History repeats itself. The fortunes of Timothy Chance were turned by
a fire--whether for good or evil, so far as regards himself, had yet
to be proved. He was to go through another experience of a similar
kind, in which, as on the first occasion, those who befriended him
were the greatest sufferers.
Nansie had to wait for more than a month before she received an answer
to her last letter from Kingsley. He and his employer, it appears, had
been continually on the move, and the letter which Mr. Loveday had
written to him could not have reached him. It was by a lucky chance
that Nansie's letter with the news that he was a father fell into his
hands after a long delay; and she gathered from his reply that some of
his own communications to her must have miscarried. This last letter
which she received was far from encouraging. It was in parts wild and
incoherent; the cheerfulness which had pervaded his previous missives
was missing; the writer seemed to be losing hope.
"I am learning some hard lessons," Kingsley wrote, "and am beginning
to doubt whether there is any truth or justice left in the world."
This was distressingly vague, for no explanation of Kingsley's moody
reflection was forthcoming. It did not even appear that he was drawing
consolation, as he had often done during his absence, from the thought
that Nansie was ever ready with open arms to comfort him.
"Instead of advancing myself," Kingsley wrote, "by the step I have
taken, I have thrown myself back. It is a miserable confession to
make, but there it is, and wherever I go I see, not the shadow, but
the actual presentments of misery and injustice. Can any man inform me
under what conditions of life happiness is to be found?"
As was to be expected, the letter was not wanting in affectionate
endearments and in expressions of joy at the birth of their child. "He
is miserable," thought Nansie, because we are not together. "When we
are once more united, will it be wise to consent to another
separation?" She felt that he had need for the companionship of a
stronger nature than his own, and she prayed for the time to come
quickly when she would be with him to keep his courage from fainting
within him.
The very next day she was comforted by the receipt of another letter
from Kingsley, in which was displayed his more cheerful, and perhaps
more careless characteristics.
"What could I have been thinking of," he said, "when I wrote you such
a strange, stupid letter as I did yesterday? I must have lost my wits,
and I hasten to atone for it by sending you another in a better and
more natural vein. Burn the first, my dear Nansie, so that it may not
be in existence to reproach me. A nice piece of inconsistency you have
married, my dear! I do not remember ever to have been so cast down as
I have been for two or three days past; but I should keep that to
myself, and not burden you with a share of my despondency. It has been
my habit always to look with a light spirit upon circumstances,
whether they were in my favor or against me; and if I am to replace
that by becoming savage and morose, I shall be laying up for myself a
fine stock of unhappiness. So I determine, for your sake and mine, and
for the sake of your dear little bairn, to whistle dull care away, and
to make the best of things instead of the worst. Here am I, then, my
usual self again, loving you with all my heart and soul, longing to be
with you, longing to hold our dear bairn in my arms, longing to work
to some good end. The question is, how to set about it, and what kind
of end I am to work for. There is the difficulty--to fall into one's
groove, as we have decided when we have talked about things, and then
to go sailing smoothly along. Yes, that is it, and we must set
ourselves to work to find out the way. I may confess to you, my dear
wife, that up to this point success has not crowned my efforts; in
point of fact, to put it plainly, I am thus far a failure. However, I
cannot see how I am to blame. If I had had the gift of prophecy I
should never have joined Mr. Seymour, but how was one to tell what
would occur? Now, my dear, you urge me to make some approaches to Mr.
Seymour with respect to money matters. Well, awkward as the position
is, I have endeavored to do so, but have never got far enough, I am
afraid, to make myself understood. My fault, I dare say, but just
consider. There is nothing of the dependent in my relations with Mr.
Seymour; he received me as an equal and we have associated as equals;
when we first met there was no question raised as to a salary, and
there has been none since. How, then, am I to go to him and say: 'You
are indebted to me in such or such a sum'? It would be so coarse, and
I do not see justification for it. If I have made a mistake I must
suffer for it, and must not call upon another person to do so for me.
That would not be consistent, or honorable, or gentlemanly. After all,
my dearest, the standard of conduct is not arbitrary. What it would be
right for Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith to do would not be right for me, and
the reverse. What is to be done, then? Having made a mistake, I am too
proud--perhaps not quite broken in yet--to get out of it in the most
honorable way I can. It is in my power to say to Mr. Seymour: 'A
thousand thanks for the pleasure you have afforded me and for the
courtesies you have extended towards me, but my time is precious, and
I must not keep away from my wife any longer.' That would be all
right, but to follow it up with a request for a loan to enable me to
get back to England would be so mean and coarse that I could never
bring my tongue to utter the words. Can you understand my position, my
darling? It is a humiliation to me to ask the question, but I am in a
cleft stick, and am positively powerless to help myself. What a pity,
what a pity that my original idea of living in a travelling caravan
could not be carried out! Do you remember that delicious evening,
dear? I should like to pass such another, and I dare say I should
commit myself again to the foolish wish that it would last forever.
"Now, my dearest, I am quite cheerful and light-hearted, but there is
something I must tell you. I must warn you first, though, that this is
a secret between ourselves; on no account must it be disclosed to your
uncle or to any other person. Much may hang upon it--I do not know
what; I prefer not to think; but at all events I must do nothing base
or treacherous. If confidence has been reposed in me I must not betray
it. But mark what I say, dear; it is only lately that I have come to a
knowledge or a suspicion of certain things, and no hint must escape me
of that knowledge or suspicion (it is a mixture of both) to any except
yourself.
"In speaking of Mr. Seymour you would naturally suppose that you were
speaking of an Englishman, the name being unmistakably English. But
Mr. Seymour is not an Englishman, and therefore the name must be
assumed. As to this I have no definite information, but it is so
certainly. It did not occur to me to mention to you that Mr. Seymour
was probably a foreigner, the matter seeming to be of such small
importance. He speaks English fluently, with the slightest accent;
speaks also French, German, Italian, and Russian, as to the precisely
correct accent of any one of which I am not a competent judge. I am
not given to curiosity, and have a habit of believing what I am told;
that is, I do not look much below the surface of things. Now, this may
lead a man into a scrape.
"Were I alone, without wife and child, I should, I dare say, allow
myself to drift according to circumstances, but I am bound to consider
you. Well, then, Mr. Seymour, with whose right name I am not
acquainted, has ideas with which I am not sure whether I agree; he has
a mission with which I am not sure whether I sympathize. There are
large movements in public affairs which require deep investigation
before one finally and firmly makes up one's mind. Take, for example,
the revolutionary movement--the idea that all people should be upon an
equality, the mission to bring this about. I had better not write to
greater length upon this theme. If you do not quite understand my
meaning I will explain it more fully when we are together again. In
saying that I am deeply anxious to get back to England soon, and that
I must by some means manage it, I am thinking more of you than of
myself. Shortly before writing the letter which I sent to you
yesterday, I allowed myself to be led away by certain disclosures
which were made to me for the purpose of binding me to a certain
course--Mr. Seymour and the friends he meets and makes thinking me
ripe for it, perhaps, and giving me credit for being cleverer than I
am; and it was an amateur enthusiasm which drove me to conclusions to
which I would prefer not to commit myself--again, more for you and our
dear little one's sake than for my own. There! The confession is made;
perhaps you can thread your way through my mysterious allusions. And
now, my darling--"
Then the letter went on, and was concluded with expressions of love
and tenderness, and occasional drifting into whimsical by-paths, in
which the nature of the old Kingsley Nansie loved so well was
faithfully depicted.
On that evening Nansie nerved her courage to speak to her uncle about
Kingsley's desire to return to England, and her own that he should do
so without delay.
"He is wasting his time," she said, "and cannot but feel it deeply
that I am living upon your kindness."
"To which you are heartily welcome, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.
"I know that, dear uncle; but is it as it should be?"
Without answering the question Mr. Loveday said: "Certainly it would
be better that your husband should be at some profitable work. It is a
pity, Nansie, that you did not marry a man who was accustomed to
work."
"It is not a pity, uncle. There is no better man in the world than
Kingsley."
"It was only a reflection of mine, my dear," said Mr. Loveday. "There
is no reason why Kingsley should not do well. But the getting back--"
"There is the difficulty, uncle," said Nansie, looking at him
anxiously; "the getting back to London, and the commencement of a
career."
"Well, my dear, we must do what we can. You would like to send him
sufficient to bring him from foreign lands into our happy family
circle. Understand, Nansie, that we are to live together. You have
made me so accustomed to you that if you were to leave my house you
would leave desolation behind you. I shall insist upon fair play.
Unfortunately, funds are rather low just now, but I will manage it.
Will ten pounds be enough?"
"I think it will, uncle. It must be as a loan, though we shall never
be able to repay you for what you have done."
"There is nothing to repay, Nansie; you have given me more than value.
Now we will shut up shop."
"So early?"
"Yes, if you want your husband back so quickly." He called Timothy,
and gave him instructions to close. "I know where I can sell a parcel
of books, and I must go and strike the bargain. I will take Timothy
with me. While we are gone, write to your husband, and tell him that
you will send him a draft for ten pounds to-morrow. Say, if you like,
that you have borrowed it from me; it will make him feel more
independent, and will show that he has a sincere friend in your old
uncle. There, my dear! there is nothing to make a fuss over. A nice
world this would be if we did not lend a helping hand to each other!"
While he was gone Nansie wrote her letter, and, baby being asleep,
ran out to post it. It was long since she had felt so happy and
light-hearted. Kingsley was coming back; her beloved husband would
soon be with them. Grave troubles had already entered into her life,
but they seemed to vanish as she dropped her letter into the
post-office box. All was bright again; Kingsley was coming back.
Returning, she related the good news to baby, and told her she must
put on her best looks to welcome her papa. "And how happy we shall be,
baby," she said, kissing the child again and again, "now and for
evermore! You see, baby, papa is never going away again; never!
never!"
The room in which she sat was the first floor front, looking out upon
Church Alley, and she saw a little ragged girl lingering outside.
The girl looked hungry, and Nansie, with her baby in her arms, ran
down-stairs, and from the house, and gave the poor girl two-pence,
which was all the money she had in her purse. The girl scudded away to
the cook-shop, and Nansie went back to her room.
"There are so many," she said, addressing the baby again, "so many
hundreds--ah! I am afraid, baby, so many thousands--worse off than we
are; ever so much worse off, my darling pet. For they haven't got
papa, have they? and they haven't got you! But the idea of my thinking
that we are anything but well off, when we are going to be as happy as
the days are long! I ought to be ashamed of myself, oughtn't I? You
mustn't tell papa that I ever had a thought of repining, or it would
grieve him. You must know, baby--I hope you are listening properly,
sweet, with your great beautiful eyes so wide open, and looking so
wise as you do--you must know, baby, that you have the very best and
noblest papa that a baby ever had or ever could have. And he is coming
home, and you must be very, very good, or you will frighten him away!"
Then she sang the child asleep, and sat in the dusk musing happily
with her baby in her lap.
Suddenly she started to her feet with a look of alarm. She smelled
fire. Snatching up her baby she ran into the rooms in which fires had
been burning, but all was safe there, and she saw no cause for alarm.
She was standing in the sitting-room looking about in her endeavor to
account for the smell when a cry of "Fire!" from the adjoining house
lent wings to her feet, and the next moment she was in the court, with
a number of people about her in a state of great excitement. As to the
cause of her alarm there was no doubt now. Tongues of flame darted
from the windows, and instantaneously, as it seemed, slid into Mr.
Loveday's, shop. Hustled this way and that, and pressing her baby
close to her breast, Nansie was so distracted that she could not
afterwards give an intelligible account of what she saw; except that
there appeared to be thousands of people thronging into Church Alley
and being thrust back by the police, that the air was filled with
flame and smoke and wild cries, that women were wringing their hands
and screaming that they were ruined, that fire-engines were dashing up
the narrow path, and firemen were climbing on to the roofs of the
houses, and that, turning faint and reeling to the ground, she was
caught by some humane person and borne to a safe house, where she and
her baby received attention. She was unconscious of this kindness for
some little while, and when she came to her senses Mr. Loveday and
Timothy were bending over her. Timothy's face was quite white, and he
was in a state of great agitation, but Mr. Loveday was composed and
grave. The people in the room were saying it was a shame that the
police would not allow him to go to his burning shop, but he, in
answer, said that they were right in preventing him.
"What good could I do?" he said. "I should only be a hinderance. My
great anxiety was for you, Nansie, and your baby, and when I heard you
were here I came on at once. You must have received a terrible fright,
my dear. You were not hurt, I hope?"
"No," she answered, she was not hurt, and she marvelled at his
composure. Some other person in the throng was commenting audibly upon
his calmness, and received for answer the reply from a neighbor that
Mr. Loveday must be well insured.
"No," he said, turning to the speakers, "I am not insured for a penny."
They were surprised to hear this bad news, and poured condolence upon
him.
"Uncle," whispered Nansie, pulling his head down to hers, "will it
hurt you very much?"
"That has to be seen, my dear," he replied, with a cheerful smile.
"Not in spirits," she continued, gazing at him in pity and admiration;
"I know now what real courage is. But in your business."
"If what I've heard is true," said Mr. Loveday, "I am being burned out
stock and block, and shall have no business left. In which case,
Timothy, you will lose a situation."
"Don't think of me, sir," said Timothy, ruefully. "Think of yourself."
"I shall have plenty of time to do that, my lad."
"This is the second time," said Timothy, "that I've been burned out of
a situation. I had better not take another. I do nothing but bring
misfortune upon my masters."
"Nonsense, Timothy, nonsense. It is the fortune of war, and we must
fight through these defeats as best we can."
He asked for the mistress of the house they were in, and inquired
whether she had a furnished room to let. There happened to be one
fortunately on the second floor, and Mr. Loveday at once engaged it,
and assisted Nansie up-stairs. They had hardly been in the room a
moment when the landlady appeared with a cradle for baby.
"It ain't mine," she observed; "Mrs. Smithson, next door, run and got
it for you. She's a good creature is Mrs. Smithson, and has had seven
of her own. She expects her next in about three weeks."
Nansie sent her thanks to Mrs. Smithson, and thanked the landlady
also.
"Oh, that's all right," said the landlady. "Mothers are mothers, you
know, and Mrs. Smithson is that fond of babies that it's my belief she
could live on 'em." In which description of Mrs. Smithson's fondness
for babies the landlady did not seem to consider that there was
anything at all alarming. "And look here, my dear," she continued,
"don't you take on. That's my advice--don't take on. The misfortune's
bad enough, but there's worse, a thousand times. I'll see that you're
nice and comfortable--and I say, Mr. Loveday, you can stop here a
fortnight for nothing, you not being insured, and being always so kind
and obliging to everybody. There's nobody better thought of than you,
and it's a pity we ain't all of us rich."
"A great pity," said Mr. Loveday, shaking the landlady's hand, "and I
am grateful to you for your offer; but I have no doubt we shall be
able to scrape up the rent. If you could make my niece a cup of tea
now."
"Ay, that I will," said the good woman, "and fresh, too, not the
leavings; and she'll take it from me as a compliment, won't you, my
dear?"
Nansie nodded with a cheerful smile, and the landlady, having leaned
over the baby and kissed it softly, and declared that it was the
sweetest, prettiest picture that ever was, departed to make the tea.
"That is the best of misfortunes like this," observed Mr. Loveday; "it
brings out the bright side of human nature. Sudden prosperity often
has the opposite effect."
"But is it true, uncle," said Nansie, "that you will lose
everything--everything?"
"There will in all probability be salvage," said Mr. Loveday,
thoughtfully, "worth a pound or two, perhaps; maybe less. I shall
prepare myself for the worst. Who is there?"
This was in response to a knock at the door, and Timothy presented
himself with four new-laid eggs.
"We will accept them, my lad," said Mr. Loveday. "How is the fire
getting on?"
"They've got tight hold of it now, sir," replied Timothy, "and it's
going down."
"And the shop, Timothy?" Timothy made no reply in words, but his face
told the rueful tale. "Eh, well, it can't be helped. I'll be out
presently and have a look round for myself. Yes," he continued, when
Timothy was gone, "I shall be prepared for the worst. Then all will be
profit that falls short of my anticipations. I might worry myself by
lamenting that I did not get insured, but it would do no good. Let me
get it over by declaring that it was a piece of inconceivable folly to
neglect so necessary a safeguard. The mischief is that I seldom if
ever kept a balance in cash. As fast as it came in I spent it in fresh
stock; it was a mania of mine, and I have paid for it. I shall have to
commence the world over again, that is all. Nansie, my dear, I regret
what has occurred for your sake; it will, I fear, prevent my doing
what I wished. We will not have anything hang over; it will be wisest
to speak of what is in our minds. Did you write to your husband?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Is your letter posted?"
"Yes."
"Well, it cannot be recalled. If you will give me his address I will
write to him before I go to bed, and make him acquainted with the
calamity which has overtaken us. I think, Nansie, that I have learned
something of your character since you came to me, and I give you
credit for possessing courage."
"I am not easily daunted, uncle. We are all of us learning lessons as
we pass through life."
"They come in different shapes to different persons, and those are
wise who can profit by experience. Some persons are overwhelmed by
visitations of trouble; to some they impart new strength and vigor.
Let this be the case with us; let us resolve not to be cast down, but
to be up and doing with the best courage we can summon to our aid. It
is a matter for thankfulness that bodily we are uninjured, and that
baby is safe and well."
"You are a true comforter, dear uncle," said Nansie, pressing his
hand.
"We might continue talking for hours, and could add little more to
what we have already said and resolved. Here is our good friend, the
landlady, with the tea. I will leave you together, and go and see how
things are getting on."
"There are three houses gutted, they say," said the landlady, "yours
and the one on each side of it. It is a mercy the whole alley isn't
down."
"It is, and I am glad for those who have escaped."
"Don't go without a cup of tea, Mr. Loveday," said the landlady; "I've
brought up one for you. I thought you would prefer it in your own
room, my dear," she said, addressing Nansie, "there's such a lot of
gossiping going on down-stairs. Ah, that's sensible of you"--as Mr.
Loveday took the cup of tea she poured out for him--"there's nothing
like keeping up your strength. _You_ must think of that, my dear,
because of your baby. Half the neighborhood wanted to come up and see
you, but I wouldn't let 'em. If I put my foot down upon one thing more
than another, it's gossiping. They've found out how the fire occurred,
Mr. Loveday."
"How was it?"
"It was that new lodger the Johnsons took in last week. He takes the
room and keeps to it, and isn't known to do a stroke of work; he does
nothing but drink. There was a lamp alight on the table, and some
papers about. What does he do but upset the lamp, and then run away.
He's drinking now at the 'Royal George.'"
"He was not hurt, then?"
"Not him! He had sense enough to run. Not that he could have done much
good by stopping! But what I say is, he ought to be punished for it."
"So ought all confirmed drunkards. Fires are not the only mischief
they cause. They break hearts and ruin useful lives. I will not be
long, Nansie."
"What a man he is!" exclaimed the landlady, gazing after him
admiringly. "There ain't another like him in all Whitechapel. Don't
cry, my dear, don't cry; it won't be good for baby. With such a friend
as your uncle, everything's sure to come right!"