An hour later, when Mr. Loveday returned home, Nansie, who had been
listening for his footsteps, went out to meet him. Even in the dark
he, with love's keen sight, observed that something of a pleasant
nature had occurred.
"Good news, Nansie?"
"Speak low, uncle. Yes, good news. He has come home."
"Kingsley?"
"Yes, uncle. He is asleep with the baby by his side. He is very, very
tired."
"How did it happen? How did he find you out?"
"It must have been almost by chance. I was out making some little
purchases, when I suddenly heard a voice behind me saying, quite
naturally, 'It is Nansie!' Turning, I saw him, not clearly at first,
because I was almost blind with joy. You must be very gentle with him,
uncle."
"I will, my dear; but there is something in your voice--gentle for any
especial reason?"
"Yes, for a special reason, which you will more fully discover for
yourself. I am glad that I have seen you before he meets you; it will
be better that you should be prepared."
"Prepared for what, my dear?"
"Kingsley is laboring under an impression that he has been away from
us but a very short time. What we know to be real he believes to be
fancies. He has made no reference to his travels abroad with Mr.
Seymour, nor to the railway accident in which he was injured. He
speaks of dreams, and even then not clearly. It is difficult for me to
make myself understood--"
"Not at all, Nansie; I think I understand. The accident he met with
has affected his memory; but it is good that he is with us now. We can
take care of him, we can nurse him back to strength and health."
"How kind you are, uncle! Never thinking of yourself!"
"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! It is entirely of myself that I am
thinking, for I would not lose you and your dear ones for all the
money the world contains. That is putting a small value upon money,
though. I wish we had a little."
In his mind was the thought, "We need it all the more now," but he did
not give the thought utterance.
"Is he low-spirited, despondent, Nansie?"
"No, uncle, quite the contrary. He is as light-hearted and gay as
ever, and speaks in the same sweet, hopeful strains of the future, his
anticipations of which led him into the error of--"
She stopped short; she did not complete the sentence. Her uncle
completed it for her.
"Of marrying you, my dear. Do not regret it; accept it as a blessing,
as it really is. Short-sighted mortals as we are to so constantly
forget that life is short, and that its sweetest happiness is to be
found in self-sacrifice--even, Nansie, in suffering!"
They entered the room together, and found Kingsley awake. He rose when
his eyes lighted upon Mr. Loveday, and, with a bright smile, said:
"Nansie's uncle?"
"Yes, Kingsley," said Mr. Loveday.
And Nansie raised her uncle's hand to her lips, and kissed it in
grateful recognition of the affectionate greeting.
"Now," said Kingsley, to whom strength seemed to have really returned;
he held out his hand, and retained Mr. Loveday's in his as he
spoke--"now what could be pleasanter, what could be brighter and more
full of promise? Here, for the first time, we meet, and I recognize in
you a friend. Believe me, sir, when I say a friend, it is said once
and forever; it is _meant_ once and forever. I am no butterfly, eh,
Nansie?"
"No, dear Kingsley," she replied, pressing close to him.
He passed his arm round her.
"No butterfly," continued Kingsley, "except in the way of conversation,
but that you will find out for yourself. I fly from one theme to
another in the most inconsequential manner. A bad habit, sir, if it
really meant anything serious, but it does not, and I have here by my
side a spiritual support"--he kissed Nansie--"which never fails to
recall me to the straight line at the precise and proper moment--as it
does now; for looking at her, I am reminded of all we owe to you. Let
me thank you in our joint names. I will not say that I hope to live to
repay the debt, because there are some debts which it is good never to
repay, and this is one. It is sometimes most ungracious to
deliberately cancel an obligation."
"The debt is on my side, Kingsley," said Mr. Loveday, greatly won by
the returned wanderer's speech and manner. "Nansie has brightened my
life."
"She could do no less," said Kingsley, in a tone of grave and tender
affection, "to the life of any person who has the happiness to know
her."
Upon the invitation of Mr. Loveday, who knew, now that Kingsley had
joined them, that certain changes were necessary in their domestic
arrangements, and that Nansie could more readily effect them if she
were left alone, the two men went out for a stroll. They returned
after an absence of a couple of hours, and Kingsley presented Nansie
with a few simple flowers, saying as he did so: "Our honeymoon is not
yet over, my love."
Presently Kingsley, who, it was apparent, needed repose, was induced
to retire to his bed. No sooner had he laid his head upon the pillow
than he was fast asleep. Nansie and her uncle sat together in the
adjoining room, and conversed in low tones.
"It is as you say," observed Mr. Loveday, "he appears to have no
memory--that is, no absolute, dependable memory--of what has
transpired from the time he left you. I have not directly questioned
him, feeling that it might not lead to a good result, and that he is
not yet strong enough to bear even a slight shock; but indirectly I
threw out a veiled suggestion or two, and his responses have convinced
me of his condition. He has a vague impression of a railway accident
in which some person whom he knew was killed, and some person whom he
knew was injured, but he does not associate either the one or the
other directly with himself. You will not mind my mentioning
something, my dear, because in our position there must be between us
no concealment. Kingsley has no money, not a penny."
"It is as I expected, uncle; but how did you discover it? Did he say
so?"
"No, my dear, it came when he paused before a woman who was selling
flowers. He put his hands into his pockets, and was, I think, more
perplexed than distressed. 'Now this is too bad,' he remarked, and I,
divining, paid the woman for the flowers he selected. It is wonderful
to me how, circumstanced as he is, he managed to make his way home."
"Providence directed him, and protected him," said Nansie, devoutly,
"and will surely smooth the path before us."
"With all my heart I hope so," responded Mr. Loveday; "meanwhile,
until the better fortune smiles upon us, we must work all the harder,
and bring our best courage to bear upon the present."
Their conversation was interrupted by a gentle tapping at the door,
and, opening it, they saw Timothy Chance, who had a covered basket on
his arm which he laid upon the floor, and then respectfully greeted
Mr. Loveday and Nansie, who, however, would not be content with this,
but shook hands heartily with him.
A word of explanation as to Timothy's movements will here be useful.
They had not seen him since within a fortnight of the fire which had
plunged them so low. When he was convinced that there was no present
hope of Mr. Loveday being able to re-establish his business, he had
looked out for a situation in the immediate neighborhood, in order
that he might be near the friends to whom he was so devotedly
attached. But his efforts were not successful; no situation presented
itself which he could accept, and as he was driven by necessity, which
knows no law, he was compelled to avail himself of an engagement in
the country some fifteen miles away, which offered itself in the nick
of time. What eventually transpired will be best related in his own
words.
"You thought I'd forgotten you, sir," he said to Mr. Loveday.
"No, my lad, I did not think that. My thought was that you had not
been fortunate, and that you kept away out of consideration for us."
"Thank you, sir. You have a happy way of saying things. True, too,
because I was not very fortunate at first; but there has been a turn
in the wheel."
"A good turn, Timothy, I hope?"
"It will prove so, sir, if I have a head upon my shoulders; always
trusting that there are no more fires."
"Ah," said Mr. Loveday, "we have had enough of those experiences."
"Yes, that we have, sir," responded Timothy, gravely; "but what I say
is, 'Never despair.' I have not neglected my studies, sir, and I can
give you the Latin words if you like--'_Nil desperandum_.'"
Timothy said this proudly, and with a bright eye.
"Good lad," said Mr. Loveday. "It is not in you to despair, Timothy.
You are the stuff that men are made of, and will run ahead of all of
us."
"Never so far ahead, sir," said Timothy, wistfully, "that I shall lose
sight of the best friends a poor boy ever had; but that sounds like
boastfulness."
"Not at all, Timothy, not at all. You speak with as much modesty as
resolution. This turn in the wheel, my lad--what kind of a turn?"
"I think, sir," said Timothy, with a gay laugh, "that you could guess
in once."
Mr. Loveday glanced at the basket on the floor, and made a guess in
merry mood, for Timothy's blithe spirits were contagious.
"Eggs, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir," said Timothy, laughing again; "you have guessed it in
once--eggs. But before I tell you about it"--he turned to Nansie--"how
is baby?"
"Thriving beautifully, Timothy," replied Nansie.
"May I see her?" he asked.
"Wait a moment," said Nansie, and she went to the inner room, where
baby was lying in her cradle. Returning, she said: "Yes, you may see
her; but you must be very quiet. Do not make the least noise, and
don't be surprised at what you see. My dear husband is home."
A bright light came into Timothy's face.
"I am glad," he said, "for your sake and baby's."
He stepped softly into the bedroom, accompanied by Nansie, and stood
in silence for a few moments, gazing affectionately at the sleeping
child.
"May I kiss her?" he said.
"Yes, Timothy, but very, very softly."
With the gentleness of a woman he stooped and kissed the child, and
then came back with Nansie to the sitting-room, closing the door
softly behind him.
"Eggs, as you say, sir," he recommenced, taking up the business part
of the conversation where it had broken off. "You know that I had to
sell off my little stock of fowls here, so that I might get to the
situation I heard of. It wasn't a very good one, and it wasn't a very
bad one; I had to work hard, which is a thing I shall never complain
of, and although, besides my grub, I got very little a week, I managed
to save a little out of that. Well, sir, six weeks ago I had two
laying hens, and there I was established again in a small way, doing
business for myself outside the hours I had to work for my employer.
Then came a bit of good-fortune, the turn in the wheel I spoke of. Not
far from my place lives a blacksmith, and to him I've been going of a
night for a little while past, teaching him to write a bit, teaching
him to read a bit, and reading books to him myself that made him laugh
and cry. He gets fond of me and we get talking together, especially
about eggs. Says I, 'There's a fortune in eggs.' Says he, 'Is there?'
Says I, 'No doubt of it.' And three weeks ago--that is, you know,
three weeks after I had set up in business again with my two fowls--I
put it all down in figures one night, and we went into it seriously.
'It seems all right,' says he. 'It is all right,' says I. 'Supposing
you have not made a mistake,' says he, 'and that you are not being
deceived by sparks.' He was hammering away on his anvil, and the
sparks were flying up. 'Supposing that,' says he, 'and they are very
deceptive creatures--sparks--bright as stars one moment, dead as
ghosts the next, how much would it take to start the business?'
'First,' says I, 'there's the ground.' 'I've got that,' says he, 'at
the back of the forge; an acre and a half.' 'Then,' says I, 'there's
timber for fowl-houses, say enough for thirty to commence with.' 'I've
got that,' says he, 'lying idle on the waste ground behind.' 'And
nails you've got,' says I. You see, sir, I was speaking with
confidence, and rather boldly, because a voice was whispering to me,
'Here's your chance, Timothy.' 'And tools to work nails and timber
with,' says I. 'Labor will cost nothing; I should be carpenter and
builder.' 'Should you?' says he, 'and I could give you a hand. But an
acre and a half of ground and any amount of timber and nails won't lay
eggs. Come to the grip--how much money to bring that about?' 'Ten
pounds will be ample,' says I. 'I've got that,' says he, 'and more at
the back of it. Say ten pounds then.' 'Do you mean it?' says I, my
heart almost jumping out of my body. 'I never say what I don't mean,'
says he, 'though I don't always say what I do. It is agreed, Timothy,
that we go into partnership; rent of ground to be reckoned, nails and
tools to be reckoned, timber to be reckoned, and ten pounds to be
reckoned, as the capital of the firm. The sooner you start, the
better.' I think you know enough of me, sir," continued Timothy,
glowing, "to know that I didn't waste an hour. Waste an hour! I didn't
waste a minute; and before that week was over the fowl-houses were up,
not far away from the forge--because warmth, sir, is a good thing for
laying hens--and there was a stock of thirty black Hamburgs to start
with. Now, sir and Mrs. Manners, we have been in business just one
fortnight, and everything is going on swimmingly. My partner says he
never saw such fowls, and says I deal in magic; but the only thing I
deal in, sir, is common-sense. So, being fairly started on my way, and
having something good to tell, I burned to come and tell it to the
friends I honor most; and now I must go. I have to get back to-night;
but perhaps you will let me come to see you again."
"Indeed, we shall be delighted to see you at any time, Timothy," said
Nansie, for he looked at her for an answer. "No one is more rejoiced
at your good-fortune, and at the prospect before you, than ourselves."
"I know that," said Timothy. "Good-night, and God bless you."
"Your basket, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday.
"Oh, if you will excuse me, sir, it is yours, and not mine. I have
brought it for you, and I hope you will not take it amiss." And off
Timothy went, without another word.
Opening the basket when he was gone, they took out a score of new-laid
eggs and a young fowl trussed for roasting. Tears came into Nansie's
eyes.
"Did I not say, uncle," she murmured, "that Providence will smooth the
path before us?"