Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

CHAPTER XX

From that day a new life commenced for Mr. Loveday. It was not that there was any great improvement in the ordinary domestic arrangements of his modest establishment, because the reign of Timothy had introduced beneficial changes in this respect before Nansie was made queen. It was more in its spiritual than its material aspect that the new life was made manifest. To have a lady moving quietly about the house, to be greeted by a smile and a kind glance whenever he turned towards her, to hear her gentle voice addressing him without invitation on his part-all this was not only new, but wonderful and delightful. Mr. Loveday very soon discovered that Nansie was indeed a lady, and far above the worldly station to which her circumstances relegated her; it was an agreeable discovery, and he appreciated it keenly. He found himself listening with pleasure to her soft footfall on the stairs or in the rooms above, and he would even grow nervous if any length of time elapsed without evidence of her presence in the house. Perhaps Nansie's crowning virtue was her unobtrusiveness. Everything she did was done quietly, without the least fuss or noise; no slamming of doors to jar the nerves, nothing to disturb or worry.

"Where did you learn it all, Nansie?" asked Mr. Loveday.

"It is what all women do," she replied.

He did not dispute with her, although his experience was not favorable to her view. Inwardly he said: "What all women could not do, if they tried ever so hard, but then Nansie had perfection for a mother." His thoughts travelled frequently now to the early days when he loved the woman who was not to become his wife, and it may be that he accepted Nansie's companionship and presence as in some sense a recompense for his youthful disappointment, a meting out of poetical justice, as it were.

Of all the hours of day and night the evening hours were the most delightful, not only to him, but to Timothy, between whom and Nansie there swiftly grew a bond of sympathy and friendship. Before Nansie's appearance Mr. Loveday's house was a comfortable one to live and work in; but from the day she first set foot in it, it became a home. Neither Timothy nor Mr. Loveday could have given an intelligible explanation of the nature of the change; but they accepted it in wonder and gratitude. Everything was the same and yet not the same. There was no addition to the furniture; but it appeared to be altogether different furniture from that to which they had been accustomed. It was brighter, cleaner, and in its new and improved arrangement acquired a new value. There were now white curtains to the windows, and the windows themselves were not coated with dust. The fireplaces were always trim and well brushed up, the fires bright and twinkling, the candlesticks and all the metalwork smartly polished, the table-linen white and clean, clothes with never a button missing, socks and stockings with never a hole in them. Nansie could have accomplished all these things unaided; but Timothy was so anxious to be employed that she would not pain him by refusing his assistance. She had another reason-a reason which she did not disclose, and which Mr. Loveday and Timothy were too inexperienced to suspect-for accepting the lad's willing service. She knew that a time was approaching when it would be invaluable, and when she would be unable to devote herself to these domestic duties.

The evenings were the most delightful, as has been stated. Then, the day's labor over and everything being in order, they would sit together in the little room at the back of the shop and chat, or read, or pursue some study or innocent amusement. Mr. Loveday fished out an old draught-board, with draughts and a set of chessmen, and was surprised to find that Nansie was by no means an indifferent draught-player, and that she knew the moves of chess, in which her skill was not so great. At one time of his life he had been fond of backgammon, and he taught Nansie the game, Timothy looking on and learning more quickly than the fair pupil whose presence brightened the home. Timothy also made himself proficient in the intricacies of chess, and within a few months justified himself master, and gave odds. An evening seldom passed without a reading from a favorite author, Nansie's sweet, sympathetic voice imparting a charm to passages from which something valuable might have been missed had they not been read aloud. From this brief description it will be gathered that Nansie's influence was all for good.

Thus time sped on, and Kingsley was still absent. He wrote to Nansie regularly, and she as regularly replied to his letters, never missing a post. She wrote in her bedroom always, and generally at night when the others were abed. In silence and solitude she was better able to open her heart to her husband. To say that she was entirely happy apart from Kingsley would not be true, but she had a spirit of rare hope and contentment, and her gratitude for the shelter and comfort of her new home was a counterbalance to the unhappiness she would otherwise have experienced.

"A letter for you, Nansie," Mr. Loveday would say.

Taking it eagerly, she would speed to her room and read it again and again, drawing hopeful auguries from words in which none really lay. For although Kingsley's letters were cheerfully and lovingly written, there was nothing substantial in them in their prospects of the future. They were all of the present, of his doings, of his adventures, of his travels, of what he had seen and done, forming a kind of diary faithfully kept, but with a strange blindness in respect of years to come. At one time he was in France, at another in Italy, at another in Germany, at another in Russia.

"Mr. Seymour," he wrote, "has an insatiable thirst for travel, and will start off at an hour's notice from one country to another, moved seemingly by sudden impulses in which there appears to be an utter lack of system. It is inconvenient, but of course I am bound to accompany him; and there is, after all, in these unexpected transitions a charm to me, who could never be accused of being methodical. The serious drawback is that I am parted from you. What pleasure it would give me to have you by my side! And you would be no less happy than I."

Then would follow a description of the places they passed through and stopped at, of people they met, and of small adventures which afforded him entertainment, ending always with protestations of love, the sincerity of which could not be doubted. But Mr. Loveday was never anything than grave when Nansie read aloud to him extracts from her husband's letters.

"Who is Mr. Seymour?" he asked.

"A gentleman," replied Nansie.

"What is he, I mean?" was Mr. Loveday's next question.

Nansie shook her head. "I have no idea."

"Has your husband any idea?"

"I suppose he has."

"You only suppose, Nansie."

"Yes, uncle, I can do nothing else, because Kingsley has never said anything about it."

"Surely, if he really knew," persisted Mr. Loveday, "he would not be so silent on the subject."

"Perhaps you are right, uncle; perhaps Kingsley does not really know."

"If Mr. Seymour were travelling with any specific object in view, there would be no need for secrecy. Say that he were an enthusiast, that he had a craze, no matter in what shape, he would not disguise it."

"Certainly not, uncle. Mr. Seymour must be travelling simply for pleasure."

"Which is not a simple matter, Nansie," observed Mr. Loveday, "when a man runs after it. I can imagine few things more laborious and less likely of a satisfactory result. Now, Nansie, what are your husband's duties in his employment?"

"He does not say, uncle."

"Do you think he has any?"

"I suppose so."

"More supposings, Nansie."

"What else can I say, uncle?"

"Nothing, my dear, and I am to blame for worrying you. We will drop the subject."

"No," said Nansie, earnestly, "please do not drop it."

"Why should we continue it, Nansie?"

"Because," replied Nansie, with a slight flush on her face, "I am afraid you are doing Kingsley an injustice."

"I should be sorry to do that," said Mr. Loveday, very seriously.

"I know you would," responded Nansie, in a tone of affection, "and that is why I want to set you right. You think that Kingsley is concealing something from me. He is not; he loves me too well. You think that I need some one to defend me. I do not. It is only when a person is wronged or oppressed that he needs a defender. No one has ever wronged or oppressed me. On the contrary, every one in the world is kind to me-that is," she added hastily in correction, for she thought of her husband's parents, "every one who knows me. Now you, uncle," she said, wistfully and tenderly, "before I came here I dare say you had no great regard for me."

"I had not, Nansie."

"It was only because you made a promise to my dear father out of your kind heart, and because you are an honorable man who would not break his word, that you welcomed me at first. And perhaps, too," her voice faltered a little here, "because I resemble my mother, for whom you had an affection."

She paused, uncertain whether she had gone too far; but he inclined his head kindly towards her, and said,

"You are speaking justly, Nansie. Go on, if you have anything more to say."

"Yes, uncle, I have something more to say. That was your feeling for me at first; but since then-I say it humbly and gratefully-I have been happy in the belief that I have learned something for myself."

"You have," said Mr. Loveday. "I love you, Nansie."

"It is so sweet to me to know it, dear uncle," said Nansie, with tears in her eyes, "that I am enabled to bear Kingsley's absence-I hope and pray it will not be for long-with courage and resignation. And because of that, because of the love which unites us, you must think well of Kingsley-you must think always well of him. Uncle, he is the soul of honor, truth, and unselfishness. When he told me he loved me, and asked me to marry him, he did not weigh the consequences, as nearly every other man in his position would have done."

"He was rash," observed Mr. Loveday.

"Would you censure him for it? Did he not behave as an honorable, noble-hearted man?"

"Undoubtedly. He has a worthy champion in his wife."

"Ah, but it would distress me immeasurably to feel that you believe he needs a champion, or I a defender. You do not know him, uncle; when you do you will not fail to love him. I do not say that he is worldly wise, or quite fitted yet to battle with the future, but that it is his earnest desire to fit himself for what I feel will be a great struggle, and to perform his duty in a manly way. No man can do more, and, whatever may be our future, I shall love and honor him to the last."

"My dear Nansie," said Mr. Loveday, "say that you are partly right in your views of my feelings for your husband; be content now to know that you have won me over to his side."

"I am indeed content to know it, uncle."

"But should that deprive a man of his right to judge actions and circumstances? We sometimes condemn those whom we love best."

"It should not deprive him of the right," replied Nansie, adding, with what her husband would have told her was feminine logic, "but you must not condemn Kingsley."

"I will not. I will apply ordinary tests. When he took the situation with Mr. Seymour, did he know anything of his employer?"

"Nothing; but we were in great stress, and Kingsley was compelled to take advantage of his opportunity."

"Admitting that. But a man must face his responsibilities, and discharge them to the best of his ability."

"Yes, uncle, to the best of his ability."

"My dear, had you been a man, you would have made a very good special pleader. To continue. What is your husband's salary?"

A look of distress was in Nansie's eyes, and she did not reply. "I infer," said Mr. Loveday, replying for her, "that you do not know."

"I fear I do," said Nansie, in a low tone.

"Tell me, then."

"I fear, uncle, that there is no salary attached to the situation."

"But there should be?"

"Yes, there should be."

"Mr. Seymour, wishing to engage a gentleman as part companion and part secretary, must have been prepared to enter into some kind of monetary arrangement. Whose fault is it that the arrangement was not made? I will reply for you again. It must have been Kingsley's fault. Not very practical, Nansie."

"I am afraid, uncle," said Nansie, speaking slowly, and as though she were about to commit an act of treason, "that Kingsley is not very practical."

"But how is a man to get along in the world," said Mr. Loveday, with a curious mixture of decision and helplessness, "who thus neglects his opportunities? I am speaking entirely in a spirit of kindness, Nansie."

"Yes, uncle, there's no occasion for you to remind me of that. But how can you blame Kingsley? He meets Mr. Seymour as one gentleman meets another. He is too delicate-minded to broach the subject of salary, and perhaps Mr. Seymour forgets it."

"No, child, Mr. Seymour does not forget it. He takes advantage of your husband, and the consequence is that he is using a man's services without paying for them. And the consequence, further, is that valuable time is being wasted and misspent. Two or three weeks ago you commenced to read to me something in one of your husband's letters, and you suddenly stopped and did not continue. It was about money. Am I wrong in supposing that what you were about to read was in reply to something you had written in a letter to your husband?"

"You are not wrong, uncle."

"Plainly, you asked him whether he could not send you a little money?"

"Yes."

"And that was his reply. I can judge what it was."

"Uncle, he had none to send. He is entirely dependent upon Mr. Seymour."

"Who is not liberal?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Who is not only not liberal, but unjust?"

"But that is not Kingsley's fault," pleaded Nansie.

"I am not so sure. Child, child, you and your husband are like the children in the wood, and you know their fate."

"I should be content," said Nansie, mournfully, for a moment overwhelmed-only for a moment; her mood changed instantly, and with indescribable tenderness she said: "But I want to live-to live!"

There was a new note in her voice, and in her eyes a dreamy look of exquisite happiness which caused Mr. Loveday to wonder as he gazed upon her. Never had she been so beautiful as she was at that moment. In the expression on her face was something sacred and holy, and Mr. Loveday saw that she was deeply stirred by emotions beyond his ken.

"Nansie!"

"Yes, uncle," said Nansie, awaking from her dream.

"You heard what I said?"

"Yes, uncle-but you must not blame Kingsley; you must not blame my dear husband."

"I will not-strongly. Only I should like you to consider what would have been your position if you had not found me in the London wilderness, or, having found me, if I had proved to be hard-hearted instead of a loving uncle."

"What is the use of my considering it," she asked, in a tone of tender playfulness, "when I did find you, and when you proved yourself to be the best of men? It would be waste of time, would it not? Confess now."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Loveday, "I should almost be justified in being cross with you if I did not suspect that any unreasonableness in our conversation must spring from me, in consequence of my not being familiar with the ways of women. But you shall not drive me completely from my point. For your sake, Nansie, I regret that I am poor. I never wished so much to be rich as I do at the present time. You are attending to me, Nansie?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Has your husband sent you any money at all since he has been away?"

"None, uncle. He has not had it to send."

"Yet you are in need of a little?"

She looked at him, and her lips trembled slightly; and then again, a moment afterwards, the same expression of dreamy happiness stole into her face which he had observed before.

"Yes, uncle, a little, a very little. But I shall manage; I have already earned a trifle."

"In what way?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.

"I got some needlework to do, and am being paid for it."

"But in the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Loveday, "where and when do you do your work?"

"In my room of a night, uncle," replied Nansie, blushing.

"When we are all asleep," said Mr. Loveday, with the nearest approach to a grumble she had heard from his lips. "This must not continue, Nansie. You will do your work here of an evening and during the day, if it is necessary."

"Yes, uncle, I will obey you. But-" her form swayed slightly, and she was compelled to make an effort to keep herself from swooning-"you must not be angry with me. I am not very strong just now."

She brought her work down, and went on with it before his eyes, and there was perfect harmony between them. But still, in the stillness of her room, when her uncle supposed her to be abed, her fingers were busy in their labor of tenderest love.

CHAPTER XXI

The event which occurred in Mr. Loveday's house in Church Alley, and which caused him perhaps the greatest excitement in his life, will be explained by the following letter which Nansie wrote to her husband two months after the conversation between her and her uncle narrated in the last chapter:

"My Own Dear Kingsley, – At length I am strong enough to write to you, and it is a great joy to me to sit down once more to speak to the beloved wanderer of whom I think night and day. I am sure that you must be with me, in spirit, even in my dreamless sleep. You will not be sorry to know that you are not the only one now the thought of whom makes my heart a garden of flowers. I have a sweet treasure-surely the sweetest that ever blessed a happy woman-lying at my feet, and you will not begrudge me. Oh, my dear Kingsley, if you were with me at this moment, and we were looking down together on the lovely, innocent face of our darling, you would think as I do, that heaven itself was shining in the little room in which I am writing! Everything is so strangely beautiful that I can scarcely believe I am living the same life I lived till I became a happy, happy mother. It is not the same-it is sweeter, purer, more precious; I seem to hear angelic music even in the silence which surrounds me. I know what produces it. I put my face close to my darling's mouth, and I can just hear her soft breathing.

"You will forgive me, will you not, for not having written to you for so long a time? I could not help it, you see. I know from your last letter that you received the one my uncle wrote to you, and that you would have flown to my side if you had had the means. It seems so cruel that you should be in such straits for money. Why do you not ask Mr. Seymour straightforwardly to pay you what he must owe you? It must be a good sum by this time. But perhaps it is wrong of me to say to you, why do you not do this or that? – for surely you must know what is best to be done, and the right time to do it. It is easy to judge for others, is it not, my dearest? I have the fullest faith and confidence in you; and, my dear, you must not worry about me. My uncle is the dearest friend I could have met with. He is kindness itself, and I feel that he loves me as if I were his daughter. And I have money-not much, Kingsley, dear, but enough-to go on with. Before baby came I earned some, and presently, when she can crawl, and walk, and speak-oh, Kingsley, the wonder of it! – I shall earn more. Uncle is so good to me that I need very little; but still some things are necessary which uncle does not understand about, and he has not more than he knows what to do with. Then, of course, I am an expense to him; but he never makes the least mention of that-he is too considerate, and I know he is glad to have me with him-and to have baby, too, although I fancy he does not quite know yet what to make of the darling. Indeed, I half think he is frightened of her. I see him sometimes looking at her when she is asleep with such a funny look in his eyes that I can hardly keep from laughing. The idea of a great big man being frightened of a little baby! But, Kingsley, dear (I would not confess it to anybody but you), I, too, am frightened of baby a little sometimes, when she lies in my lap, staring at me solemnly with her beautiful eyes-the color of yours, dearest-wide, wide open, without even so much as a blink in them. She seems to be reading me through and through. 'What are you thinking of, darling?' I whisper to her; and though of course she cannot answer me, I am sure that she understands, and that I should be very much astonished if I knew what was passing through her mind. She is going to be a very wise little body-I can see that-and very sweet and beautiful, and a great blessing to us. But she is that already, the greatest, the most precious that has ever fallen to my lot. You see, my dear husband, I look upon baby and you as almost one person; I cannot think of one without the other, it is impossible to separate you; so that when I say that baby is the greatest blessing that was ever given to me, I mean you as well as our darling…

"I have been obliged to stop; baby woke up, and we had a happy hour together. Now she is asleep again. She is so good, not at all fretful, as some babies are, and when she cries (which is really not often) it is a good healthy cry, which makes uncle say that her lungs are in fine condition…

"I have been reading over what I have written, and I stopped at the part where I speak of baby presently being able to walk and talk. Long before that, my dear Kingsley, I hope that you will be with us, and that we may be all living together. Do not think I am desirous of urging you to any other course than that which you consider right, but the happiness of our being together again would be so great! Is there any chance of Mr. Seymour coming to England and settling down here, and keeping you as his secretary at a fair salary? Then we could have a little home of our own, and you could go to Mr. Seymour in the morning and come home in the evening, and we should have one day in the week to ourselves. It is not a very great deal to ask for, but if some kind fairy would only grant it I should be supremely happy. Surely, surely, the future must have something good in store for us!

"I have told you in my letters all about Timothy Chance, and how good and helpful he has been. Well, my dear Kingsley, until baby came I looked upon Timothy as my knight, my own special cavalier whom I could depend upon for service at any hour I chose to call upon him; but I think now that he has divided his allegiance, at least half of it going to baby. Timothy is an extraordinary lad, and uncle has a great opinion of him. Putting his duties in uncle's business out of the question, and putting baby and me out of the question, Timothy seems to have only one idea-eggs and fowls. He is now the proud owner of four fine hens, and his spare minutes (not too many) are devoted to them. He reads up every book he can lay hands upon that treats of fowls, and is really very clever in his proceedings. He made me laugh by saying: 'If fowls won't lay they must be made to lay;' and he studies up food to coax them. It is very amusing; but Timothy is so earnest that you cannot help respecting him, and respecting him more because he is successful. He shows me his figures, and is really making a profit every month. He is now drawing out plans for constructing a movable fowl-house, in compartments, each compartment accommodating eight fowls, and capable of being taken down and put up again in a wonderfully short time. Uncle says the plans are as nearly perfect as possible, and that he should not wonder if Timothy made a fortune one of these fine days. Timothy has insisted upon my accepting two new-laid eggs a week. Uncle and he had some words about them at first, uncle wanting to pay for them and Timothy refusing to accept any money; but the good lad was so hurt and took it so much to heart that I persuaded uncle to let him have his way.

"Why do I write all this to you, dear Kingsley? To show you that I am in the midst of kindness, and that although you have not as yet been very fortunate, there is much to be grateful for. Remember our conversation, my darling, and never, never lose heart. Courage! courage! as you have said many times; and it will help you to feel assured that there are loving hearts beating here for you, and friends holding out willing hands. Why, if a poor, imperfectly educated lad like Timothy looks forward to making a fortune out of such simple things as eggs, what may you not do, with your advantages and education? All will be well, and there is a happy future before us.