Three months after this conversation Mr. Loveday and Timothy were
standing in front of the book-shop, discussing some proposed
alterations in the stall outside upon which the more promiscuous books
were offered for sale. The weather was fine, and a bright sun was
striving to make its presence known in Church Alley; a bird in a cage
hung above Mr. Sly's shop-window was piping a song of gratitude and
welcome, and a cat, caught by a sunbeam, stood stock-still enjoying
the warmth. A young woman, neatly and plainly dressed, entered Church
Alley, and with timid, hesitating steps, gazed at the shops and houses
as she passed them, halting within a yard of the stall before which
Mr. Loveday and Timothy were talking. Timothy was explaining his
views. The new stall could be made with flaps, hanging down, which,
when rain threatened, could be swiftly raised to enclose the books.
This would do away with the old and cumbersome method of covering the
outside stock with canvas.
"And besides, sir, it could be made to fit like a box, with a good
padlock outside, so that there would be no need to take the books out
and in morning and night. The expense would not be great, only the
timber. I can borrow tools, and make it as well as a carpenter. I
don't mind saying that a thorough good workman couldn't beat my
fowl-house."
"There's nothing much you can't do, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday.
"These things are not difficult, sir, if one only puts one's mind to
them. A good saw and plane, a chisel, a few nails, and hinges, and it
is done."
"You shall try your hand, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday, and turned to go
into his shop.
As he did so, his eyes rested upon the figure of the young woman who
had halted within a few steps of him.
He was transfixed. Twenty-and-odd years of his life were suddenly
engulfed in a memory of the past.
There stood the woman he had loved and lost--the woman whom his dead
brother had loved and married.
He stood like a man in a dream, or under a spell of enchantment. All
consciousness of the present time had vanished. The past came back
again, the love which had slept so long that he had deemed it dead
awoke within him and stirred his heart. Was it joy, was it pain he
felt as he stretched forth a trembling hand.
As if in response to that movement on his part, the woman moved
towards him, and held out her two hands with an affectionate look in
her eyes, in which there dwelt also some touch of entreaty.
"Who are you?" he asked, faintly, recovering his voice.
"I am Nansie," was the reply. "I recognized you, uncle, by your
likeness to my dear father."
"And I recognized you," he said, "by your likeness to your dear
mother. How like you are to her--how like, how like!"
"I am glad," said Nansie. "My dear father always said I was growing to
resemble her more and more. Uncle, am I welcome?"
"Quite welcome. Come in."
He was himself once more; and he took her hands in his, and conducted
her into his shop.
Timothy gazed at Nansie with worshipping eyes as she passed from the
open, and stood gazing--for how long he knew not--until he was aroused
by Mr. Loveday suddenly appearing from the shop, and calling out to
him, in an agitated tone, to run for a doctor.
"No, no," cried Nansie's voice from within, "I do not need a doctor. I
only fainted a moment, I was so tired. You don't know the ways of
women, uncle."
"How should I," he said, rejoining her, "having so small an
acquaintance with them?"
"But you said I was welcome, uncle?" she said, in a solicitous tone.
"And you are."
"You are glad to see me?"
"Yes. Why have I not seen you before? Why have I not heard from you?"
"I wrote to you, uncle."
"Telling me you were married. Yes, I forgot."
"You did not reply."
"I saw no occasion. I thought if you wanted me you would write again,
or come."
"Here I am, as you see, uncle."
"I see. Wanting me?"
"I--I think so, uncle. You shall judge."
"You speak in a voice of doubt. Listen to me, Nansie. I may call you
so?"
"Surely, surely. It gives me pleasure."
"Listen, then. If there is anything in my voice or manner to cause you
uneasiness, account for it by the fact that I know little of women,
as you yourself said. It is sometimes my way--not always, and seldom
unless I am somewhat shaken. If you had informed me that you were
coming I should have been prepared. I should not then have thought,
when my eyes fell upon you, that it was your mother I was gazing upon,
and not her daughter."
"I am sorry," murmured Nansie.
"There is nothing to be sorry for. These reminders do a
man--especially a recluse like myself--no harm. You are turning white.
Are you going to faint again?"
"No; I will not allow myself."
"I have some brandy in the house. Shall I give you a little? It is a
medicine."
"No, thank you, uncle; I never touch it."
"What is it, then, that makes you so white? Stay. A cup of tea?"
"If you please, uncle."
"I am a dunderhead. Timothy!"
No _genii_ in Eastern tales ever appeared more promptly at a summons.
"Yes, sir."
"Make some tea; the best--quick!"
Timothy glanced at Nansie, nodded, and vanished.
"That is my assistant," said Mr. Loveday; "a treasure. A man, a boy, a
girl, a woman, rolled into one. He can sew on buttons."
Nansie laughed, and Mr. Loveday gasped.
"Don't mind me," he said, in explanation. "Your laugh is so like your
mother's. You see, Nansie, until I grow more accustomed to you, I
shall find myself driven into the past."
There was a deep tenderness in his voice, and she took his hand in
hers.
"Uncle, will you not kiss me?"
He kissed her, and the tears came into his eyes.
"There," he muttered, "you see how it is. That is the first time my
lips have touched a woman's face since I was a youngster. Don't think
the better of me for it. What is the time? Four o'clock. Have you had
dinner?"
"No, uncle."
"Lunch?"
"No, uncle."
"Breakfast?"
"Yes."
"At what hour?"
"Eight o'clock."
"And nothing since?"
"Nothing. I was so anxious to get to you, and I have been so long
finding you."
"No wonder you are white and faint. Ah, there is Timothy, in my little
room where we eat--and talk, I was about to say; but we talk
everywhere. Come along."
There was not only tea on the table, there was a chop, beautifully
cooked, and bread-and-butter, on a clean white cloth.
"What did I tell you of him?" said Mr. Loveday, when Timothy, after
looking at the table to see that nothing was wanting, had departed.
"He knew what I did not. I never met another like him. Now, eat. Ah,
the color is coming back into your face. Have you come from the
country?"
"Yes, uncle."
"What station did you stop at?"
"Waterloo."
"At what time?"
"One o'clock."
"And you have been three hours getting here. Why did you not ride? I
beg your pardon. No money, perhaps?"
"Oh, yes." She produced her purse, which, before she could prevent
him, her uncle took from her hand.
"Two shillings and eightpence. Is it all you have?"
Her lips quivered.
"Of course you could not ride. There is no return ticket to--to the
place you came from."
"I was not sure of returning there, uncle."
"Ah! I have something to hear. Or perhaps you did not have money
enough to pay for a double fare. Why, Nansie, I might have been dead,
for all you knew! You trusted to a slender chance. What would have
happened if you had not found me? Two shillings and eightpence would
have kept you till to-morrow, and then-- You have something of my
brother's thoughtless spirit in you."
"Say, rather, of your dear brother's hope and trust."
"I will say it if you like, but it will not alter the fact that you
have acted rashly. But I must learn how the land lies. You have a
story to tell?"
"Yes, uncle."
"If I allow you to tell it in your own way you will stumble and break
down; will cry, and faint again, perhaps. I put you, therefore, in the
witness-box, where you are to speak the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth. Are you ready?"
"Yes, uncle."
"No evasions, no gloss; plain and unvarnished. Deceive me once, and
you will find me a tough customer. First, let me say that I am
agreeably surprised in you. Brought up in the country I know not how,
I might have expected my niece to be a raw country wench with rough
manners and small education. I find, on the contrary, a lady who can
read and write."
"Yes, uncle," said Nansie, with a smile, "I can do that."
"And can cipher, perhaps."
"I am not very good at figures, uncle."
"Of course not--you are a woman. But languages now. French, perhaps?"
"Yes, uncle."
"And German?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Ah, a Crichton in petticoats. Any others?"
"Those are all the languages I can speak, uncle."
"And enough, too, Nansie."
"Yes, uncle."
"I must do your father the justice to say that he has furnished you
well. But I suppose you can't make a pudding?"
"Yes, I can, uncle."
"Better and better. I thought I was about to learn something. And,
now, when your father died he did not leave a fortune behind him?"
"He died poor."
"But you were not alone and unprotected. You had a husband by your
side. It occurs to me as strange that so soon before my brother's
death he should have written to me in anxiety about you, and should
have asked me to give you a home here in London; and you with a
husband all the time!"
"My father did not know I was married."
"But you were?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean to tell me that you were secretly married?"
"It is so, uncle."
"I never heard of a secret marriage the motive for which did not
spring from the man. It was your husband's wish that your marriage
should be kept secret?"
"For a time only, uncle; until his father's return from abroad."
"Of course--family reasons."
"Yes."
"The usual story. What difference would it have made if you had been
married with your father's consent and knowledge? There would have
been less duplicity in the affair."
"Uncle, it is difficult sometimes to see how things come about. It
happened as I have told you. It might not if we had consulted my dear
father beforehand."
"Would he have refused his consent?"
"It is most likely."
"Ah! However careless and unmindful my brother might have been in
worldly matters, he was a gentleman and a man of fine instincts. You
married a man beneath you?"
"You are wrong, uncle. I married a gentleman far above me."
"And yet you tell me your father would have refused his consent."
"You forget, uncle. My dear father was truly what you have described
him--a man of fine instincts."
"Well?"
"We were poor; my husband's family are very wealthy."
"I am corrected. The fact would have caused my brother to act as you
say, unless, indeed, the consent of your husband's parents had been
previously obtained."
"It was not, uncle."
"What rash folly! I anticipate your answer. You were in love."
"Yes, uncle."
"I am beginning to get puzzled. There is a kind of tangle here. In the
first letter you wrote to me you signed yourself Nansie. Nothing more.
When I replied to you I addressed you in your father's name. In your
second letter, acquainting me that you were married, you signed
yourself Nansie Manners."
"That is my name."
"You tell me that you have married into a wealthy family, and you come
to me faint and hungry, with two-and-eightpence in your purse. And I
will hazard the guess that you travelled third-class."
"I did, uncle."
"Explain the anomaly."
"When my husband told his father of our marriage he discarded him and
turned him from the house."
"That explains it; but it is bad, very bad. See what comes of secret
marriages. Hopes shattered, old ties broken, hearts embittered,
parents and children parted in anger. Had you known all this
beforehand would you have married?"
"No, uncle," replied Nansie, firmly. It was the first time the
question had been put to her, and she could not but answer frankly. "I
would not have done Kingsley such injustice."
"Then there has been injustice--injustice all round. Kingsley, I
infer, is your husband." Nansie nodded. "Have you come into
association with his family?"
"I have never seen one of them, uncle."
"Where do they live?"
"Here, in London. You have heard of them, I dare say, uncle.
Kingsley's father is the great contractor, Mr. Manners."
Mr. Loveday started. "Manners, the great contractor! Why, Nansie, the
man is a millionaire, and famous all the world over! You have flown
high, my girl."
"I knew nothing of this. Before Kingsley and I met I had never heard
of Mr. Manners; and even up to the day of our marriage I had no idea
that he was so wealthy and famous. Kingsley spoke of him as being
rich, but nothing more; and, uncle, I was not very worldly-wise, and
should have thought a man with a thousand pounds rich. I should think
so now."
"You have made no effort to see your husband's father?"
"No; it would be useless. Kingsley tells me he is a man of iron will,
and never swerves from a resolution he has made. There is no hope of
turning him. Was it not noble conduct, uncle, on Kingsley's part to
marry me, a poor girl without a penny in the world?"
"I am not at all sure, Nansie." He opened her purse and took out the
few poor coins it contained. "See what it has brought you to. Better
for you if your husband had a hundred a year than a father with
millions which he buttons his pockets upon. It was a rash and
thoughtless act you young people have done. There is no hope of
turning Mr. Manners, you say. Yet you are a lady, well mannered, well
spoken, well educated; and he sprang from nothing. It is well known.
But it is idle to talk in this fashion. There is a stubbornness on the
part of the ignorant which is worse than the pride of those who can
boast of high descent. The self-made man is often the most difficult
animal to deal with. Your husband could not have contemplated the cost
of what he was about to do."
"He thought only of one thing, uncle--that he loved me."
"And that is to serve as a set-off against all the ills of life. I
hope it may prove so. The commencement does not hold out any great
promise, that's plain. And now, Nansie, tell me the rest in your own
way. I have got the nut of the story, and a precious hard one it is to
crack."
"When my dear father died," said Nansie, "Kingsley was in London. Mr.
Manners had just returned from Russia, and it was the first
opportunity Kingsley had of making him acquainted with our marriage. I
think that Kingsley, out of consideration for me, has not told me
everything that passed between him and his father, but I know that Mr.
Manners extracted a promise from him to remain at home for a week
before he decided."
"Decided upon what?" asked Mr. Loveday, abruptly.
"I do not know, uncle; Kingsley has been so worried and troubled that
it would have been unkind for me to press him upon points which really
matter very little. For, after all, Kingsley came back to me when I
called him, and is true and faithful."
"His father perhaps pressed him to desert you and break your heart.
Rich as the self-made man is, he could not divorce you. And your
husband consented to remain a week in his father's house to consider
it! That looks ugly."
"Kingsley did nothing wrong. He hoped by remaining near his father
that a favorable moment might come when he could successfully appeal
to him to deal more tenderly towards us. There was also the chance of
his mother's mediation."
"Ah, there is a mother. I was going to ask about her."
"Mr. Manners is master of everything and everybody. His lightest word
is law. Before the week was ended Kingsley received my letter with
news of my dear father's death. Where was Kingsley's place then,
uncle?"
"By your side."
"He came at once without a single hour's delay. He asked his father to
release him from his promise, and as Mr. Manners would not do so, he
broke it--out of love for me. This, I think, embittered Mr. Manners
more strongly against us, and he turned Kingsley from the house. I
hope you are beginning to do Kingsley justice, uncle."
"He seems to have acted well. But go on."
"After my father was buried, Kingsley and I were naturally very
anxious as to how we should live. Kingsley had a little property, but
he owed money to tradesmen, which had to be paid. The settlement of
these accounts swallowed up nearly every sovereign he possessed, and
we had a hard fight before us, harder, indeed, than we imagined. I
must tell you that Kingsley wrote to his parents without success. His
father returned his letter without one word of acknowledgment. If I
had thought I could do any good I would have gone to his mother, but I
felt that it would only make matters worse, if they could be worse.
What could I have expected from her but reproaches for separating her
from her son? For I am the cause of that. If Kingsley had never seen
me he would have been at peace with his parents, carrying out his
father's desire that he should become a member of Parliament, and take
a part in public affairs. Kingsley is fitted for it, indeed he is. He
talks most beautifully. And I have spoiled it all, and have ruined a
great career. I would not dare to say so to Kingsley; he would never
forgive me for it. He tried hard to get some sort of work to do; he
went out day after day, and used to return home so sad and wearied
that it almost broke my heart to see him."
"With but a little store of money," said Mr. Loveday, "such a state of
affairs must soon come to an end."
"We held out as long as we could; longer, indeed, than I thought
possible. We parted with many little treasures--"
"And all this time you never wrote to me!" exclaimed Mr. Loveday.
"Remember, uncle, that I _had_ written to you and that you had not
sent a line of congratulation upon our marriage."
"A nice thing to congratulate you upon! But I was to blame, I admit
it."
"It was a delicate matter to Kingsley. 'Your uncle doesn't care to
know me,' he said; and so it seemed. At length, uncle, we came to a
great block, and we truly despaired. But there was a break in the
clouds, uncle."
"Good."
"I am speaking of yesterday. A letter arrived for Kingsley from a
friend to whom he had written, saying that a gentleman who intended to
remain abroad for three or four months required a kind of secretary
and companion, and that Kingsley could secure the situation if he
cared for it. The gentleman was in Paris, and the letter contained a
pass to Paris, dated yesterday. We had come to our last shilling,
uncle, and this separation--I hope and trust not for long--was forced
upon us. Kingsley managed to raise a little money, a very little,
uncle, just enough to defray his expenses to Paris and to leave me a
few shillings. So last evening, when we parted, it was agreed that I
should come to London to-day, and appeal to you to give me shelter
till Kingsley's return. That is all, uncle. Will you?"
"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday, "I will keep the promise I made to my
dead brother."
Nansie took his hand and kissed it, and then burst into tears.