When Mr. Loveday, the bookseller in Church Alley, heard of his
brother's death in a letter which Nansie wrote to him, he fell to
reproaching himself for the small grief he experienced at the news.
The intelligence did not, indeed, create within him any profound
impression. He and his brother had been separated for a great many
years, and the bond of love which had united them in their childhood
had become weaker and weaker till it scarcely held together. It is
true that death strengthened it somewhat, but it could never again be
what it once was. The humanly selfish cares of life are so engrossing
that love which is not in evidence dies gradually away. That "absence
makes the heart grow fonder" is as false as are nine out of ten of
other sentimental proverbs.
"Timothy," said Mr. Loveday to his new assistant, who was proving
himself a perfect treasure, "when little Teddy died you were very
sorry."
"I was more than sorry, sir," said Timothy, becoming instantly grave;
"I was almost heart-broken."
"Have you got over it?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"I shall never get over it," replied Timothy.
"Do you think that will be true all your life long?"
"I am certain it will be, sir."
"And yet you were not related to him."
"No, sir; but I could not have loved a brother more."
Mr. Loveday winced.
"You regard that as a very strong tie, Timothy."
"A brother's love, sir?"
"Yes."
"I can hardly imagine a stronger. If I had a brother I should so love
him that I think I should be ready to die for him."
"Ah!" mused Mr. Loveday, "perhaps if my brother had died when we were
boys together, I should not be reproaching myself now for not feeling
his death more keenly."
As a penance, he inflicted a punishment upon himself. Since he had
taken Timothy into his service his life had been easier and more
agreeable than it had been for a considerable time past. He was no
longer tormented by small worries, which, after a long recurrence of
them, become, in certain stages of mental irritation, veritable
mountains of evil. Timothy had more than one rare gift, and not one
more precious and beneficial in its effect upon others than the gift
of thoughtfulness. This, extending to the most trivial matter where
his own interests were not involved, was invariably displayed by
Timothy when opportunity offered, and it was natural, therefore, that
in his new and important position in Mr. Loveday's business and
household, it should come into play with greater force. The result was
that not a day passed without Mr. Loveday being made aware that he had
enlisted in his service a lad who seemed bent upon making everything
go on smoothly around him. Heaven only knows where Timothy picked up
all he knew; it was likely the outcome of a willing, cheerful,
practical spirit, and of one who knew how to profit by observation;
but Timothy, who had never learned how to cook, could cook a chop and
a steak and a potato to perfection, and before long could prepare more
ambitious dishes in a manner to satisfy his master's not very
fastidious taste; and Timothy, who had never passed an apprenticeship
in domestic service, could and did apply himself with skilful
efficiency to the thousand and one drudgeries of domestic affairs.
Moreover, he did his work neatly and unobtrusively. There were no
sudden noises now in Mr. Loveday's establishment; no unreasonable
breakages of crockery; and, what Mr. Loveday thoroughly appreciated,
no waste. It could not be but that Mr. Loveday noted with gratefulness
this improvement in his surroundings, and therefore, being at ease and
in rare peace of mind, the punishment he inflicted upon himself for
not taking the news of his brother's death more closely to heart was
really no light one. It was to write to Nansie and remind her, if she
needed reminding, that he had promised her father to give her the
shelter of his home.
"My dear niece," he wrote, "the intelligence you have conveyed to me
of your dear father's death has deeply affected me--"
He broke off here and sat, pen in hand, ruminating, with his eyes
fixed upon the words he had written. "I suppose," he thought, "that
life could not be carried on without duplicity. Here am I, for the
purpose of self-defence, where I am not openly accused, and of proving
that I am not quite a monster, calmly presenting myself in a false
light to a young person whom I saw only once in my life and do not in
the least remember. But what kind of a world would this be, I wonder,
if the exact truth were always told?"
He continued his letter:
"I knew that he was ill, but had no idea he was in a dangerous state,
or I should not have neglected coming to see him. However, there is no
recalling the past, and regrets, though poignant, are idle in a case
like this, where the blow that has fallen is irremediable. I do not
intend to reproach you for your neglect of a duty, which very likely,
because of our being comparative strangers, did not present itself to
you in such a light, but I feel strongly the loss of the opportunity
of attending my dear brother's funeral. Had you written to me when he
died I certainly should have come down to you, and have done whatever
lay in my power to soften your affliction."
He broke off again and mused. "'Words, words, words,' as Hamlet says.
And yet I could almost deceive myself by believing that they are true.
I _should_ have gone down, and perhaps with something of the full
heart which I am endeavoring to express to my niece Nansie. It is a
curious way of spelling the name, but I like it better than Nancy. It
is more poetical; but there was always a vein of poetry in my
brother's nature." The tenderness in him was growing stronger, and he
found comfort in it as he plied his pen again.
"I will not ask you why you were silent. You doubtless had your
reasons, one of which, perhaps, was that you were doubtful of me, and
that you regarded me as little better than a stranger. In this you are
not to blame, but if such a feeling exists I desire to remove it. Some
little while ago your father wrote to me of his circumstances, and of
his anxiety respecting you in the event of anything happening to him.
In my reply, I told him that you could always find a home with me.
From imperfect knowledge I gather that my dear brother left but little
worldly wealth behind him; and my principal object in writing to you
now is to convey to you the offer of my home which I made to him.
Whether we should suit each other remains to be seen, but I would
endeavor honestly to be kind to you, and if you inherit any of your
father's amiable qualities, I have no doubt that we should get along
comfortably together. I have no ties of women and children about me;
my home is a poor one, but such as it is, it is yours if you choose to
accept it."
This was the gist of Mr. Loveday's letter to Nansie, who read it with
satisfaction. When it arrived Kingsley was absent, winding up his
affairs, and the first thing Nansie did upon his return was to give it
to him to read.
"Did you tell him you were married?" asked Kingsley.
"No," replied Nansie. "To tell you the truth, Kingsley, I scarcely
knew in what light to regard him."
"He says something to that effect in his letter," remarked Kingsley,
"but it seems to be honestly and sincerely written."
"I think so, too," said Nansie.
"But you see," said Kingsley, "in his offer of a home--which is very
kind; I do not underrate it--he evidently looks upon you as a single
young lady."
"I shall write, telling him that I am married."
"It will be best; and write soon, else he might think there was
something wrong--of which, my dear," added Kingsley, rubbing his
forehead, "I am not quite sure myself."
"What makes you say that, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, anxiously.
"Well, my darling," replied Kingsley, "it is altogether the best to
look things straight in the face, isn't it?"
"Quite the best, dear."
"We have decided on that before, Nansie."
"Yes, dear."
"It isn't the first time I have made the remark, but that does not
lessen its force and truth. Well, then, my affairs are settled."
"Is everything paid, Kingsley?"
"Everything. We do not owe one penny in the world. What do you think I
discovered, Nansie?"
"I cannot imagine, dear."
"That I had a great deal more property than I supposed."
"That is delightful news, dear."
"Yes, isn't it?" said Kingsley, with a light, puzzled laugh. "When I
say property, I don't mean land. Wish I _could_ mean it, because it
would represent something tangible in the way of an income, perhaps;
and that is what we want, Nansie, don't we? An income."
"It would be very pleasant, dear," said Nansie, with a fond look of
pity at him.
"Yes, very pleasant; it would rub away the crosses of life."
She recalled him to his theme.
"You were saying that you discovered you had more property than you
supposed?"
"Yes, that is what I was saying. And not land, as I should have liked;
but wine. Really a little stock, and of the best. Of course it would
be the best. And books, some of them valuable; and _bric-à-brac_. I
was astonished when we came to look through them. And pictures, too. I
was surprised how ever I came to buy them; but money always burned in
my pockets, Nansie. When it was there it had to be spent. Do you know
a greater pleasure, my dear, than spending money?"
"It is a pleasant occupation, Kingsley, when one has it to spare."
"Of course, that."
"Do me a great favor, dear."
"I will. Just say what it is."
"Tell me everything you did while you were away, without--without--"
Kingsley laughed gayly and took up her words.
"Without flying off into side paths, eh? Keep to the main road. Is
that the great favor?"
"Yes, dear."
"Very good. I will try. But just consider, Nansie--only for a moment;
I will not detain you longer than a moment. Here we are, you and
I--the best company in the world, my darling--walking along the main
road. Very grand, very stately, very wide. Everything according to
regulation. It is a very long road--it generally is, Nansie--and there
is an overpowering sameness about it. My feeling is that it is
becoming tiresome, when all at once I see, on the left or the right, a
little narrow lane with a hedge on each side; at the end of the hedge,
some cottages, dotted here and there, with flowers in the windows; at
the end of the cottages some tall trees, meeting and forming an arch.
What do we do? Without thinking, we turn from the grand main road into
the little narrow lane, and the moment we do so we breathe more freely
and begin to enjoy. That is an illustration of my manner, dear. Do you
recognize it?"
"Yes, dear Kingsley."
"It isn't unpleasant, is it? Confess, now."
"Nothing that you do, dear, can be unpleasant. But remember what you
said a few days ago. We must be practical."
Nansie did not utter these words in a serious tone. On the contrary,
her voice was almost as light as Kingsley's, and as she spoke she laid
her hand upon his shoulder, and smiled with bright affection. He
kissed her, and replied with animation and decision:
"Exactly. That is what we are going to be. So now for the great favor.
Well, I commenced by going through my property and being surprised.
Then I went to the tradesmen to whom I owed money, and said: 'Make out
your bills and send them in.' One or two inquired whether I was going
to pay. I said, 'Of course--what else?' When they heard that--I refer
to those who, to my astonishment, appeared a little uneasy about the
money I owed them--they said, 'Oh, but there's no hurry, Mr. Manners.
We will send in the account at the end of the year.' But I said, 'No;
at once, if you please.' When they came in I did not examine them; I
laid them carefully aside in their envelopes. Then I went to an
auctioneer, and gave him instructions to sell all my property. I
wished him to do it immediately--that very day, but he would not; he
said it would involve too great a sacrifice; but that was my affair,
not his. It is unaccountable that people will not do the thing you
want done in your way, but in their own. However, I hurried my friend
the auctioneer as much as I could, and the result of it all was, that
I found myself two hundred pounds richer than I had supposed."
"How pleased I am, Kingsley!"
"So was I. It seemed to me as if I had discovered a gold mine. Then I
sat down with a clean sheet of ruled foolscap before me, and opened
the tradesmen's accounts, and put down the figures, and totted them
up. The result was that I found I owed four hundred pounds more than I
had supposed."
"Oh, Kingsley!"
"It was vexing, but there it was, and there was no help for it. I went
about my affairs in the practical way, did I not?"
"Yes, my dear; it was the only way to arrive at the truth."
"And to look it straight in the face. I kept to the main road, but if
a view of a narrow lane had presented itself, I believe I should have
been tempted to wander a little. My dear, I paid all the accounts, and
I was left with--how much do you think?"
"I am afraid to guess, Kingsley."
"Something under ten pounds. Was I dashed? Did I despair? Not at all.
Said I to myself, said I--by the way, Nansie, I once came across an
old novel with just that title; an odd one, isn't it?--said I to
myself, said I, to work, to work! Something must be done, for my dear
Nansie's sake."
"How proud I am of you, Kingsley!"
"Thank you, dear. So what did I do? I can sketch a little in colors,
you know."
"You can paint very well, Kingsley. When you said, the other night,
that you saw pictures but could not paint them, I knew you were wrong,
though I did not contradict you."
"Thank you again, dear. Nothing would please me better than to be a
poor artist, with you, rich and influential, for my patron."
"I should give you every shilling I possessed, Kingsley."
"And you call yourself practical. Nonsense, nonsense! It is I who am
the practical one. I proved it. I bought watercolors, drawing-paper,
pencils, brushes, a nice little outfit for thirty-eight shillings,
and, Nansie, I set to work. Upon my honor, I painted a picture which I
considered not bad."
"What did you do with it? You have brought it with you?"
"No, my dear little wife, I sold it."
"Why, Kingsley," said Nansie, in a delighted tone, "you have actually
already made a start."
"I have," said Kingsley, laughing heartily. "The picture painted, I
took it out to the shops. My dear, they rather pooh-poohed it at
first."
"They ought to have been ashamed of themselves," exclaimed Nansie,
indignantly.
"They weren't. But I met with a patron at last. He was a stationer,
and said the picture was of no use to him. 'But it's worth something,'
I said. To be honest with you, Nansie, I was getting rather disgusted
with the whole affair. 'It's worth something,' I said. 'Two-pence,'
said the shop-keeper. 'Done,' said I, and I threw the picture on the
counter, and held out my hand. He stared at me, but I gave him to
understand that he had offered me two-pence for my picture, and that I
accepted it. He stared harder than ever and handed me the two-pence.
It is the first money I ever earned in my life, and I have brought it
home to you. The experiment was a capital one, Nansie; it taught me
something--that I am not cut out for a painter. Next to discovering
what you can do, the best thing is to discover what you can't do.
Having discovered it, turn the key on it."
Nansie gazed at him sadly. He was speaking with animation, and there
was an excited flush in his face. His eyes were bright, and his manner
was indicative of anything but disappointment.
"I thought then," continued Kingsley, "that I would try my friends, but
when I came to consider, I arrived at the conclusion that there was
only one to whom I could disclose my position. I went to him and made
full confession. He is an older fellow than I, and wiser. What I like
about him is that he doesn't say: 'You shouldn't have done this,' or
'You shouldn't have done that.' He hits the nail on the head. 'There
is no hope of your father relenting?' said he. 'None,' said I. 'Time
may soften him,' he said. 'Even if it does,' said I, 'there is a
problem to solve while the grass is growing.' 'You must live,' said
he, 'of course.' 'Of course,' said I. 'And you must work to live,'
said he. I assented. 'Then,' said he, 'let us see what you are fit
for.' My own thought, Nansie, put almost in my own words. But although
we considered and talked we arrived at nothing tangible. He seemed
really more troubled than I was, and at the end of a long conversation
he said: 'Kingsley, old fellow, I can lend you a tenner.' It was noble
of him, because he must have known that there was little chance of my
being able to repay him. I thanked him, and said I wouldn't borrow in
such circumstances as mine. Then he invited me to dine with him, and I
accepted. And that, my dear Nansie, is all I have to tell you."
He gazed round at Nansie with the air of a man who had just finished a
pleasant tale, and said:
"Now we will talk of something else."