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 without the piano, then; but it is hardly
possible to live without music. Well, we could go to a church, or,
better still, to a cathedral. That could easily be managed, for we
could so arrange as to halt for the night near a cathedral town, and
if we were a little late starting off the next day, it would not so
much matter, our time being our own. Then, it might happen--stranger
things happen, my dear, and in discussing a matter it is only fair to
look at it from every aspect--it might happen that we hear of a
concert to be given in a hall a dozen or twenty miles away. Away trots
the horse at six or seven miles an hour--that would not be overworking
it--and we arrive in time. I run into the town or city, or perhaps we
pass through it, and I take tickets. We dress--properly, you know,
Nansie--I in my swallowtail and white tie, you in your prettiest
evening-dress, and off we start arm-in-arm. A fine evening, a pleasant
walk of a mile, a most beautiful concert which we enjoy, and then the
walk home, with stars and moon overhead, and the clouds forming a
panorama of exquisite colors in lace-work through the branches of the
trees. That is what I call true enjoyment, which, however, only lovers
can properly appreciate. Would it not be perfect, Nansie?"
"Perfect," replied Nansie, for a moment carried away by his
earnestness and eloquence; "a heaven upon earth."
"You can form no idea," said Kingsley, with a happy smile, "what
delight you give me in agreeing with me upon such subjects. Though I
should not say that; it half implies that we might possibly disagree
upon our views for the future. When I first saw you I knew you
thoroughly. I saw your sweet and beautiful nature in your eyes, and
they are the loveliest eyes, my heart, that ever shone kindly upon
man. 'Here,' said I to myself--Oh, you have no notion how I thought of
you when I was alone! I used to walk up and down my room, speaking to
you and listening for your answers; there are silent voices, you know,
Nansie--'Here,' said I to myself, 'here is the sweetest and purest
spirit that ever was embodied in woman. Here is one whose
companionship through life would make earth a heaven'--exactly as you
expressed it just now, my love--'and to win whom would be the most
precious blessing which could fall to a fellow's lot. I love her, I
love her, I love her!'"
"Oh, Kingsley!" murmured Nansie, laying her face on her husband's
breast. His sincerity and simple earnestness--whatever the worldly
practical value of the words he was uttering--carried her away into
his land of dreams, and surely they were words so sweet and loving
that no woman could listen to them unmoved.
"And if it be my happiness to win her," continued Kingsley, "I will
prove myself worthy of her."
Nansie thought of the sacrifice of wealth and position he had made for
her, a sacrifice not grudgingly but cheerfully made, and in the making
of which he did not arrogate to himself any undue or unusual merit,
and she murmured, as she pressed him fondly to her: "You have proved
yourself more than worthy, my dearest dear. It is I, it is I who have
to prove myself worthy of you!"
"That is not so," he said, gravely, but still holding the thread of
his dreams; "it is the woman who stands upon the higher level; it is
the man who must lift himself up to it, if he is a true man. Yes, my
darling, even when I first saw you I used to think of you in the way I
have described. Why, my dear, your face was ever before me; every
little trick of expression with which you are sweetly gifted was
repeated a hundred and a hundred times when I was alone and nobody
nigh. And let me tell you, dear wife, you exercised an influence for
good over me which I cannot well make clear to you. 'Why, Kingsley,
old fellow,' the chums used to say, 'we expected you to our
supper-party last night, and you never turned up. What has come over
you?' I wasn't going to tell them what it was that kept me away. Not
likely. The majority of fellows there, living the life we did,
wouldn't understand it, and it isn't a thing you can beat into a
fellow's head--it must come to a fellow, as it came to me, I'm
thankful to say."
"Was there ever a man," thought Nansie, "who could say such sweet
things as my Kingsley is saying to me?"
"To return to the caravan," said Kingsley. "I have no doubt you are
perfectly familiar by this time, Mrs. Manners, with one of my great
failings in conversation--flying off at a tangent upon the smallest
provocation; but I always pick up my threads again, that you must
admit. So I pick up the thread of the caravan we were discussing. You
have put the matter of the piano so forcibly before me--although you
are not a logician, my dear, I give you the credit of not being bad in
an argument--that it is put quite aside, not to be reintroduced. There
is one capital thing about a caravan, there are no taxes to pay, and no
rent either. If a fellow could only get rid of butchers' bills now! You
see, I know something about housekeeping. Well, but that _is_ a good
thing in caravans, isn't it, Nansie--no rent or taxes?"
"Yes, it is," replied Nansie; "but you must not forget, Kingsley,
dear, that it is not summer all the year through."
"Forget it! Of course I don't forget it. There are fires,
aren't there, Nansie? And don't you forget that I've been very
careful in making the caravan water-tight. We should feel like
patriarchs--young patriarchs, you know, though I've always looked upon
them as old, every man Jack of them. When you say 'in the days of the
patriarchs,' it sounds oldish--long white beards, and all that sort of
thing."
"May I say something, Kingsley?"
"Certainly, my love."
"We should have to live."
"Why, of course, my dear. Do you think I have forgotten that? What do
you take me for?"
"Whether we live in a house or a caravan we must have bread and milk
and eggs--"
"And butter and bacon," interpolated Kingsley. "You see, I know."
"And clothes."
"And coffee--black coffee, very strong, that's how I like it."
"All these things would have to be paid for, Kingsley."
"I suppose so--I mean, of course, they must be."
"How, Kingsley, dear?"
"Ah, howl" he said, vaguely, drumming on the table with his fingers.
"That," said Nansie, with pretty decision, "is what we have to
consider."
"Of course, of course. We _are_ considering it. Is it your opinion
that the caravan idea is not practicable?"
"Yes, Kingsley."
"Then away it goes," said Kingsley, with the air of a man from whom a
great weight of responsibility has been suddenly lifted; "away it
goes, with the piano, and the nice furniture, and the birds, and the
wild flowers in the summer woods. I take off my hat to the caravan,
though," he added, with a tendency to relapse, "I shall always regret
it; the life would have been so beautiful and pleasant."
"We will endeavor," said Nansie, tenderly, "to make our life so in
another way."
"Certainly we will, my dearest," responded Kingsley, heartily. "There
are a thousand ways."
And yet he looked about now with a slight distress in his manner, as
though he could not see an open door. But he soon shook off the doubt,
and the next minute was the same blithe, bright being he had always
been.
"Let us go for a walk, Nansie," he said.