you're in the egg business now?"
This caused Timothy to laugh and Teddy to smile.
"I'm not in the egg business yet," said Timothy. "How I got it is part
of a story."
"Your story, I can guess. You've been away a long time.
Tell me everything about yourself, and everything that has
happened--everything!"
"It will take so long, Teddy."
"All the more reason," said Teddy, with a grave smile, "why you should
begin soon. Fire away, Tim. It will be a pleasure for me to lie and
listen."
It is not so uncommon as may be supposed to chance upon a lad in
Teddy's station in life able to express himself so well. Looking round
upon the familiar faces in the gallery of art and literature, and
recognizing in this one and that one portraits of earnest workers, the
fruit of whose labors have imparted intellectual pleasure to hundreds
of thousands of men and women, one cannot fail to be struck by the
fact that it is not from the ranks of the rich and powerful that the
majority of these bright stars have emerged. It may be that the rich
have not that incentive to succeed--the spur of necessity forming part
of it--which the poor have, but the fact remains. Thus it is not
surprising to find a lad of Teddy's stamp in the squalid East, and his
weak physical frame may be set down to his intellectual advantage.
He lay and listened to Timothy's story. Timothy spoke softly and
slowly, and when, at the expiration of fifteen or sixteen minutes, he
saw Teddy's eyes close, and judged that he had fallen into slumber, he
stopped till Teddy, after the lapse of another few minutes, opened his
eyes, and said:
"Yes, Tim, and then--"
Then Timothy resumed his story, pausing again when Teddy closed his
eyes again, and continuing when the dying lad was sensible once more
of what was going on around him. Now and then the mother would enter
the room, very softly, and, in obedience to Timothy's finger at his
lips, would close the door behind her and step to the bedside so
quietly and noiselessly that she might have been a pitying spirit of
air instead of a suffering mother whose heart was filled with woe.
Then would she bend over the bed, sometimes with a terrible fear that
her son had passed away; but she would raise her head and look at
Timothy with tears in her eyes, and whisper:
"Thank God, he only sleeps!"
Ah! in these vigils of love, kept through day and night in the homes
of the rich and poor, drawing the sick ones together until they stand
upon the eternal platform of equality, there is much to be thankful
for. If the lessons they teach were more enduring the world would be
more human than it is, and justice--not that kind of justice we seek
in wig and gown--would be dispensed more equally.
At length the story was finished, and Teddy, awake, but growing weaker
and weaker, lay and thought over it. His voice now sometimes wandered
away, and the sense of his words was blurred by the approaching
change, but for the most part he held himself in control, and spoke
intelligently, with a full consciousness of what he was saying.
"It was a lucky thing you got into that school, Tim."
"Yes, Teddy, it was."
"I always knew you were clever, and only wanted teaching. You must
read 'Ivanhoe.'"
"I will, Teddy."
"And 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' and 'The Cricket on the Hearth.' Oh,
how I've laughed and cried over them. Is Miss Emily pretty?"
"Very pretty, Ted."
"That's nice. I like pretty things--faces, flowers, and pictures. I
can shut my eyes and see them--oh, such crowds of them, disappearing
and coming up again. I am sorry for poor Dr. Porter. Perhaps you will
see Miss Emily again."
"I hope so."
"There was little Alice Goldsmid; she was my sweetheart"--he was
wandering now--"and she died a long, long time ago. I shall see her.
She wore a white dress and a blue necklace. Is that you, father?"
"Yes, my boy," replied Mr. Meadows, who, with his wife, had just
entered the room; "do you feel better?"
"Much better; oh, so much better! Give me your hand, father." He
took it and held it to his lips. "Did you hear about Timothy and his
new-laid egg?"
"Mother has told me about it, my boy."
"Is mother here?"
"Yes, my dearest."
A sudden strength animated Teddy's frame. "I could almost sit up
alone," he said; and he strove to rise.
"You had better lie and rest, my boy," said his father.
"But I have something to do," he said, "that mightn't be thought of
afterwards. Though if you did think of it I am sure you would do it,
because it would give me pleasure."
"We would do anything to give you pleasure, my boy."
"I know you would, father, and thank you for all your goodness to me.
It shall never be forgotten--never. Please help me up."
They humored him, and propped him up with pillows. Timothy was now
sitting at the foot of the bed, and the dying lad's parents one on
each side at the head. Their hands were clasped at his back, forming a
frame for their dear one, in which he found support.
"Mother and father," he said, "I am going to make my will."
As he said this Timothy saw in his face the same half-wistful,
half-whimsical expression he had observed upon his first entrance into
the sick-room. The tears which welled into the mother's eyes at
mention of a will--a strange fancy to enter the brain of one so
young--almost blinded her. Mr. Meadows's eyes were tearless, but he
suffered none the less.
"First, though, I must say good-bye to Harry and Joe and Nelly."
These were Teddy's brothers and sisters, all younger than he.
"Good-bye!" murmured the mother. "Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!"
"It is right," said Teddy; "it is, isn't it, father? I shall see them
again; but after to-night they won't see me, perhaps, for a long, long
time. No, don't take your arm away, father; I like it where it is, and
mother's." He turned to each of them, and received their loving kiss.
"Tim will go and bring them up. And, Tim, don't say anything to them
about my dying; it might frighten them, and they wouldn't understand.
Tell them that Teddy wants to kiss them good-night. Not good-bye, Tim,
good-night."
Timothy went down-stairs and brought the youngsters up, telling them
to be very quiet, as brother Teddy's head ached badly.
"Lift them up, Tim," said Teddy. "Good-night, Harry."
"Good-night, Teddy," said Harry. "Won't you get well soon, and have
larks?"
"You shall have plenty of fun, Harry. Say God bless you, Teddy."
"God bless you, Teddy."
"And God bless you, Harry, and mind you must be a good boy."
"I will, I will," said the little fellow.
And so with Joe and Nelly, who kissed and bade their brother
good-night, and gave him God's blessing.
"Would you mind, mother," whispered Teddy, "if they said their prayers
now before going to bed?"
In obedience to their mother's directions, the children knelt at the
bedside and said their prayers aloud, Timothy, the sorrowing parents,
and Teddy himself mutely joining in the simple supplication. Mr. and
Mrs. Meadows's heads were bowed upon their breasts, but Timothy's eyes
were fixed upon Teddy's face, and a great tremor ran through him as he
noticed the dying lad's lips form the words, "Now I lay me down to
sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep." The solemnity of the occasion
sank deep into Timothy's heart. "He says that prayer," he thought,
"for the last time, for the last time. Poor Teddy!"
The prayers being over, the children were taken quietly from the room.
Teddy's eyes followed their figures until the door closed upon them.
Then his lids dropped, and no one spoke until he himself broke the
silence. His voice was weaker now, and he often paused, as if to
gather strength for the words he wished to utter.
"Harry will be just like you, father, when he is a man. He is proud of
it when I have told him. 'I want to be like father,' he has said many
times."
"I hope he will be a better man," said the father.
"He couldn't very well be that, eh, mother? And Nelly will be like
you, mother, but not so pretty, I think."
Mrs. Meadows sighed. She was a buxom woman; but her best-looking days
were gone. She knew that quite well, and had always wondered at
Teddy's praises of her prettiness.
"And now, father, about my will. You won't mind, will you?"
"No, my boy, we will do everything you wish."
"Thank you, father. But first, though, about what I've got a right to
do."
"You've the right to do anything, Teddy. Only say what it is."
"Are my books mine, father?" asked Teddy. "Yes, my boy."
"I know exactly how many I've got--forty-seven, some of them nicely
bound. I should like Timothy to have five."
"He shall have them, Teddy, the best there are."
"He won't pick out the best, father; he knows they are only as a
remembrance, and I want him to have something else. Father, you must
have my desk."
"I will keep it and cherish it, my boy."
"There is something in it for mother--a little ivory brooch I bought
for her birthday before I was taken ill. Your birthday comes exactly
four weeks to-day, mother. I sha'n't be here; but think I give it to
you _then_."
Mrs. Meadows could not speak. She lowered her face to the wasted hand
she held in hers and kissed it, and held her head down.
"My other books I should like divided between Harry, Joe, and Nelly.
That will be fourteen each. You will know which to choose for them.
Father, are my clothes mine?"
"Surely they are, my dear lad."
"To do whatever I like with?"
"Whatever you like, my boy."
"I am glad of that, because there is something I very much wish to do.
Timothy is just my height, father."
"Yes, my boy, he is."
Timothy held his breath, divining the idea bred by the thoughtful love
of his friend.
"Has he told you that he can get a good situation if he has a decent
suit of clothes to go in?"
"No, Teddy; but I am glad to hear it."
"He'll tell you all about it another time--not now, because my breath
is going. Would you believe that the only thing in the world he can
call his own is a fowl? Such a wonderful layer! That is how it was he
was able to bring the new-laid egg to me. I should like Timothy to
have my best trousers, my best coat and waistcoat, my best shirt--no,
two shirts--and my best boots."
"He shall have them, Teddy."
"Thank you, father. He isn't to wait for them, you know, because it is
_now_ he wants them. It would do me a great deal of good if I could
see Timothy in them with my own eyes."
Mrs. Meadows rose, and, selecting the clothes mentioned by Teddy, told
Timothy to go into her room and put them on. "If the dear Lord in his
mercy should spare us this blow," she thought, "my darling boy can have
new ones. How thankful, how grateful I shall be if this blessing is
granted me!"
Timothy was absent from the sick-room for a much longer time than was
necessary for him to throw off his ragged garments and get into
Teddy's clothes. It was not out of vanity, but of delicacy, he did
this, for he did not have the heart to look at himself in his better
raiment. His young life had been already full of adventures, and many
of them sorrowful ones, but this was the most mournful of them all.
Ideas with respect to Teddy's clothes were stirring in his brain as
well as in that of the mother sitting by the bedside of her dying son.
"If Teddy takes a turn for the better, I can easily get into my rags
again." He consoled himself with this idea, and he did up his tattered
garments into a tidy bundle ready for the better emergency. He prayed
that his dear friend might live. There would be little hope then of
his obtaining the situation which was offered to him, but shrewd and
clever as he was he was void of that kind of selfishness the
gratification of which entails misfortunes upon others. "If I can't
get into Mr. Loveday's shop," he thought, "I shall get something else
to do, I dare say. I shall manage to rub along somehow." He would
dearly love to obtain service with Mr. Loveday, but not at the expense
of the life of the best friend he ever had. He remained from the
sickroom so long that Mrs. Meadows had to come and beg him to return
to it.
"Teddy is asking for you," she said. "Oh, my dear, he is sinking fast,
I am afraid!"
"I hope you don't think it wrong of me to do this," said Timothy,
looking down upon Teddy's clothes.
"Wrong, my dear? No, indeed not. It is to please our dear boy--and you
shall keep them even if he does get well. But I fear--I fear-- Oh, my
dear, he is the sweetest lad that ever drew breath! Never an angry
word from his lips, never, never--and I have spoken cross to him often
and often. He never answered me, never once. And now I am punished for
it, now I am punished for it!"
It was painful to witness her anguish.
"You must not, you should not speak in that way, Mrs. Meadows," said
Timothy, to whom came at this juncture an impressiveness of manner
which spoke well for a true manliness of spirit in the future when he
should have arrived at manhood's estate; "if Teddy knew it he would be
very grieved--it would hurt him badly. You have nothing to vex
yourself about, I know, who never had a mother to love"--and here
Timothy's voice shook. He was aware of the strange mystery attached to
his being thrust, a stranger, upon the care of strangers, and at this
solemn time it forced itself upon him with a new significance.
"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Meadows, "I am sorry for you."
"I know," continued Timothy, "from Teddy's own dear lips how good and
loving you have been to him--"
"Has he told you so--has my dear boy told you so?"
"Over and over again; and he has said that he could never repay you
and his father for your goodness to him."
"That came out of his own kind heart, always thinking of others, never
of himself."
"It is true, Mrs. Meadows. He said once to me, 'I wish you had a home
like mine, and a mother and father like mine.'"
"The dear lad--the dear, dear lad! It makes it all the harder to lose
him, all the harder."
"It is hard--but let us go in now. He will be restless."
"Yes, yes, let us go in. You are a good lad, Timothy, and we shall
always be glad to see you here. Remember that, my dear."
"I will, Mrs. Meadows, and thank you."
The mother wiped the tears from her eyes, but as fast as she wiped
them away they flowed afresh.
The moment he entered the room Timothy saw the change that had come
over Teddy. But Teddy could still speak in a faint, weak voice, and
his eyes brightened as they rested on Timothy.
"How nice you look!" he murmured. "Do they fit you?" Timothy nodded.
"Bend down, Timothy. That's right." He kissed Timothy. "If you get
along, as you're sure to do, you must pay me for them."
"How can I do that, Teddy dear?" asked Timothy, in wonder.
"By helping some poor boy, and trying to get him out of his trouble."
"As you have got me out of mine. I promise, Teddy, faithfully."
"I think," said Teddy, suddenly raising himself up in bed, and
speaking in a thin, clear voice, "that everything is very beautiful.
Good-night. I am very happy. God bless you, Tim!"
"God bless you, Teddy!"
"Mother, father, put your arms round me."
Close, close beat the loving hearts, one growing fainter, fainter,
until, though still it fluttered, they could neither see nor hear its
pulsation. Teddy lay still for hours, for the most part with his eyes
closed; but at long intervals the lids were slightly raised for a few
moments at a time. Whether he saw anything before him they did not
know, but they knew by an occasional slight movement of his fingers,
which feebly strove to clasp the hands in which they were enfolded,
that the tide of life had not quite run out. In the midst of their
deep trouble it consoled them that he was in peace, and that it was
mercifully ordained that he should pass away without suffering; for
all through these memorable hours, which formed for them a sad and
loving memory till they themselves received the summons to eternity, a
smile rested on his lips. It was there when a linnet in a cage
down-stairs began to chirp and twitter in the early morning. Teddy did
not hear the sweet sounds; he had answered the call, and his soul was
with God and the angels.
"So you've got the clothes, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday on the
following day.
"Yes, sir," said Timothy; and he told the bookseller about Teddy.
"Ah," said Mr. Loveday, "so goes on forever and a day the mystery of
life and death, never for one moment ceasing its work. Timothy, your
fowl has laid another egg. Shall we value it at five farthings?"
"Keep it, sir, and welcome," said Timothy.
"No, my lad. Justice is justice, and I get it cheap. I engage you,
Timothy, as my assistant, at eighteen pence a week and board and
lodging. Satisfaction given, a rise of sixpence a week at the end of
six months; satisfaction still given, and all going along comfortably,
a rise of another sixpence at the end of twelve months. What do you
say?"
"I am very thankful to you, sir," replied Timothy.
"You will want to go to the funeral, Timothy?"
"If you can spare me, sir."
"Of course I can spare you. Friends are not so plentiful, dead or
alive."
CHAPTER XIV.
We return to Nansie and Kingsley. They were still in Godalming.
Nansie's father was buried, a quiet funeral, with only Nansie and
Kingsley as mourners; the horse and caravan were sold, and the loving
couple who were now to commence the battle of life in real, right-down
earnest, had taken humble lodgings for a week or two, pending the
serious question as to what they should do. Until after the funeral
Nansie had no heart to write to her uncle in London. She had thought
of acquainting him with the death of his brother, and asking him
whether he would wish to attend the funeral, but the knowledge of the
estrangement of the brothers during her father's lifetime, and a
feeling of loyalty towards her father, who, in this estrangement, had
been, in her belief, harshly treated, caused her to postpone the
writing of her letter till the last sad offices were fulfilled. There
was another reason. She feared that her uncle was a man of hard
disposition, and that his resentment against his brother might find an
outlet over the grave of the dear father she loved so well. This fear
also sustained her. An inharmonious note springing from an unkind
nature, during her days of fresh sorrow, an inharmonious note which
might have been detected even when the dear remains were consigned to
their last resting-place, would have been too painful to her to bear,
and would, besides, have been a desecration. Therefore it was that
many days passed by before Nansie communicated to her uncle the news
of his brother's death.
Meanwhile Kingsley was busy thinking about the settling of his
affairs. He had some belongings and a little money, and it was
necessary that his debts should be paid.
"We will commence quite free, Nansie," he said, "then we shall know
where we are, and how we stand."
"It will be best, Kingsley," said Nansie.
"We will wipe out the past, my dear," said Kingsley, "and commence
with a new slate. That will cost nothing, being in a sense
metaphorical."
She did not ask him if he felt regret that he had married her; she
knew that he did not, but she would have been scarcely human had the
thought not obtruded itself. Certainly nothing in Kingsley's manner
denoted regret. He was cheerful, hopeful, confident, and, having
sufficient for the present day, felt no fears for the future. That
was probably because he had not had experience. His life hitherto
had been pleasant and luxurious, with no troubles of money to harass
him. A good education, a liberal allowance, having but to ask and
receive--these easy ways were not a good education for adversity.
"There is a song I have often sung, Nansie, my dear," he said,
lightly, "and the burden of it is, 'never trouble trouble till trouble
troubles you.' That is the plan we will follow."
"Yes, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a bright look; "it does not mean
that we should not be prepared."
"Prepared!" he exclaimed, putting his arm round her waist and kissing
her. "Of course we will be prepared. Leave everything to me; and don't
have any fear that I shall miss anything."
"Are you sure, dear?"
"Am I sure? Well, upon my word! There is only one thing in the world I
should miss, and that is you--with a thousand apologies for calling
you a thing. So long as you are with me, with your bright eyes and
sweet face, and that pretty bit of ribbon about your neck--I love to
see you dressed like a lady; of course that will always be--so long as
we are together as we are now, it isn't possible for me to miss
anything, because my bonnie Annie Laurie is all the world to me. Then,
you know, there is a charm in change, a positive charm in coming down
a bit. There's pheasant now, and partridge and grouse, and _pâté de
foie gras_--why, I've run away from them for a cut of rump steak.
As for champagne, which I could have swam in--really, Nansie, swam
in--why, I would rather have a bottle of Bass any day. There were some
of the long walks I used to take with a chum or two. Well, we walk a
dozen miles and pull up at quite a common little inn, and call for
bitter--in the pewter, Nansie--and bread and cheese. Was there ever
anything like it? Never. The best meal I ever sat down to was nothing
in comparison. I would look at my chums, and my chums would look at
me, and we would all agree that we never ate and drank anything with
such a relish. It was true. We'll take long walks together, Nansie,
you and I, and you will say the same. I must leave you to-morrow
morning, you know, my dear, for a couple of days to settle up all my
old debts. There's the stable bill--I shall have to sell my horse--and
the jeweller's bill."
"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, interrupting him.
"Yes, Nansie."
"This watch and chain was bought of the jeweller, was it not?"
She pointed to a pretty watch and chain she was wearing, which, with a
locket, he had given to her on the morning they had disclosed to
Nansie's father the secret of their marriage.
"Yes, my dear," he said, gayly.
"And was not paid for when you gave it to me?"
"And was not paid for," he repeated, in the same gay tone, "when I
gave it to you. But," he added, "it will be before I return."
"Don't you think, Kingsley, dear, that it would be best for you to ask
the jeweller to take it back? It will make your account lighter."
"What?" he cried. "Rob you of my own gift! Not likely, Nansie. Well,
that is an idea to get into your head! And you call yourself
practical!"
"I think it would be right, my dear, and I can do very well without
it."
"And _I_ think it would be wrong, and I am certain you could _not_ do
very well without it. And the locket, too--why, Nansie, it has my
portrait in it!"
"I should like to keep the locket," said Nansie, opening it and gazing
fondly at the handsome, smiling face of her lover and husband.
"I should think you would, indeed. Let me look at it. Upon my word,
Nansie, it flatters me."
"It does not," said Nansie, energetically. "You are a great deal
better-looking than the picture."
He laughed.
"Now it is you who are flattering; and, of course, you are only joking
when you ask me to take the watch and chain back. Don't mention it
again, there's a good girl. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling.
Every lady has her watch and chain, and I should feel that mean if I
saw you without one--well, there! don't let us talk about it. I shall
be able to pay the jeweller. You don't know half the things I've got
in my bachelor rooms; and just look at this diamond ring he wheedled
me into buying for myself. Down in the bill for sixty pounds. To think
I have never given you a ring!"
"Yes, you have, dear," said Nansie, kissing her wedding-ring.
"Of course, that," said Kingsley, taking her hand and kissing it, and
keeping it clasped in his; "but I mean diamonds."
"I don't want diamonds, dear."
"Because you are the sweetest, most unselfish little wife that a
fellow was ever blessed with. But confess, Nansie, now, you do like
diamonds, don't you? No subterfuges, you know. I am your husband, and
you mustn't deceive me. You _do_ like them?"
"Yes, Kingsley; all women do, I think."
"And lace?"
"Yes, and lace."
"That's where it is," he said, in a tone of vexation, running his
fingers through his hair. "I had my eye on a lovely ring, and such a
brooch! I asked the jeweller to put them by for me."
"You will not get them now, Kingsley?" said Nansie, anxiously.
"No, I can't very well, and that is what vexes me. I look upon them as
really yours, and as if I'd behaved meanly in not buying them for you.
It is really a loss, for, you see, if I had bought them when I took a
fancy to them, you would have had them, and I shouldn't have cause to
reproach myself."
"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, holding up a reproving forefinger, "you
are, as my dear father used to say, illogical."
"Your dear father may have said it to you, my unreasonable darling,
because logic is not by any means a feminine quality; but he would
never have said it to me, because we men see deeper into things than
you. I could prove to you incontestably, Nansie, that it is a positive
loss that I did not buy that ring and brooch for you; but I don't want
to make your head ache." He kissed her eyes and forehead and lips, as
if these marks of affection were as powerful as any logic he could
bring to bear upon the point in dispute. "However, what is done is
done, and what we have to consider is not yesterday, but tomorrow."
"Yes, dear," said Nansie, hailing this more sensible turn, "that is
what we have to consider."
"And we will consider it, dearest, in a practical, logical manner."
Nansie, despite her anxiety, could not help smiling at this. "I am
sure I am thinking of it all the night long."
(If this were so it must have been in his dreams, for he was an
exceptionally sound sleeper, as Nansie well knew, by reason of her own
mind being really disturbed by thoughts of the future.)
"What will have to be decided is what I am fit for and what I can do,
and the thing then is," and Kingsley looked pleasantly around, as
though he were addressing an audience, "to go and do it. Yes," he
repeated, "to go and do it. You cannot deny, Nansie, my darling, that
that is the practical way to go about it."
"Yes, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, with fond admiration, "that is the
practical way."
"To buy another caravan," pursued Kingsley, "and a horse, and to fit
it up comfortably with chairs and tables and beds, an easy-chair for
you, my dear, and one for me; and a little library of books, and a
piano--because there is nothing so pleasant on a beautiful evening in
the woods, when the birds have settled in their nests and all nature
is hushed and still, preparing by needful repose for the joyous life
of to-morrow; there is nothing, I say, so pleasant as to sit by
the side of a dear little wife while she plays the airs one loves
best--but I am afraid there would not be room for a piano."
"I am afraid not, dear," said Nansie, humoring him.
"It is a pity. If it were too warm--being summer, my dear Nansie--to
sit inside the caravan, we might move the piano into the open, where
you could charm the birds from their nests. They could not resist the
temptation of coming out to listen to the concert, and perhaps join
in. Now, that would form a pretty picture. A gifted fellow could
almost write verses on it. But it is not to be thought of, Nansie, is
it?--I mean the piano, not the verses."
"I am afraid not, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, into whose heart was
stealing a kind of pity--pity which had no terrors in it, but rather
nerved her to courage, and was the germ of a new teaching in her
gentle nature.
"I think you must admit, my dear," said Kingsley, taking her hand and
patting it softly, "that the moment I perceive an idea, however
enticing it may be, is not practical, I send it to the right about. As
I do the piano. Away it goes, and I take off my hat to it with
regret."
There was something so kindly and humorous in his speech, and in the
expressions and gestures which accompanied it, that Nansie did not
have the heart to check it or to dispute it with him.
"We should have to do
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