From that day commenced for Nansie and her uncle the hard and bitter
battle of life. All that had gone before was light in comparison.
Without money, without friends in a position to give them practical
assistance, they had to depend upon themselves for the barest
necessities. Confident and hopeful as he was, Mr. Loveday found it
impossible to raise a new business out of the ashes of the fire which
had ruined him.
"I must begin again," he said.
Had any employment offered he would have accepted it, however
uncongenial it might have been; but nothing came his way. Golden
apples only fall to those who have already won fortune's favors. To
those most in need of them they are but visions.
He was not the kind of man to waste his time; besides, he knew how
precious it was. An idle day now would be inviting even harder
punishment in the future. As the mountain would not come to Mahomet,
Mahomet went to the mountain--that is, to a newspaper office, where he
laid out a shilling or two in fourth and fifth editions, and bravely
hawked his wares in the most likely thoroughfares. The day's labor
over, he found himself the richer by nineteen pence.
"Come now," he said to Nansie, gayly, "that is not so bad. In a little
while we shall grow rich."
His thought was, not that nineteen pence a day would make them rich,
but would keep the wolf from the door. Strange that in this the most
civilized of countries we should snatch a phrase pregnant with terror
from savage times and savage lands.
"The great difficulty," he said, "is my voice. Young rascals beat me
with their lungs. They ring out the news; I can but quaver out the
tempting morsels of murders and suicides. How I envy the youngsters!
Still I shall manage, I shall manage."
Both he and Nansie had secret thoughts which they kept from each
other.
"Three mouths to feed," thought Nansie. "It would be easier for him
had he but his own."
"She must not think she is a burden to me," thought Mr. Loveday, "or I
shall lose her."
He would have suffered anything to prevent a separation. Strong human
links grew out of her helplessness; he was Nansie's protector, and it
made him glad. In those early days of the new struggle she could do
nothing to help the home, which consisted of two very small rooms at
the top of a working-man's house. The fright of the fire had weakened
her, and weeks passed before she was strong enough to put her shoulder
to the wheel. Her uncle did not tell her of his visit to Kingsley's
father; silence was the truest mercy. And it happened that within a
very short time doubts of Kingsley's faithfulness and honesty rose in
his mind. The cause of this lay in the fact that from the day of the
fire no letter from Kingsley reached them. It made him indignant to
note Nansie's sufferings as day after day passed without news.
"Do you think the letters have miscarried?" she asked.
"Letters don't miscarry," replied Mr. Loveday.
She looked at him apprehensively; his voice, if not his words,
conveyed an accusation against the absent one.
"You believe he has not written," she said.
"I am sure he has not written," said Mr. Loveday.
"Then something must have happened to him," she cried. "He is ill and
penniless, and I cannot help him!"
"If I had but a magic ring," thought Mr. Loveday, but he said no word
aloud.
He reasoned the matter out with himself. On one side an innocent,
unworldly, trustful woman of the people; on the other, the son of a
man of fabulous wealth awakened from his dream. For this summer-lover,
here was a life of poverty and struggle; there, a life of luxury and
ease. To judge by human laws, or, rather, by the laws which governed
the class to which Kingsley Manners belonged, which path would the
young man choose? "It is more than likely," thought Mr. Loveday, "that
the scoundrel has made his peace with his father, and has resolved to
cast her off. But he is her husband"-- His contemplations were
suddenly arrested. Words uttered by Kingsley's father recurred to him.
"I speak of it as a marriage, although I have my reasons for doubting
whether it could have been legally entered into." What if there was
some foundation for these words? What if they were true? He did not
dare to speak to Nansie of this. She would have regarded it as base
and disloyal, and the almost certain result would have been to part
them forever. So he held his peace out of fear for himself, out of
pity for her.
Thus three months passed. Nansie had regained her physical strength,
but her heart was charged with woe.
"I cannot bear this suspense any longer," she said to her uncle. "I
will go to Kingsley's father, and ask him if he has received any news
of my husband."
Mr. Loveday did not attempt to dissuade her; he thought that good
might come of the visit, if only in the opening of Nansie's eyes to
Kingsley's perfidy, of which by this time he was fully convinced. He
did not offer to accompany her, knowing that it would lessen the
chances of Mr. Manners's seeing her.
She went early in the morning, and sent up her name to the great
contractor, and received his reply that he would not receive her.
She lingered a moment or two, and cast an imploring glance at the
man-servant as though it were in his power to reverse the fiat, but
the man looked impassively first at her, then at the door, and she
left the house.
What a grand, stately house it was! It almost made her giddy to look
to the top. She stood on the other side of the road, watching the door
through which she had just passed; her mind was made up to wait, and
at all risks to accost Mr. Manners when he came out. She had never
seen him, but she was sure she would know him when he appeared.
Kingsley had shown her the portrait of his father, and the likeness
between them would render mistake impossible. She wondered whether it
would have assisted her to bring her baby girl, and wondered, too, how
a man so rich and powerful as Mr. Manners could have the heart to
behave so harshly to his only child. She had gone no farther than the
entrance hall of the stately mansion, but the evidences of wealth
which met her eyes had impressed her more deeply than ever with the
sacrifice Kingsley had made for her sake. A sense of wrong-doing came
to her. She should not have accepted the sacrifice. She should have
thought of the future, and should not have allowed herself to be led
away by the impetuous passion of her lover. Even the duty she owed to
her dear father had been neglected, and she had taken the most solemn
step in life without consulting him. It was too late to turn back now,
but could she not atone for the wrong she had done? If she said to
Kingsley: "Dear husband, let us part; return to your father's home, to
your father's heart, and I will never trouble you more;" would he
accept the atonement? Would he, would he? A chill fell upon her heart,
like the touch of an icy hand, but the sweet remembrances of the past,
of the vows they had exchanged, of the undying love they had pledged
to each other, brought gleams of sunshine to her. Kingsley had thrown
in his lot with her for weal and woe. She would work, she would slave
for him, and he should never hear one word of complaining from her
lips. If only they were together again! They could be happy on a very
little; she would make him happy; she would be bright and cheerful
always, and he would draw gladness from her. Their baby was at home,
waiting for a father's kisses, for a father's love. If he needed a
stronger incentive to be true and faithful, he would find it in his
child. Upon the mere suggestion of this possibility she stood up in
defence of him. No stronger incentive was needed than the ties which
already bound them together. But where was he? What was the reason of
his long and heart-breaking silence?
She walked slowly up and down for an hour and more, never losing sight
of the door of the rich man's house. She was determined not to go away
without seeing him, if she had to remain the whole of the day. It was
a weary, anxious time, and it was fortunate for her that she had not
much longer to wait. The door opened, and Mr. Manners came forth.
How like he was to Kingsley!--only that his face was harder, and that
all that was gentle and tender in Kingsley's face was depicted in his
father's in hard, stern lines. But the likeness was unmistakable. He
stopped as she glided swiftly to his side and timidly touched his
sleeve.
"Well?"
His voice was as hard and stern as his face, and if she had not nerved
herself to her task the opportunity would have been lost.
"You would not see me when I called at your house, sir, and I took the
liberty of waiting for you here."
He did not ask who she was, and he showed no sign that he was touched
by her gentle, pleading manner.
"What do you want?"
"I came, sir, to ask if you had any news of"--she stopped short at the
name of Kingsley; he might have resented it as a familiarity--"of your
son."
"Why come to me?"
"I do not know, sir," said Nansie, humbly, "whether I dreaded or hoped
that you might relieve me of the trouble which is oppressing me; but
you may have heard from him lately."
"I have not heard from him."
"Do you know nothing of him, sir?"
"Nothing; nor do I wish to know. When he left my house he was aware
that the step he took put an end to all relations between us. I am not
a man to be turned from my purpose. He chose his course deliberately,
and set me at defiance."
"No, sir, no!" cried Nansie. "He had no thought of that."
"Words do not alter facts. He owed me a plain duty, and he ignored it
for a stranger. The lures you used to entangle and ruin him have
proved effectual. You led him on to his destruction, and you are
reaping what you have sown. Finish your errand."
"It is finished, sir," said Nansie, turning mournfully away. "I cannot
doubt that you have spoken truly, and that you have not heard from my
husband. The last time he wrote to me he was in sore distress, without
means to return home. I was in hopes that I should be able to send him
a little money, but my hope was destroyed by a calamity which beggared
the only friend I have."
"I have heard something in the same strain. You sent this only friend
to me."
"No, sir, I did not. Do you mean my uncle?"
"I mean him. He came to me, as you know, and asked me for a sum of
money to send abroad to my son."
"Indeed, indeed, sir, I did not know it."
"Which, doubtless," continued Mr. Manners, ignoring the contradiction,
"he would have pocketed, with the satisfactory thought that he had got
something out of me."
"You do my uncle great injustice, sir. He is noble and generous, and I
honor him with my whole heart."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Manners, and there was a deeper sternness in his
voice, "it is among the class to which you and he belong, and into
which you have dragged my son, that honor and nobility are to be
found. I have had experience of it. Once more, finish your errand."
"I have nothing more to say, sir. I fear to anger you."
"Your real purpose in seeking me was to beg for money."
"Indeed not, sir. I had no such purpose."
"And would not accept it if I offered it?"
"I cannot with truth say that, sir. We are so poor that the pride I
once had is broken. Pardon me if I say that I think you have no
intention of offering it."
"I have none."
She bowed, and crossed to the opposite side of the road; but before
she had gone a dozen yards she heard his voice accosting her.
"It is in my mind to say something to you."
She turned to him with a sudden hope. Had he relented? Had her
distress softened his heart towards her? A glance at his face
dispelled the hope. There was in it no sign of pity.
"Accompany me to my house," he said.
Bewildered and surprised she walked by his side in silence, and they
entered the mansion together.
"You would probably like," said Mr. Manners, "to have some better
knowledge than you at present possess of the position which, by his
disobedience and unfilial conduct, my son has forfeited."