From that day a new life commenced for Mr. Loveday. It was not that
there was any great improvement in the ordinary domestic arrangements
of his modest establishment, because the reign of Timothy had
introduced beneficial changes in this respect before Nansie was made
queen. It was more in its spiritual than its material aspect that the
new life was made manifest. To have a lady moving quietly about the
house, to be greeted by a smile and a kind glance whenever he turned
towards her, to hear her gentle voice addressing him without
invitation on his part--all this was not only new, but wonderful and
delightful. Mr. Loveday very soon discovered that Nansie was indeed a
lady, and far above the worldly station to which her circumstances
relegated her; it was an agreeable discovery, and he appreciated it
keenly. He found himself listening with pleasure to her soft footfall
on the stairs or in the rooms above, and he would even grow nervous if
any length of time elapsed without evidence of her presence in the
house. Perhaps Nansie's crowning virtue was her unobtrusiveness.
Everything she did was done quietly, without the least fuss or noise;
no slamming of doors to jar the nerves, nothing to disturb or worry.
"Where did you learn it all, Nansie?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"It is what all women do," she replied.
He did not dispute with her, although his experience was not favorable
to her view. Inwardly he said: "What all women could _not_ do, if they
tried ever so hard, but then Nansie had perfection for a mother." His
thoughts travelled frequently now to the early days when he loved the
woman who was not to become his wife, and it may be that he accepted
Nansie's companionship and presence as in some sense a recompense for
his youthful disappointment, a meting out of poetical justice, as it
were.
Of all the hours of day and night the evening hours were the most
delightful, not only to him, but to Timothy, between whom and Nansie
there swiftly grew a bond of sympathy and friendship. Before Nansie's
appearance Mr. Loveday's house was a comfortable one to live and work
in; but from the day she first set foot in it, it became a home.
Neither Timothy nor Mr. Loveday could have given an intelligible
explanation of the nature of the change; but they accepted it in
wonder and gratitude. Everything was the same and yet not the same.
There was no addition to the furniture; but it appeared to be
altogether different furniture from that to which they had been
accustomed. It was brighter, cleaner, and in its new and improved
arrangement acquired a new value. There were now white curtains to the
windows, and the windows themselves were not coated with dust. The
fireplaces were always trim and well brushed up, the fires bright and
twinkling, the candlesticks and all the metalwork smartly polished,
the table-linen white and clean, clothes with never a button missing,
socks and stockings with never a hole in them. Nansie could have
accomplished all these things unaided; but Timothy was so anxious to
be employed that she would not pain him by refusing his assistance.
She had another reason--a reason which she did not disclose, and which
Mr. Loveday and Timothy were too inexperienced to suspect--for
accepting the lad's willing service. She knew that a time was
approaching when it would be invaluable, and when she would be unable
to devote herself to these domestic duties.
The evenings were the most delightful, as has been stated. Then, the
day's labor over and everything being in order, they would sit
together in the little room at the back of the shop and chat, or
read, or pursue some study or innocent amusement. Mr. Loveday fished
out an old draught-board, with draughts and a set of chessmen, and
was surprised to find that Nansie was by no means an indifferent
draught-player, and that she knew the moves of chess, in which her
skill was not so great. At one time of his life he had been fond of
backgammon, and he taught Nansie the game, Timothy looking on and
learning more quickly than the fair pupil whose presence brightened
the home. Timothy also made himself proficient in the intricacies of
chess, and within a few months justified himself master, and gave
odds. An evening seldom passed without a reading from a favorite
author, Nansie's sweet, sympathetic voice imparting a charm to
passages from which something valuable might have been missed had they
not been read aloud. From this brief description it will be gathered
that Nansie's influence was all for good.
Thus time sped on, and Kingsley was still absent. He wrote to Nansie
regularly, and she as regularly replied to his letters, never missing
a post. She wrote in her bedroom always, and generally at night when
the others were abed. In silence and solitude she was better able to
open her heart to her husband. To say that she was entirely happy
apart from Kingsley would not be true, but she had a spirit of rare
hope and contentment, and her gratitude for the shelter and comfort of
her new home was a counterbalance to the unhappiness she would
otherwise have experienced.
"A letter for you, Nansie," Mr. Loveday would say.
Taking it eagerly, she would speed to her room and read it again and
again, drawing hopeful auguries from words in which none really lay.
For although Kingsley's letters were cheerfully and lovingly written,
there was nothing substantial in them in their prospects of the
future. They were all of the present, of his doings, of his
adventures, of his travels, of what he had seen and done, forming a
kind of diary faithfully kept, but with a strange blindness in respect
of years to come. At one time he was in France, at another in Italy,
at another in Germany, at another in Russia.
"Mr. Seymour," he wrote, "has an insatiable thirst for travel, and
will start off at an hour's notice from one country to another, moved
seemingly by sudden impulses in which there appears to be an utter
lack of system. It is inconvenient, but of course I am bound to
accompany him; and there is, after all, in these unexpected
transitions a charm to me, who could never be accused of being
methodical. The serious drawback is that I am parted from you. What
pleasure it would give me to have you by my side! And you would be no
less happy than I."
Then would follow a description of the places they passed through and
stopped at, of people they met, and of small adventures which afforded
him entertainment, ending always with protestations of love, the
sincerity of which could not be doubted. But Mr. Loveday was never
anything than grave when Nansie read aloud to him extracts from her
husband's letters.
"Who is Mr. Seymour?" he asked.
"A gentleman," replied Nansie.
"What is he, I mean?" was Mr. Loveday's next question.
Nansie shook her head. "I have no idea."
"Has your husband any idea?"
"I suppose he has."
"You only suppose, Nansie."
"Yes, uncle, I can do nothing else, because Kingsley has never said
anything about it."
"Surely, if he really knew," persisted Mr. Loveday, "he would not be so
silent on the subject."
"Perhaps you are right, uncle; perhaps Kingsley does not really know."
"If Mr. Seymour were travelling with any specific object in view,
there would be no need for secrecy. Say that he were an enthusiast,
that he had a craze, no matter in what shape, he would not disguise
it."
"Certainly not, uncle. Mr. Seymour must be travelling simply for
pleasure."
"Which is not a simple matter, Nansie," observed Mr. Loveday, "when a
man runs after it. I can imagine few things more laborious and less
likely of a satisfactory result. Now, Nansie, what are your husband's
duties in his employment?"
"He does not say, uncle."
"Do you think he has any?"
"I suppose so."
"More supposings, Nansie."
"What else can I say, uncle?"
"Nothing, my dear, and I am to blame for worrying you. We will drop
the subject."
"No," said Nansie, earnestly, "please do not drop it."
"Why should we continue it, Nansie?"
"Because," replied Nansie, with a slight flush on her face, "I am
afraid you are doing Kingsley an injustice."
"I should be sorry to do that," said Mr. Loveday, very seriously.
"I know you would," responded Nansie, in a tone of affection, "and that
is why I want to set you right. You think that Kingsley is concealing
something from me. He is not; he loves me too well. You think that I
need some one to defend me. I do not. It is only when a person is
wronged or oppressed that he needs a defender. No one has ever wronged
or oppressed me. On the contrary, every one in the world is kind to
me--that is," she added hastily in correction, for she thought of her
husband's parents, "every one who knows me. Now you, uncle," she said,
wistfully and tenderly, "before I came here I dare say you had no
great regard for me."
"I had not, Nansie."
"It was only because you made a promise to my dear father out of your
kind heart, and because you are an honorable man who would not break
his word, that you welcomed me at first. And perhaps, too," her voice
faltered a little here, "because I resemble my mother, for whom you
had an affection."
She paused, uncertain whether she had gone too far; but he inclined
his head kindly towards her, and said,
"You are speaking justly, Nansie. Go on, if you have anything more to
say."
"Yes, uncle, I have something more to say. That was your feeling for
me at first; but since then--I say it humbly and gratefully--I have
been happy in the belief that I have learned something for myself."
"You have," said Mr. Loveday. "I love you, Nansie."
"It is so sweet to me to know it, dear uncle," said Nansie, with tears
in her eyes, "that I am enabled to bear Kingsley's absence--I hope and
pray it will not be for long--with courage and resignation. And
because of that, because of the love which unites us, you must think
well of Kingsley--you must think always well of him. Uncle, he is the
soul of honor, truth, and unselfishness. When he told me he loved me,
and asked me to marry him, he did not weigh the consequences, as
nearly every other man in his position would have done."
"He was rash," observed Mr. Loveday.
"Would you censure him for it? Did he not behave as an honorable,
noble-hearted man?"
"Undoubtedly. He has a worthy champion in his wife."
"Ah, but it would distress me immeasurably to feel that you believe he
needs a champion, or I a defender. You do not know him, uncle; when
you do you will not fail to love him. I do not say that he is worldly
wise, or quite fitted yet to battle with the future, but that it is
his earnest desire to fit himself for what I feel will be a great
struggle, and to perform his duty in a manly way. No man can do more,
and, whatever may be our future, I shall love and honor him to the
last."
"My dear Nansie," said Mr. Loveday, "say that you are partly right in
your views of my feelings for your husband; be content now to know
that you have won me over to his side."
"I am indeed content to know it, uncle."
"But should that deprive a man of his right to judge actions and
circumstances? We sometimes condemn those whom we love best."
"It should not deprive him of the right," replied Nansie, adding, with
what her husband would have told her was feminine logic, "but you must
not condemn Kingsley."
"I will not. I will apply ordinary tests. When he took the situation
with Mr. Seymour, did he know anything of his employer?"
"Nothing; but we were in great stress, and Kingsley was compelled to
take advantage of his opportunity."
"Admitting that. But a man must face his responsibilities, and
discharge them to the best of his ability."
"Yes, uncle, to the best of his ability."
"My dear, had you been a man, you would have made a very good special
pleader. To continue. What is your husband's salary?"
A look of distress was in Nansie's eyes, and she did not reply. "I
infer," said Mr. Loveday, replying for her, "that you do not know."
"I fear I do," said Nansie, in a low tone.
"Tell me, then."
"I fear, uncle, that there is no salary attached to the situation."
"But there should be?"
"Yes, there should be."
"Mr. Seymour, wishing to engage a gentleman as part companion and part
secretary, must have been prepared to enter into some kind of monetary
arrangement. Whose fault is it that the arrangement was not made? I
will reply for you again. It must have been Kingsley's fault. Not very
practical, Nansie."
"I am afraid, uncle," said Nansie, speaking slowly, and as though she
were about to commit an act of treason, "that Kingsley is not very
practical."
"But how is a man to get along in the world," said Mr. Loveday, with a
curious mixture of decision and helplessness, "who thus neglects his
opportunities? I am speaking entirely in a spirit of kindness,
Nansie."
"Yes, uncle, there's no occasion for you to remind me of that. But how
can you blame Kingsley? He meets Mr. Seymour as one gentleman meets
another. He is too delicate-minded to broach the subject of salary,
and perhaps Mr. Seymour forgets it."
"No, child, Mr. Seymour does not forget it. He takes advantage of your
husband, and the consequence is that he is using a man's services
without paying for them. And the consequence, further, is that
valuable time is being wasted and misspent. Two or three weeks ago you
commenced to read to me something in one of your husband's letters,
and you suddenly stopped and did not continue. It was about money. Am
I wrong in supposing that what you were about to read was in reply to
something you had written in a letter to your husband?"
"You are not wrong, uncle."
"Plainly, you asked him whether he could not send you a little money?"
"Yes."
"And that was his reply. I can judge what it was."
"Uncle, he had none to send. He is entirely dependent upon Mr.
Seymour."
"Who is not liberal?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Who is not only not liberal, but unjust?"
"But that is not Kingsley's fault," pleaded Nansie.
"I am not so sure. Child, child, you and your husband are like the
children in the wood, and you know their fate."
"I should be content," said Nansie, mournfully, for a moment
overwhelmed--only for a moment; her mood changed instantly, and with
indescribable tenderness she said: "But I want to live--to live!"
There was a new note in her voice, and in her eyes a dreamy look of
exquisite happiness which caused Mr. Loveday to wonder as he gazed
upon her. Never had she been so beautiful as she was at that moment.
In the expression on her face was something sacred and holy, and Mr.
Loveday saw that she was deeply stirred by emotions beyond his ken.
"Nansie!"
"Yes, uncle," said Nansie, awaking from her dream.
"You heard what I said?"
"Yes, uncle--but you must not blame Kingsley; you must not blame my
dear husband."
"I will not--strongly. Only I should like you to consider what would
have been your position if you had not found me in the London
wilderness, or, having found me, if I had proved to be hard-hearted
instead of a loving uncle."
"What is the use of my considering it," she asked, in a tone of tender
playfulness, "when I did find you, and when you proved yourself to be
the best of men? It would be waste of time, would it not? Confess
now."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Loveday, "I should almost be justified in
being cross with you if I did not suspect that any unreasonableness in
our conversation must spring from me, in consequence of my not being
familiar with the ways of women. But you shall not drive me completely
from my point. For your sake, Nansie, I regret that I am poor. I never
wished so much to be rich as I do at the present time. You are
attending to me, Nansie?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Has your husband sent you any money at all since he has been away?"
"None, uncle. He has not had it to send."
"Yet you are in need of a little?"
She looked at him, and her lips trembled slightly; and then again, a
moment afterwards, the same expression of dreamy happiness stole into
her face which he had observed before.
"Yes, uncle, a little, a very little. But I shall manage; I have
already earned a trifle."
"In what way?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.
"I got some needlework to do, and am being paid for it."
"But in the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Loveday,
"where and when do you do your work?"
"In my room of a night, uncle," replied Nansie, blushing.
"When we are all asleep," said Mr. Loveday, with the nearest approach
to a grumble she had heard from his lips. "This must not continue,
Nansie. You will do your work here of an evening and during the day,
if it is necessary."
"Yes, uncle, I will obey you. But--" her form swayed slightly, and she
was compelled to make an effort to keep herself from swooning--"you
must not be angry with me. I am not very strong just now."
She brought her work down, and went on with it before his eyes, and
there was perfect harmony between them. But still, in the stillness of
her room, when her uncle supposed her to be abed, her fingers were
busy in their labor of tenderest love.