Manners told Kingsley that his income was not less than sixty thousand pounds a year; and he added that he was not spending a tenth part of it.
In the solitude of his chamber Kingsley opened Nansie's letter; it had been written from day to day, only for her lover's and husband's eyes:
"My Beloved Kingsley, – It is night, and I am writing in my little room in the caravan. Father is asleep, and everything around is still and peaceful. It is the best of all time to write to you and think of you, but indeed you are never out of my thoughts. It is a beautiful night, and I have made up my mind not to go to sleep till I have heard the nightingale, so how can I employ my time better than in the way I am doing? All the day long I have been thinking of you. 'Now he is in the train,' I said, 'now he is so much nearer London, now he is in London, now he is at home and talking to his father.' Of me? I could not decide that. Perhaps you will wait till to-morrow, but I am with you in spirit, Kingsley, as you are with me. Yes, I am sure of that, and it makes me very, very happy. Kingsley is at home, in his father's house. Is he really at home? My home is with you; there is no home for me without you. How ungrateful it sounds, with my father so close to me; but I cannot help it; it is the truth. And then this caravan-can one call it a home? Though there are people, father says, who are very happy in caravans-as I should be with you; or anywhere, Kingsley. Indeed it is so; it will not matter to me so long as we are together.
"I am writing cheerfully and hopefully, am I not? And yet my father has been uneasy in his mind to-day. He has been speaking a great deal of your father, and he fears that he will not approve of our marriage. 'For your sake, Nansie,' father said, 'I wish Kingsley's father was a poor man.' Kingsley dear, I wish that too; but then your father was once as poor as we are, and perhaps that will make a difference. I hope with all my heart I have not done you wrong by marrying you; but how could I help it, loving you as I did and do, and how could I help it when you persuaded me so? Oh, my dear love, I will do all that a woman can do to make you happy! I can do no more. To me it does not matter how we live, but will it matter to you if your father is angry and will not receive me? I cannot bear to think of it; my heart grows cold, and I stretch forth my hands imploring an angel to come and help me. But that is not needed, is it, Kingsley? and you have good reason to be angry with me, for what I have written is almost like a doubt, and to doubt you is to doubt that there is any goodness in the world. No, Kingsley, I will not doubt; it would be treason to love..
"I have not written for an hour. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and I should have gone on thinking, just as if I was in a waking trance, if it had not been for my father talking in his sleep. 'Nansie, Nansie!' he called, and I went in to him, but he was fast asleep, and his forehead was quite damp. I wiped it softly, but it did not wake him, and he kept on murmuring my name and yours, and calling on the angels to guard us. Dear father! we have not been a great deal together, but he loves me truly, and I think he is reproaching himself for not having been with me more. I could not love him more than I do, but I might have known him better. He is a good man, Kingsley, and I think if he had been rich he would have made a name in the world. There! I have written 'if he had been rich.' To be happy it is not necessary to be rich, is it, dear? Father says not. That is when he is awake. What did he mean by saying in his sleep: 'Money is a blessing and a curse?' Well, yes, I can understand it. It depends upon how it is used. Oh, Kingsley, I hope your father is not very rich. By my father's side was his favorite book, 'William Browne.' I took it away to my room. Before I go to bed I will put it back, for it is like meat and wine to him. More precious than those, I am sure. What are you doing at this very moment, Kingsley?
"There again. I have been in dreamland for an hour and more. And then, waking up, I read a little of 'William Browne', and took my pen in my hand to go on writing, but I did not know what to say. Kingsley, dear, the errand you have gone upon haunts me. So much do I fear that I hardly know what to think. Even my favorite saying that father does not consider wisdom, 'Everything will come right,' does not comfort me somehow. I don't know why, except it is that we are not together. Suspense is dreadful, is it not, dear? And just now everything seems in suspense. Oh, hark! The nightingale! It is an omen of joy and gladness. Thank God for all sweet sounds, for all that is sweet and good-and the world is full of sweetness and gladness. And I was reading of it in 'William Browne:'
"'But the nightingale i' th' dark
Singing, woke the mountain lark;
She records her love.
The sun hath not with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams,
Rising from the sea;
Mists do crown the mountain-tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops;
'Tis but newly day.'
"There, my dear love, I have copied it exactly, apostrophes and all, and it seems to bring me nearer to you. How wonderful is the gift of poetry! ''Tis but newly day.' It is day in my heart. Yes, everything will come right. Good-night, dear love, with a thousand kisses. I send them from my window through the night, which soon will be day. Heaven shield you…
"Another day has passed. Oh, Kingsley, what joy and delight your dear, dear letter brought to me! Your letters are the sweetest that ever were written, that ever could be written. Heaven bless your father for being so kind to you. How glad he must have been to see you after such a long absence! I am sure he must be the best of men. But Kingsley, dear Kingsley, how shall I tell you? My dear father is worse. I know he is, although he has not complained. We sat together this evening, watching the sunset in silence. He held my hand, and sometimes he gripped it hard. It was because he was in pain, but he would not have it so. He said it was because he loved me so dearly. When the sun went down he spoke, oh, so solemnly and beautifully, Kingsley, of the sunset of life, and said he would be perfectly happy and contented if he knew that I was safe. 'You mean safe with Kingsley, dear father,' I said. 'Yes,' he answered, 'safe with Kingsley.' Then I read your letter to him-every word, Kingsley; I was not ashamed-and it comforted him. 'He is the man I would have chosen for you, Nansie,' he said, and then he spoiled it all by adding: 'Only, only, if his father were not rich.' I reproved him gently, and said he must not doubt you, but must have in you the perfect faith that I have, and he said that I was right, and that it was only a father's fears that disturbed him. We must not blame him, dear; we are so poor, you know, and he does not know you as I do. I can write but a few lines now, I am so anxious about father. Shall I receive a letter from you to-morrow? If one does not come, I shall be sorry, of course, but only sorry, nothing more. For you and your father must have so much to talk about, and, as you told me so seriously, you must wait for a favorable opportunity before you spoke to him of me. Ah, poor me! What a worry I am! But I will make it all up to you, my dearest, in the happy days to come. Father is calling to me; I must go. I kiss you and kiss you, and indeed there are kisses on my lips for you only-and ah! for my poor, dear father. Through all time to come I am ever and ever your own loving Nansie…
"Oh, Kingsley, my dear husband, how shall I tell you? My hand trembles so that I can scarcely write the words. My father, my dear, dear father is dead!
"I look at the words I have written, and they seem to move, to live, though he is dead. I go from the page upon which I write to the bed upon which he is lying, and I can scarcely believe that it is true, he looks so sweet, so peaceful and calm. 'Father, father!' I call, but he does not answer me. His spirit is with God. But surely with me, too, surely with me! Oh, Kingsley, I feel as if my heart were breaking!
"I do not know when his spirit passed away. We sat up late last night, and he seemed in his usual health, but weak. He made no complaint, but he must have had a premonition of what was hastening to him, for he talked to me of the life beyond this, and dwelt upon it with hope and rapture. We sat in the dark; he would not have a light. Ah, me! I must have been blind and deaf not to have guessed that he believed his end to be approaching when he spoke so much of you, and desired me to give you his dear love and his heartfelt wishes for a bright and happy life. 'With me, father,' I whispered. 'Yes, my daughter, with you,' he answered. 'Kingsley could not be happy without you.' Ah, how glad I was to hear him say that! It proved that he
