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.