Nansie wrote to her uncle before she went to bed, informing him that
she was married, and thanking him for the kind letter he had sent her.
She said nothing as to the offer of a home, because she did not
consider that it held good. Nansie single and Nansie married could not
bear the same relation in her uncle's eyes. Single, she needed a
protector; married, she possessed one. The responsibility of affairs
lay with her husband; all that it was in her power to do was to wait
and see what steps he took towards providing for their home. She could
encourage and strengthen him, but for the present that was all. To
attempt so early to assume the direction of affairs would have been an
affront to her husband's manhood, and as, out of loyalty to Kingsley,
she purposely avoided the contemplation of this contingency, she had
no idea what steps it would be advisable for her to take in the event
of Kingsley's failure.
On the following morning she told Kingsley that she had written to her
uncle, and asked him if he would like to read the letter before it was
posted. Kingsley replied that as she must have written about him he
would prefer not to see it.
"I have written everything that is good about you," she said.
"That is the reason," said Kingsley. "My dear, I trust you implicitly,
and I am satisfied that you have said exactly what is right--with one
exception. You have spoken too highly of your husband. Don't shake
your head, I know it. You have an exaggerated opinion of me, or, to
phrase it better, you have formed an ideal which will not bear the
test of sober truth. But that, dear little wife, is the fate of most
ideals."
"What you say," observed Nansie, "will apply with equal truth to your
opinion of me."
"Not at all," said Kingsley, with fond seriousness, "you stand away
and apart from me--higher, nobler, more capable. I will not listen to
any contradiction, my dear, when I am discussing _you_. The fact is, I
have already applied the test."
"In what way, Kingsley?" asked Nansie.
She was learning that it was best to humor him in certain moods, which
it seemed impossible for him to avoid.
"In this. Of course, when I first saw you I formed my ideal of you.
What it was, I think you know to some small extent, for the love I
feel and express for you is no idle sentiment. Whatever else I may be,
I am at least as true as steel to you. It is one virtue I may fairly
claim, for nothing which is inspired by you can be anything else.
Well, knowing you but slightly, my ideal was formed, and familiar
association would either destroy or establish it. My dear, I have
questioned myself, I have asked: 'Does Nansie come up to your ideal?
Is she the true woman you supposed her to be? Does she represent what
you believed--the sweetness, the purity, the nobility, the tenderness
which have sanctified the very name of woman?' The answer is: 'She is
all, and more than all, you believed her to be. There is nothing in
her that is not sweet, and true, and good. The ideal you set up falls
short of the reality.' Then, on the other hand, is the question of Me.
I do not wish to disturb you, my dear, but I fear a terrible
disappointment awaits you when you have found me out. No, I will not
allow you to answer me. You may stand up in my defence when I am not
present, but my imperfections are too apparent--now that I am brought
face to face with them--to encourage any attempt to smooth them away.
However, we are bound to each other for better or worse, and you must
make the best of me. Now address your letter to your uncle, and I will
post it for you."
"Shall I give him your love, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, adding
hurriedly, "you are very unjust to yourself."
"Yes, dear, give him my love, and say that I hope to make his
acquaintance one day. As to being unjust to myself, I know I am the
best judge of that."
He went from the room, and in a few minutes presented himself again,
gloved and polished, a faithful presentment of a young English
gentleman.
"You must wish me luck, Nansie," he said. "I am going to see what can
be done in the way of obtaining a situation. Perhaps something
fortunate will turn up."
She kissed him and watched him from the street door walking along the
street, looking brightly this way and that for something to turn up.
He returned at six o'clock in the evening, in time for dinner. There
was a jaded expression on his face, which vanished the moment his eyes
rested on Nansie.
"Home, sweet home," he said, passing his arm round her waist, and
drinking in her beauty with a grateful spirit.
She knew that he had not been successful in his quest, but
nevertheless she asked what fortune he had met with.
"None at all," he replied; "but Rome wasn't built in a day. We must
have patience. I will tell you after dinner what I have done."
They had the pleasantest of meals, enlivened by his gayety; and when
the things were cleared away and he had lit his cigar, he said:
"What can a man wish for more? A good dinner, the sweetest of company,
a fine cigar--it was right, was it not, Nansie, for me to keep back
three hundred of my choicest?"
"Quite right," replied Nansie, "and very thoughtful of you. I love the
smell of a good cigar."
"When I put them aside," said Kingsley, holding up a reproving
forefinger, "I thought only of myself. I reflected that it might be
some time before I could afford to buy more of the same kind."
"Kingsley," said Nansie, pleadingly.
"Yes, dear," he responded.
"I want you to understand something."
"Anything you wish, Nansie. Let me know what it is."
"Only that your disparagement of yourself hurts me, dear. Knowing that
there is nothing in the world you would not do for my sake, it is
painful to me to think that you may grow into the habit of believing
that everything you do is done with a selfish motive. It is not
so--indeed, it is not so!"
"How seriously you speak, Nansie!" said Kingsley, drawing her close to
him. "Do you really mean to say that I am not selfish?"
"If there is in the world a man who has proved himself otherwise, it
is you, my dear," said Nansie, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Be
just to yourself, in justification of me."
"That requires elucidation, my dearest," said Kingsley, with great
tenderness.
"Think of the sacrifice you have made for me, a poor girl, but for
whom you would be now at peace with your parents, and in the enjoyment
of much, if not of all, that makes life worth living. How low should I
fall in your estimation if I were insensible to that sacrifice, if I
were to undervalue it, if I were to say: 'It is what any other man in
Kingsley's place would have done!'"
"Is it not?" he asked, passing his hand fondly over her hair.
"No, indeed and indeed it is not. I do not pretend to assert that I
know the world as you know it"--there was something whimsical in the
expression of unconsciously affected wisdom which stole into
Kingsley's face as she uttered these words--"but I know it
sufficiently well to be certain that there are few men capable of a
sacrifice such as you have made for me. What had I to give in return?"
"Love," he answered.
"It is yours," she said, and tears, in which there was no unhappiness,
stole into her eyes, "love as perfect as woman ever gave to man. Not
love for to-day, my dearest, but love forever; love which nothing can
weaken; love which will triumph over every adversity; love which will
be proof against any trial. But that is little."
"It is everything," said Kingsley, "to me and to every man worthy of
the name. The sacrifice I have made--you choose to call it so, and I
will not contradict you, dear--is to be measured. Not so with love. It
is illimitable, unmeasurable. It illumines every surrounding object;
it makes the commonest things precious. How beautiful the present is
to you and to me! Could it be more beautiful if we were passing it in
a palace? That picture on the wall--a common print? No. A lovely
possession. The handsomest painting that ever was painted hanging
there--would it make the present moments sweeter, would it invest the
spiritual bond which unites us with a binding link which now is
missing? This book on the table which cost a shilling--if it were a
first edition worth thousands of pounds, would it increase our
happiness, would it make your love for me and mine for you more
perfect and complete? There is an immeasurable distance between what I
have gained and what I have lost. So let us have no more talk of
sacrifices, Nansie, dear."
She could not find arguments with which to answer him, and it would
have been strange if she had needed them.
"In return," he continued, "I will make the strongest endeavor not to
underrate myself, nor to prove that I am more than ordinarily selfish.
There--my cigar is out."
She lit a match and held it while he puffed away at his weed.
"You promised to tell me what you have done to-day," she said.
"There is very little to tell. I did what I could, which consisted
simply of walking about, and looking in shop-windows. I went out
without any distinct idea in my mind; I thought that something might
happen, and I was disappointed. Everything and everybody seemed to be
going along nicely, and not to be in want of me. It occurred to me to
consider what I was fit for. I looked into the windows of a boot-shop.
What do I know of boots and shoes, except how to put them on my feet?
Literally nothing. The same with haberdashers, the same with grocers,
the same with jewellers, the same with every kind of shop. Then,
trades; I don't know one. Printers, engravers, carpenters,
watchmakers, and that kind of thing--you have to serve an
apprenticeship before you can hope to earn money by them. I felt like
a fish out of water. There seemed to be no groove for me, nothing that
I could take hold of. I am really puzzled, Nansie."
"My poor Kingsley!" murmured Nansie.
"But, there," he said, snapping his fingers, "it will not mend matters
to worry about them. _Nil desperandum_, and a fig for the world and
its cares! If only to-morrow would not come!"
He certainly had the gift of giving dull care the go-by; and in
another minute he was the same light-hearted, pleasant-humored,
irresponsible being he had ever been, and was doing his best with his
whimsical talk to make Nansie forget the serious position in which
they were placed.