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.