CHAPTER XVIII
Some indication has been given of the success of Timothy Chance's service with Mr. Loveday. There are men, like Kingsley Manners, who, being suddenly thrust upon the world to shift for themselves, find themselves plunged into a sea of difficulties, extrication from which is impossible except by some unexpected windfall of fortune. There are others who are so well armed for difficulties that the encountering of them serves as an incentive and a spur. What depresses one elevates the other; what makes one despondent makes the other cheerful. It is chiefly a matter of early education, in which adversity is frequently a factor for good. Partly, also, it is a matter of adaptability.
It may be taken for granted that wherever Timothy Chance fell he would fall upon his feet, and that he would be among the first to take advantage of an opportunity. A hard-working, faithful servant, but with an eye to his own interests. It is running far ahead of events to state that when he was a middle-aged man, with a house of his own, there stood upon a bracket in his private room the image of a hen fashioned in gold-a valuable ornament; for the gold was of the purest, and the bird was of life-size; and that the sense of possession imparted a satisfaction to Timothy Chance far beyond its value. He amused himself by the fancy that the fowl of gold was an exact reproduction of the living fowl which he had rescued from the fire in the schoolhouse, and which had laid an egg in Mr. Loveday's shop on the day of Timothy's return to London. The goose of the fable that laid golden eggs was an insignificant bird in comparison with Timothy Chance's first fowl. There was at first a difficulty respecting its habitation. Mr. Loveday's shop had no backyard, and for the sake of cleanliness it could not be kept in the house. There were, however, plenty of backyards in the immediate vicinity of Church Alley, and to the proprietor of one of these Timothy betook himself, arranging to pay rent in kind, that is to say (for we are approaching legal ground), one new-laid egg per week, or, in default, its full retail value, seven farthings. For it was not long before Timothy discovered that he could dispose of a limited number of new-laid eggs-the day of laying being guaranteed-to private persons at that rate per egg. Timothy's hen was certainly a wonderful layer; during the first thirty-one days of its tenancy of the Whitechapel backyard it laid no fewer than twenty-six eggs, which, deducting five for rental, left twenty-one to the good. A retired butterman, who should undoubtedly have been a good judge, engaged to take them all at the price above mentioned, and at the end of the month the account stood thus:
This is a precise copy of the account made out by Timothy Chance, on the termination of the month; and with the figures, clear and well-shaped, before him, Timothy devoted himself to thought. His service with the seller of second-hand books had served him in good stead. He had rummaged out from among the stock at least a score of books treating of fowls and their produce, and he had studied them attentively. Some were old, one or two were of late years, and they all pointed to one fact-that money was to be made out of eggs. Most of the writers deplored the fact that the English people were so blind to their own interests as to systematically neglect a subject so fruitful. One of the treatises dealt in large figures-to wit, the population of Great Britain, and the number of eggs by them consumed annually; further, the number of eggs laid in the kingdom, and the number we were compelled to import to satisfy the demand, amounting not to scores but to hundreds of millions. Timothy's eyes dilated. One daring enthusiast went so far as to print pages of statistics to prove that if government took the affair in hand it could, in a certain number of years (number forgotten by the present chronicler), pay off the national debt. This, perhaps, was too extravagant, but the fact remained, and appeared incontrovertible, that money was to be made out of eggs. Here was plain proof-one shilling and ninepence farthing made out of one hen in a single month.
"Let me see," mused Timothy, "how this turns out for a year."
Down went the figures.
For a moment he forgot the rent, but he remembered it before he went into the credit side, and he reckoned it at a penny a week, which made the total expenses £1 2s. 6½d.
Timothy was aware that he could not reckon upon an egg a day all through the year, but his reading-up on the subject, and the calculations he had made, convinced him that a fair-laying hen might be depended upon for two hundred and forty eggs during the three hundred and sixty-five days.
"At three-halfpence each," he mused, and set down the figures, "that will bring in thirty shillings. Say it brings in only twenty-eight shillings, and make the total charges one pound four, and there remains a clear profit of four shillings for the year. Then the fowl itself, supposing I sell it at the end of the year, is worth at least a shilling. A profit of five shillings on one hen. On twenty, a profit of five pounds; on a hundred, a profit of twenty-five pounds; on a thousand, a profit of two hundred and fifty pounds."
The figures almost took his breath away. Let it be understood that Timothy's reflections and calculations are here pretty accurately reported. He continued. So large a number of eggs would have to be sold wholesale, and three-halfpence each could not be reckoned upon, but then the rent would be much less, and the cost of food much less; and there were other ideas floating in his mind which he could not formulate, and about which there was no cause for his troubling himself just at present.
"Mr. Loveday," said he to his employer, "if a speculation is entered into in a small way and leaves a small profit, would it not leave a larger profit if entered into in a large way?"
"That," replied Mr. Loveday, "stands to reason. What is your head running on, Timothy?"
"Eggs, sir," said Timothy.
Mr. Loveday stared at him for a few moments without speaking.
"That is what you have been studying books on poultry for?" he said, presently.
"Yes, sir."
"Well," said Mr. Loveday, after another pause, "there's something in eggs, I dare say. Some of the peasantry in France make quite an income out of them; our own poor country-folk are not so far-seeing."
"What can be done in France," said Timothy, patriotically and sententiously, "can be done in England."
"Don't be too certain of that," said Mr. Loveday. "They grow grapes in France and make wine. We don't."
"That is a matter of climate," remarked Timothy. "Fowls lay eggs in every country in the world, and once laid, there they are."
"To be sure," said Mr. Loveday, staring at his assistant, "there they are."
"Anyhow," said Timothy, "nothing can alter that what will pay in a small way ought to pay in a large; can it, sir?"
"The conclusion appears sensible and reasonable. I suppose you have made something out of your fowl?"
"Nearly two shillings in the month, sir."
"Not at all bad," said Mr. Loveday, "not at all bad. You must take the breed into account."
"Black Hamburgs, sir, that's the breed for eggs."
"Dorkings, I should say," suggested Mr. Loveday.
"Black Hamburgs will beat them, sir," said Timothy, confidently; and Mr. Loveday, feeling that he was on unsafe ground, wisely held his tongue.
Timothy had saved between five and six shillings out of his wages, and he expended the whole of his savings in putting up a rough fowl-house, and in the addition of a black Hamburg to his live-stock. He began to feel like a proprietor.
"Slow and sure, you know, Timothy," advised Mr. Loveday.
"Yes, sir, and thank you," said Timothy. "I will endeavor not to make mistakes."
"We shall have you chancellor of the exchequer in course of time," said Mr. Loveday, in a tone by no means unkindly.
"I shall be content to earn a living, sir," said Timothy, modestly; and rejoiced largely when he showed his employer two new-laid eggs in one day.
CHAPTER XIX
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.