Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
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"What kind of man?"
"Neither one kind nor another, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"That he might be a gentleman, sir, and mightn't. It's hard to say."
"It generally is nowadays. Show him in."
The servant retired, and, ushering in Mr. Loveday, left the room.
"Well, sir?" said Mr. Manners. The contractor did not speak uncivilly, for the appearance of Mr. Loveday, who was fairly well attired, was in his favor; he might be a smaller contractor, or an inventor, or anything that was respectable.
"I have ventured to visit you, sir," said Mr. Loveday, without first seeking an introduction, "upon a matter of importance."
"My servant said upon particular business."
"He was scarcely correct, sir. I can hardly call my errand business, but it is no less important than the most important business."
"It is usual to send in a card, or a name."
"My name you will probably recognize, and I did not give it to the servant from fear that you might have refused to see me."
"This sounds like an intrusion. What may be your name?"
"Loveday, sir."
Mr. Manners did not start or betray agitation, but he looked keenly at his visitor. He was a man of method, and had on all occasions complete control over his passions. He recognized the name, the moment it was uttered, as that of the girl for whom his son had deserted him. Therefore, the name of an enemy; undoubtedly the name of an intruder.
"It is a name with which you suppose me to be familiar?"
"Yes, sir."
"I ask the question simply because there are coincidences, and I make it a rule to avoid mistakes. If you come from my son-"
"I do not, sir."
"But you are in association with him? You know him?"
"Only indirectly, sir. I have never seen your son."
"I refuse to take part in mysteries. You are related to the young woman for whom my son threw over his duty to me."
"I am the young lady's uncle."
"And your visit is in furtherance of an appeal from her or on her behalf?"
"On her behalf, but not from her. I did not inform her that I was coming."
"The information is of no interest to me. The appeal you speak of is of the usual kind. It is superfluous to ask if you are rich."
"I am not, sir."
"Poor?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
His frankness, his bearing, his aspect compelled a certain amount of respect, and it did not soften Mr. Manners to be made to feel this.
"Had you any hand in this marriage?" demanded Mr. Manners.
"None, sir. Had my advice been solicited, I should have been strongly against it. I am not going too far to say that I should not have sanctioned it, and should have thrown in what small amount of authority I possessed to prevent it, if your consent had not been first asked and obtained."
This view of the matter appeared to strike Mr. Manners, and he regarded his visitor with closer attention; but presently he frowned; it was as though the honor of the alliance was on Nansie's side instead of Kingsley's.
"I will not inquire into your reasons," he said, "except in so far as to ask whether your brother, the young woman's father, who, I understand, is dead-"
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"Whether he made any effort to prevent the marriage? I speak of it as a marriage, although I have my reasons for doubting whether it could have been legally entered into."
"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Loveday, much astonished.
"I decline discussion," said Mr. Manners. "I am not an idle speaker, and I know what I mean. We will call it a marriage. It does not affect the conduct of my son towards me. You heard my question. If you have an objection to answer it I shall not complain."
"I have no objection, sir. My brother knew nothing whatever of it until it was too late to interfere. The young people acted for themselves, without consulting a single person. It was a secret marriage."
Mr. Manners smiled. "Exactly. But my question is still not answered."
"My brother would have felt as I feel, sir. Without your sanction he would have withheld his consent, and would doubtless have succeeded in preventing the union."
"It would have been well if it had not taken place."
"I agree with you, sir."
Mr. Manners frowned again. His visitor was taking high ground.
"Come to the precise object of your visit," he said.
"The lamentable severance of the affectionate relations which existed between you and your son has been productive of much suffering. The young people have been driven hard-so hard that in the endeavor made by your son to obtain some sort of position which would hold out the hope of his being able to support her, they were compelled to separate. Your son went abroad and left his wife here in England, doubly orphaned, friendless, penniless, and unprotected. She appealed to me for shelter and temporary support, and I received her willingly, gladly. I will not indulge in sentiment, for I know you by repute to be a practical man, and it may be not only distasteful to you, but it may place me in a false light-as making a lame effort to influence you by means of which you may be suspicious; but it is due to my niece that I should declare in your presence that a sweeter, purer, more lovable woman does not breathe the breath of life. She is a lady, well-educated, gentle, and refined; and whatever value you may place upon my statement-which I solemnly avow to be true-you must agree that it is to the credit of your son that if he chose for his mate a lady who was poor, he at least chose one who, if fortune placed her in a high position, would be fitted to occupy it. Of this it is in your power to assure yourself, and you would then be able to judge whether I speak falsely or truly. Your son has been absent from England now for many months, and from his letters to his wife it may be gathered that he has been disappointed in his hopes and expectations, and it is certain that he has not benefited pecuniarily by the effort he made."
"He is reaping the fruits of his disobedience," said Mr. Manners.
Mr. Loveday made no comment on the interruption, but proceeded. "The consequence is that he has been unable to send his wife the smallest remittance. Until to-day this has been of no importance, as I was in a position to discharge the obligation I took upon myself when I received her into my home. Your son's affairs abroad became so desperate (and, in one vague sense, possibly compromising) that it was decided yesterday between my niece and myself to send him money to bring him home, in order that he might make another effort here to obtain a livelihood. I am speaking quite plainly, sir, and without ornament of any kind, and you will see to what straits your son is reduced."
"He is justly served," said Mr. Manners.
"It was but a small sum of money that was required," continued Mr. Loveday, "but I did not possess it. I had, however, books which I could sell-I am a bookseller by trade, sir-and last evening I left my house and place of business to negotiate the sale. Meanwhile my niece wrote to your son that I would supply her with the means for his return home, and that she would send him the money to-day. Upon my return, two or three hours later, I found my house in flames. The account of the fire, with my name, is in this morning's papers, and you may verify my statement. I was not insured, and nothing was saved. I am a beggar."
"It is, after all, then," said Mr. Manners, with a certain air of triumph, "on your own behalf that you are making this appeal to me."
"No, sir," replied Mr. Loveday, "I want nothing for myself; I shall rub along somehow, and hope to lift my head once more above adverse circumstance. My appeal is on behalf of your son's wife. I am unable to fulfil the promise I made to furnish her with the small sum required to bring your son home. I ask you respectfully and humbly to give it to me or to send it to her direct to this address." He laid a piece of paper, with writing on it, on the table. "If you would prefer to hand it to her personally she will call upon you for the purpose."
"You have spoken temperately," said Mr. Manners, with cold malice in his tones. "What is the amount you require?"
"Ten pounds, sir," replied Mr. Loveday, animated by a sudden and unexpected hope.
Mr. Manners touched a bell on his table. A servant appeared.
"Show this person to the door," he said.
"Is that your answer, sir?" asked Mr. Loveday, sadly.
"Show this person to the door," repeated Mr. Manners to the servant.
"I implore you," said Mr. Loveday, strongly agitated. "When I tell you that you have a grandchild but a few weeks old; that the poor lady, your son's wife, is in a delicate state of health-"
"Did you hear what I ordered?" said Mr. Manners to the servant, and repeated again: "Show this person to the door."
CHAPTER XXIV
From that day commenced for Nansie and her uncle the hard and bitter battle of life. All that had gone before was light in comparison. Without money, without friends in a position to give them practical assistance, they had to depend upon themselves for the barest necessities. Confident and hopeful as he was, Mr. Loveday found it impossible to raise a new business out of the ashes of the fire which had ruined him.
"I must begin again," he said.
Had any employment offered he would have accepted it, however uncongenial it might have been; but nothing came his way. Golden apples only fall to those who have already won fortune's favors. To those most in need of them they are but visions.
He was not the kind of man to waste his time; besides, he knew how precious it was. An idle day now would be inviting even harder punishment in the future. As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet went to the mountain-that is, to a newspaper office, where he laid out a shilling or two in fourth and fifth editions, and bravely hawked his wares in the most likely thoroughfares. The day's labor over, he found himself the richer by nineteen pence.
"Come now," he said to Nansie, gayly, "that is not so bad. In a little while we shall grow rich."
His thought was, not that nineteen pence a day would make them rich, but would keep the wolf from the door. Strange that in this the most civilized of countries we should snatch a phrase pregnant with terror from savage times and savage lands.
"The great difficulty," he said, "is my voice. Young rascals beat me with their lungs. They ring out the news; I can but quaver out the tempting morsels of murders and suicides. How I envy the youngsters! Still I shall manage, I shall manage."
Both he and Nansie had secret thoughts which they kept from each other.
"Three mouths to feed," thought Nansie. "It would be easier for him had he but his own."
"She must not think she is a burden to me," thought Mr. Loveday, "or I shall lose her."
He would have suffered anything to prevent a separation. Strong human links grew out of her helplessness; he was Nansie's protector, and it made him glad. In those early days of the new struggle she could do nothing to help the home, which consisted of two very small rooms at the top of a working-man's house. The fright of the fire had weakened her, and weeks passed before she was strong enough to put her shoulder to the wheel. Her uncle did not tell her of his visit to Kingsley's father; silence was the truest mercy. And it happened that within a very short time doubts of Kingsley's faithfulness and honesty rose in his mind. The cause of this lay in the fact that from the day of the fire no letter from Kingsley reached them. It made him indignant to note Nansie's sufferings as day after day passed without news.
"Do you think the letters have miscarried?" she asked.
"Letters don't miscarry," replied Mr. Loveday.
She looked at him apprehensively; his voice, if not his words, conveyed an accusation against the absent one.
"You believe he has not written," she said.
"I am sure he has not written," said Mr. Loveday.
"Then something must have happened to him," she cried. "He is ill and penniless, and I cannot help him!"
"If I had but a magic ring," thought Mr. Loveday, but he said no word aloud.
He reasoned the matter out with himself. On one side an innocent, unworldly, trustful woman of the people; on the other, the son of a man of fabulous wealth awakened from his dream. For this summer-lover, here was a life of poverty and struggle; there, a life of luxury and ease. To judge by human laws, or, rather, by the laws which governed the class to which Kingsley Manners belonged, which path would the young man choose? "It is more than likely," thought Mr. Loveday, "that the scoundrel has made his peace with his father, and has resolved to cast her off. But he is her husband" – His contemplations were suddenly arrested. Words uttered by Kingsley's father recurred to him. "I speak of it as a marriage, although I have my reasons for doubting whether it could have been legally entered into." What if there was some foundation for these words? What if they were true? He did not dare to speak to Nansie of this. She would have regarded it as base and disloyal, and the almost certain result would have been to part them forever. So he held his peace out of fear for himself, out of pity for her.
Thus three months passed. Nansie had regained her physical strength, but her heart was charged with woe.
"I cannot bear this suspense any longer," she said to her uncle. "I will go to Kingsley's father, and ask him if he has received any news of my husband."
Mr. Loveday did not attempt to dissuade her; he thought that good might come of the visit, if only in the opening of Nansie's eyes to Kingsley's perfidy, of which by this time he was fully convinced. He did not offer to accompany her, knowing that it would lessen the chances of Mr. Manners's seeing her.
She went early in the morning, and sent up her name to the great contractor, and received his reply that he would not receive her. She lingered a moment or two, and cast an imploring glance at the man-servant as though it were in his power to reverse the fiat, but the man looked impassively first at her, then at the door, and she left the house.
What a grand, stately house it was! It almost made her giddy to look to the top. She stood on the other side of the road, watching the door through which she had just passed; her mind was made up to wait, and at all risks to accost Mr. Manners when he came out. She had never seen him, but she was sure she would know him when he appeared. Kingsley had shown her the portrait of his father, and the likeness between them would render mistake impossible. She wondered whether it would have assisted her to bring her baby girl, and wondered, too, how a man so rich and powerful as Mr. Manners could have the heart to behave so harshly to his only child. She had gone no farther than the entrance hall of the stately mansion, but the evidences of wealth which met her eyes had impressed her more deeply than ever with the sacrifice Kingsley had made for her sake. A sense of wrong-doing came to her. She should not have accepted the sacrifice. She should have thought of the future, and should not have allowed herself to be led away by the impetuous passion of her lover. Even the duty she owed to her dear father had been neglected, and she had taken the most solemn step in life without consulting him. It was too late to turn back now, but could she not atone for the wrong she had done? If she said to Kingsley: "Dear husband, let us part; return to your father's home, to your father's heart, and I will never trouble you more;" would he accept the atonement? Would he, would he? A chill fell upon her heart, like the touch of an icy hand, but the sweet remembrances of the past, of the vows they had exchanged, of the undying love they had pledged to each other, brought gleams of sunshine to her. Kingsley had thrown in his lot with her for weal and woe. She would work, she would slave for him, and he should never hear one word of complaining from her lips. If only they were together again! They could be happy on a very little; she would make him happy; she would be bright and cheerful always, and he would draw gladness from her. Their baby was at home, waiting for a father's kisses, for a father's love. If he needed a stronger incentive to be true and faithful, he would find it in his child. Upon the mere suggestion of this possibility she stood up in defence of him. No stronger incentive was needed than the ties which already bound them together. But where was he? What was the reason of his long and heart-breaking silence?
She walked slowly up and down for an hour and more, never losing sight of the door of the rich man's house. She was determined not to go away without seeing him, if she had to remain the whole of the day. It was a weary, anxious time, and it was fortunate for her that she had not much longer to wait. The door opened, and Mr. Manners came forth.
How like he was to Kingsley! – only that his face was harder, and that all that was gentle and tender in Kingsley's face was depicted in his father's in hard, stern lines. But the likeness was unmistakable. He stopped as she glided swiftly to his side and timidly touched his sleeve.
"Well?"
His voice was as hard and stern as his face, and if she had not nerved herself to her task the opportunity would have been lost.
"You would not see me when I called at your house, sir, and I took the liberty of waiting for you here."
He did not ask who she was, and he showed no sign that he was touched by her gentle, pleading manner.
"What do you want?"
"I came, sir, to ask if you had any news of" – she stopped short at the name of Kingsley; he might have resented it as a familiarity-"of your son."
"Why come to me?"
"I do not know, sir," said Nansie, humbly, "whether I dreaded or hoped that you might relieve me of the trouble which is oppressing me; but you may have heard from him lately."
"I have not heard from him."
"Do you know nothing of him, sir?"
"Nothing; nor do I wish to know. When he left my house he was aware that the step he took put an end to all relations between us. I am not a man to be turned from my purpose. He chose his course deliberately, and set me at defiance."
"No, sir, no!" cried Nansie. "He had no thought of that."
"Words do not alter facts. He owed me a plain duty, and he ignored it for a stranger. The lures you used to entangle and ruin him have proved effectual. You led him on to his destruction, and you are reaping what you have sown. Finish your errand."
"It is finished, sir," said Nansie, turning mournfully away. "I cannot doubt that you have spoken truly, and that you have not heard from my husband. The last time he wrote to me he was in sore distress, without means to return home. I was in hopes that I should be able to send him a little money, but my hope was destroyed by a calamity which beggared the only friend I have."
"I have heard something in the same strain. You sent this only friend to me."
"No, sir, I did not. Do you mean my uncle?"
"I mean him. He came to me, as you know, and asked me for a sum of money to send abroad to my son."
"Indeed, indeed, sir, I did not know it."
"Which, doubtless," continued Mr. Manners, ignoring the contradiction, "he would have pocketed, with the satisfactory thought that he had got something out of me."
"You do my uncle great injustice, sir. He is noble and generous, and I honor him with my whole heart."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Manners, and there was a deeper sternness in his voice, "it is among the class to which you and he belong, and into which you have dragged my son, that honor and nobility are to be found. I have had experience of it. Once more, finish your errand."
"I have nothing more to say, sir. I fear to anger you."
"Your real purpose in seeking me was to beg for money."
"Indeed not, sir. I had no such purpose."
"And would not accept it if I offered it?"
"I cannot with truth say that, sir. We are so poor that the pride I once had is broken. Pardon me if I say that I think you have no intention of offering it."
"I have none."
She bowed, and crossed to the opposite side of the road; but before she had gone a dozen yards she heard his voice accosting her.
"It is in my mind to say something to you."
She turned to him with a sudden hope. Had he relented? Had her distress softened his heart towards her? A glance at his face dispelled the hope. There was in it no sign of pity.
"Accompany me to my house," he said.
Bewildered and surprised she walked by his side in silence, and they entered the mansion together.
"You would probably like," said Mr. Manners, "to have some better knowledge than you at present possess of the position which, by his disobedience and unfilial conduct, my son has forfeited."
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: