CHAPTER XXV
He conducted her through some of the principal apartments, which had been furnished and decorated in a princely style. The pictures, the sculptures, the bric-à-brac were of the choicest character. Her feet sank in the thick, soft carpets, and her heart fainted within her as she followed Mr. Manners through the sumptuously appointed rooms. He paused before one, and, throwing open the door,
"You may enter; it was my son's bedroom."
"She obeyed him, a rush of tears almost blinding her; Mr. Manners remained outside. She saw, not a bedroom, but a suite of rooms luxuriously furnished; a library of costly books; rare old engravings on the walls; a bath-room fitted up with all the newest appliances; everything that money could purchase to make a man's life pleasant and devoid of care. She remained there but a short time; the contrast between these rooms and the miserable attics which she and her uncle occupied, and to which she hoped to welcome Kingsley, appalled her. When she rejoined Mr. Manners in the passage he led her down-stairs and ushered her into his study.
"You may sit down," he said.
She was tired, wretched, and dispirited, and she accepted the ungracious invitation.
"I am not in the habit of boasting of my wealth," he said; "what you have seen affords proof of it. And all that you have seen, with means sufficient to keep it up ten times over, would have been my son's had you not marred his career. I will not do you an injustice; you have surprised me; I thought that my son had taken up with a common, vulgar woman; I find myself mistaken."
Again animated by hope, she looked up; again her hope was destroyed by the stern face she gazed upon.
"It is because I see that you are superior to what I anticipated that I am speaking to you now. Doubtless my son has informed you that, by my own unaided exertions, I have raised myself to what I am." She bowed her head. "The pleasure of success was great, and was precious to me, not so much for wealth itself, but for a future I had mapped out, in which my son was to play the principal part. With him absent, with him parted from me, this future vanishes, and I am left with the dead fruits of a life of successful labor. Who is to blame for this?"
She held up her hands appealingly, but he took no notice of the action.
"You are therefore my enemy, and not only my enemy, but my son's. With my assistance, with my wealth and position to help him, he would have risen to be a power in the land. You have destroyed a great future; you have deprived him of fame and distinction; but there is a remedy, and it is to propose this remedy to you that I invited you into my house. Your speech is that of an educated person, and you must be well able to judge between right and wrong. What your real character is I may learn before we part to-day. I will assume, for instance, that you are nothing but an adventuress, a schemer-do not interrupt me; the illustration is necessary to what I have to say. You may be nothing of the kind, but I assume the possibility to give force to a statement I shall make without any chance of a misunderstanding. It is this. Assuming that you played upon my son's feelings because of my being a rich man, in the expectation that, if not at once, in a little while I should open my purse to you, it will be well for you to know that there is not the remotest possibility of such an expectation being realized. Do you understand?"
She did not reply in words; the fear that she might further anger him kept her silent; she made a motion which he interpreted into assent, and accepting it so, continued:
"Assuming, on the other hand, that you did not weigh the consequences of your conduct, and that you had some sort of a liking for my son-"
"I truly loved him, sir," she could not refrain from saying.
"It shall be put to the proof. If you love him truly you will be willing to make a sacrifice for him."
"To make him happy," she said, in a low tone, "to bring about a reconciliation between you, I would sacrifice my life."
"But it is not yours to sacrifice. Something less will do. On one condition, and on one condition only, will I receive and forgive my son."
And then he paused; it was not that the anguish expressed in her face turned him from his purpose, but that he wished her to be quite calm to consider his proposition.
"I am listening, sir."
"The condition is that you shall take a step which shall separate you from my son forever."
"What step, sir?"
"There are other lands, far away, in which, under another name, you can live with your uncle. You shall have ample means; you shall have wealth secured to you as long as you observe the conditions; you shall not be interfered with in any way; you will be able to live a life of ease and comfort-"
He did not proceed. There was that in her face which arrested his flow of language.
"Is Kingsley to be consulted in this, sir?"
"To be consulted? Certainly not. He is not to know it."
"Shall I be at liberty to write and tell him that it is for his good I am leaving him?"
"You will not be at liberty to communicate with him in any way, directly or indirectly."
"He is, then, to suppose that I have deserted him?"
"He is to suppose what he pleases. That will not be your affair."
Indignation gave Nansie courage. "Is it to be yours, sir?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Manners, frowning.
"That you will have the power to invent some story to my discredit, and that your son shall be made to believe I am not worthy of him. That is my meaning, sir."
"Do you think you are serving him or yourself by the tone you are adopting?" asked Mr. Manners, rising from his chair.
It was an indication to Nansie, and she obeyed it, and stood before him.
"I have not thought of that, sir; I am thinking only of what is right. Forgive me for having intruded myself upon you, and allow me to leave you. If your son is living-sometimes, in my despair, I fear the worst, he has been so long absent-and returns home, perhaps you will inform him of the proposition you have made to me, and of the manner in which I received it."
"That is a threat that you will do so."
"No, sir, it is not; he will hear nothing from me. Heaven forbid that by any future act of mine I should help to widen the breach between you? Good-morning, sir."
She did not make her uncle acquainted with what had passed between Mr. Manners and herself; she simply said that Mr. Manners had refused to see her, that she had waited for him in the street, and that she had learned from him that he had not heard from Kingsley.
"Did he speak kindly to you?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"No; he is bitterly incensed against me, and looks upon me with aversion. If I had ever a hope that he would relent towards us it is gone now forever. Uncle, is it my fancy that you are looking strangely at me?"
"Your fancy, my dear," replied Mr. Loveday, with a smile which he endeavored to make cheerful. "Why should I look strangely at you? Your interview with Mr. Manners has unnerved you."
"Yes," said Nansie, "it must be so. When Kingsley returns he must not know of my visit to his father. It will make him angry and uncomfortable."
"I shall not tell him, my dear," said Mr. Loveday.
CHAPTER XXVI
When Kingsley returns! Nansie suppressed a sigh as she uttered the words; but the unspoken thought was in her mind: "Would he ever return?" She flew to her baby as to a refuge and a sanctuary, but her heart was very heavy.
It was not her fancy that her uncle had looked strangely at her, and he had not behaved ingenuously in his reply to her question. He had deep cause for uneasiness, and his duty seemed to lie, for the present, in the effort to keep her in ignorance of ominous news which had come to his knowledge during her visit to Kingsley's father.
On the previous day, in the last edition of the papers he sold in the streets, he noticed a paragraph to which he had paid no particular attention. It was simply the record of an accident on a German railway, in which ten persons had been killed and considerably more than that number seriously hurt. No particulars were given, and no names were mentioned. In the first edition of this day's evening papers Mr. Loveday read the following:
"Further particulars have reached us of the railway accident in Germany, but its precise cause still remains unexplained. It appears that the train was conveying nearly two hundred travellers, of whom ten met their death, as was stated yesterday, and twenty-three were seriously injured. Among the dead was a gentleman of the name of Seymour, who was accompanied by Mr. Manners, who is supposed to have been travelling with Mr. Seymour as a kind of companion or secretary. These two are the only English names in the list given of killed and wounded. Mr. Manners is one of those who were seriously injured; he lies now in a precarious state, which precludes the possibility of any information being obtained from him which would enable the authorities to communicate with his relatives or the relatives of Mr. Seymour. As to the latter, however, some important discoveries have already been made, through documents found upon his person. Reticence has been observed in making these particulars public, but sufficient is known to warrant the statement that, despite the English name under which he travelled, he is by nationality a Russian, and that he occupied a position of responsibility in a certain secret revolutionary society whose aim it is to spread discontent and disaffection among the working classes on the Continent."
It was this paragraph which caused Mr. Loveday so much anxiety. There could be no mistake that the Mr. Manners referred to was Nansie's husband; the association of his name with that of Mr. Seymour rendered this a certainty, and it appeared to Mr. Loveday that the personal injuries he had met with in the railway accident were not the only dangers which threatened him. Mr. Loveday could not immediately make up his mind whether it would be wise to acquaint Nansie with what had come to his knowledge. It was very unlikely that she would otherwise hear of it, for the reason that she never read the newspapers; in the neighborhood in which they lived an accident so remote would pass unnoticed, and thus it would not be difficult to keep her in ignorance of her husband's peril. Kingsley's father could not have known anything of this when he and Nansie were together or he would undoubtedly have made some reference to it.
What was best to be done? That was the question which was perplexing Mr. Loveday. To take any practical step was out of his power, because that would entail the expenditure of money which he did not possess. He and Nansie were living now literally from hand to mouth; the day's earnings sufficed for bare daily food; they had not a shilling to spare from the inexorable necessities of existence. To make another appeal to Mr. Manners would be worse than useless; it would bring fresh insults and revilings upon them from the stern millionaire, whose heart was steeled against the calls of common humanity. Thus did he argue with himself as to the good that would be done by making the disclosure to Nansie; it would but intensify the sorrow caused by Kingsley's silence into a torture which would be unendurable. If any useful end could have been served by letting Nansie into the secret of her husband's peril Mr. Loveday would not have hesitated to inform her of it; but, so far as he could see, the distress of mind occasioned by the revelation would add misery to misery; and, after some long consideration of the matter, he determined to keep the matter to himself, at least for the present. Meanwhile he watched the papers for further information of the railway accident, but for some time saw no reference to it. One day, however, the following paragraph arrested his attention:
"With respect to Mr. Seymour who met his death in the railway accident in Germany, the particulars of which have been fully reported in our columns, it is now certain that he was by birth a Russian, and that he was for a number of years intimately connected with conspiracies against law and order. The documents found upon his person were of such a character, and were so drawn out, as to destroy the hope that was entertained that they would lead to the detection of the members of the secret societies with which he was associated. Great pains have evidently been taken-probably from day to day-to do away with all documentary evidence that would incriminate others, and this is an indirect proof of the dangerous nature of the conspiracies in which he was engaged. With respect to the Mr. Manners who met with serious injuries, nothing to directly implicate him has come to light. The strongest point against him is the fact of his having travelled for many months with Mr. Seymour on apparently confidential relations. Papers found in his possession lead to the conclusion that he is the son of the great contractor, Mr. Valentine Manners, whose name is known all the world over."
In the following day's paper Mr. Loveday read a letter to the following effect:
"Sir, – It is necessary for me to state that I have not been in any way acquainted with the late movements and proceedings of my son, Mr. Kingsley Manners, who is reported to have met with serious injuries in a railway accident in Germany, nor have I any knowledge of the Mr. Seymour with whom he is said to have travelled as companion.
"Faithfully yours, Valentine Manners."
That was all. Although Mr. Loveday carefully searched the papers day after day, he saw no further reference to the matter; it dropped out of sight, as it were, and the faint interest it had excited in the public mind appeared to have died completely away. The hard battle of life continued sadly and monotonously, without the occurrence of one cheering incident to lighten the days; and as time wore on Nansie ceased to speak to her uncle of the beloved husband who was either dead or had forgotten her. In her sad musings upon the question of death or forgetfulness she did not bring the matter to an issue. Had she been compelled to do so, she would have stabbed herself with the torture that Kingsley was dead; for that he could have forgotten her, and that he could be systematically neglecting her, was in her faithful, chivalrous heart impossible. All that she could do was to wait, although hope was almost dead within her.
At an unexpected moment, however, the question was solved.
It was evening. Mr. Loveday had not returned from his daily labors, and Nansie had put her baby asleep in her cradle, and had gone out to execute some small household duties. She hurried through them as quickly as possible, and, returning home, had almost reached the street door of the house in which she lived, when a voice at her back said,
"It is Nansie!"
The pulses of her heart seemed to stop. It was her husband's voice, and so overcome was she by this sudden ray of sunshine that, when she turned, she could scarcely see before her. Again the voice came to her ears; the gay, light, happy voice of old, which expressed only joy and sweetness, and in which there was no note of sadness or sorrow.
"Why, Nansie-it is Nansie! I was born under a lucky star."
And still, without seeing the speaker, she felt herself drawn to the heart of the one man in the world she loved-of the dear husband and the father of the babe sleeping peacefully at home.
"Oh, Kingsley! Is it you, is it you?"
"Of course it is, Nansie. Who else should it be? But it is very perplexing and puzzling; I don't quite see my way out of it. Tell me, Nansie-you expected me, did you not?"
"Yes, Kingsley, yes-for so long, for so long!"
"No, no, not for so long. Why, it can have been but a few days since I went away! Let me see-how was it? We had to look things in the face, and we did, and we agreed that something must be done, and then-and then-upon my word, Nansie, I think I am growing worse than ever; I not only fly off at a tangent, but I seem to be afflicted by an imp of forgetfulness. What does it matter, though? I have found you, and we are together again."
During this speech Nansie's eyes were fixed upon his face in tender love and thoughtfulness. His words were so at variance with the true nature of her position and his that she would have been unable to understand them if love had not brought wisdom to her. There was in Kingsley's eyes the same whimsical expression as of old, there was in his manner the same light-heartedness which had enabled him to look upon the future without anxiety, the tones of his voice were clear and gay, but he bore about him an unmistakable air of poverty. His clothes were worn threadbare, his hands were attenuated and almost transparent, and the lines of his face denoted that he had passed through some great suffering. He evinced no personal consciousness of these signs, and seemed to be at peace and in harmony with himself and all around him.
"Are you well, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, solicitously.
"Well, my love? Never was better in my life, and now that I have found you, there is nothing more to wish for. And yet-and yet-"
He passed his hand across his forehead, and looked at her in a kind of humorous doubt.
"Do you observe anything singular in me, my love?"
It would have been cruel to have answered him with the direct truth. It was from the deep well of pity with which her heart was filled that she drew forth the words,
"No, Kingsley, no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, dear."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Nansie. I am the same as ever, eh?"
"Yes, Kingsley, the same as ever; but we will not part again."
"No, indeed! I don't intend that we shall-because, although we have been separated but a short time, my head has got full of fancies about this and that-foreign countries-outlandish places-strange people-rapid journeys-accidents even, but dreams, all of them, Nansie. They must be dreams, or I could fix them with greater certainty. Now, you know my old way, my dear; when anything was troubling me I used to say, 'What is the use? It won't make things better.' There is only one wise way to look upon life-make light of things. You remember a favorite saying of mine-it was from a song, I think, was it not? 'Never trouble trouble, till trouble troubles you.' And that is the way we will go through life together, eh, my love?"
"Yes, Kingsley," said Nansie, and would have said more, but for a sudden trembling that came over him, which caused him to cling to her for support.
"What is the matter, Kingsley?"
"To tell you the truth, my dear," he replied, with a wan, whimsical smile, "you would hardly believe it, but I think I am hungry!"
"Hungry! Oh, Kingsley!"
"Well, yes; such a careless, neglectful fellow as you have got for a husband, Nansie, never thinking of things at the right moment, never taking into account that it is necessary to eat even, until it is forced upon him that he must eat to live. And talking of eating to live-is there anything in the larder, Nansie?"
He had rallied a little, and spoke with greater firmness.
"Yes, Kingsley, plenty; come-come. Ah, my dear, my dear, with all my heart I thank God that you are with me again!"
"Dear wife," he murmured, and allowed himself to be led by her into the house, and up the dark stairs to the rooms she occupied.
But outside the door, on the landing, she whispered to him,
"Kingsley!"
"Yes, love."
"There is a great happiness within. Be prepared for it."
"There is a great happiness here" – with his arms around her. "I am really and truly thankful."
"But a greater within, Kingsley, my husband. Listen-our darling child sleeps there."
"Our darling child, our little one! Surely I have seen her in my dreams, in which I have seen so many strange things. Ah, how I have dreamed of you, Nansie, even during this short absence! But let us go in, or I shall be reproached for forgetfulness."
They entered the room together, they leaned over the cradle, they knelt by its side, and Kingsley, lowering his face to the pretty babe sleeping there, kissed her softly and tenderly.
"She is very sweet, Nansie, like you. I am sure her eyes are the color of yours."
"No, darling, she has your eyes."
"And your heart, Nansie. Happy little one, happy little one! We will make her happy, will we not, dear?"
"Yes, Kingsley."
"But, my dear, pardon me for saying so, I am really and truly hungry. Even a piece of dry bread would be acceptable."
She kept back her tears, and quickly placed bread upon the table, which he ate ravenously at first, smiling at her gratefully the while. Very soon she had prepared some hot tea, which he drank, and begged her to drink a cup with him. His hunger being appeased, he lay back in his chair, his eyes wandering round the room.
"What is our dear little one's name?" he asked; "I have forgotten it."
"No, dear," said Nansie, "you have not forgotten it, because she has not one yet; we call her 'baby,' you know."
"Yes, yes," he said, "'baby,' of course, the best, the sweetest that ever drew breath; but she must have a name, Nansie; she cannot go through life as 'baby.' Say that when she is a happy woman she marries, it would not do for her to be called 'baby' then."
"We waited for you, Kingsley, to give her a name."
"Well, then, what shall it be? But that it would introduce confusion into our little home, no better name than 'Nansie' could be found. That would not do, would it?"
"No, Kingsley. Shall we give her your mother's name?"
"My mother's? No, there must be none but good omens around her. Your mother's, Nansie. I remember you told me it was Hester."
Then he called aloud, but in a gentle voice, "Hester!"
"She is awake, Kingsley," said Nansie, lifting the baby from the cradle and putting her into his arms.'
"This is a great joy to me," he said; "I really think she knows me; we shall be the best of friends. There is so much that is good in the world to show her-to teach her. Now, you and I together, love, will resolve to do our duty by her, and to do all that is in our power to make her happy."