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."