Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

CHAPTER XLI

Being alone in his room Mark Inglefield set to work at once. The first thing he did was to write a letter, which he addressed to Mary Parkinson. The purport of this letter was that difficulties which had stood in his way were fortunately removed, and that he was now in a position, or would be in a very short time, to fulfil the promise he had made to her. This promise was that he would marry her. Appearances, he said, had been against him, but he would explain all to her personally. The past had been sad, the future should be bright. She could trust him implicitly, and it was a proof of his anxiety to do what was right that he asked her to leave her father's house the moment she received this letter. He was waiting for her, and would take her away at once to commence a new and better life. She must leave the house quietly and secretly, and no one must know of her movements. "In a little while," he wrote, "when you are my wife, we will either send for your father, or you shall go to him and bring him to the home I shall prepare for you. Do not delay; there is not a moment to lose. I have much to tell you, and I cannot rest till I see you." Having reached this point in his letter, he was about to add an instruction to bring this letter with her from her father's house; but he did not write the words. "It might arouse her suspicions," he thought. "She is sure to bring the letter." He signed himself, "Your faithful lover and husband," and then paused again, doubting whether this would be sufficient without a name. He could not put his own, for the reason that she was not acquainted with it. With the boldness of desperation he wrote the name he had assumed when he first introduced himself to her, "Richard Hollingworth," and thought as he did so what a fool he had been not to have assumed a name which was entirely false. But he had not then reckoned with the future, and had not dreamed that an exposure could ever occur. It was too late now to repent; with all these chances against him he had little doubt that he would ultimately triumph.

If he could succeed in conveying this letter to her to-night all would be well. Mary Parkinson would only be too glad to obey him, would only be too glad to fly into his arms. She had no one else in the world to depend upon but herself; her honor, her good name, her future happiness, were in his hands.

The letter finished, and placed in an envelope, at the head of which he wrote, "Read this immediately. R. H.," he looked through his wardrobe, and selected a suit of clothes which would in some measure disguise him. These he put on, and then enveloped himself in an ulster which would render the disguise more complete. Carrying the letter in his hand, he stole stealthily out of the house, locking the door of his bedroom, and taking the key with him. He had provided himself with a latchkey, so that he could leave and enter the house without attracting attention.

"Safe so far," he muttered, when he found himself in the dark street. When he was at a safe distance he hailed a cab, and was driven to the east of the City, within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's house. He was too cunning to drive nearer. Paying the cabman liberally, he strolled away with apparent carelessness. The next thing to be done was to convey the letter to Mary Parkinson without any one but themselves being the wiser. A difficult undertaking at such an hour; he was not even sure of the house in which Mary lived. It was necessary, therefore, he decided regretfully, to obtain the assistance of a stranger. He arrived at the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived, and he looked about him. A policeman passed him, but he dared not seek the aid of a public officer. The policeman being out of sight, fortune favored him. Wretched wayfarers who had no roof to cover them, and no money to pay for a bed, are not uncommon in these poor thoroughfares, and one approached him now and looked into his face. She was, alas! a young woman, scarcely twenty years of age. He accosted her without hesitation.

"Do you want to earn half a crown?" he asked.

She laughed hysterically, and held out her hand. He put sixpence into it, saying:

"The other two shillings if you can tell me what I want to know."

"Right you are," she said, recklessly; "fire away."

"Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?" he said.

"What game are you up to?" she cried.

"Never mind my game," he said, "but answer my questions. Do you know these streets?"

"Do I know 'em? Why, I was born in 'em!"

"In which one?"

"In this; and wish I hadn't been."

"Never mind that. You know the people who live in these houses, then?"

"Know 'em? By heart! And they know me-rather! Ask any of 'em what they think of Blooming Bess."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Make it worth my while."

"Will a crown be worth your while?"

"Depends."

"You shall have a crown, and if you hold your tongue, in a fortnight I'll come and find you and give you another crown. I suppose you'll be hereabouts."

"Unless I'm in jail, or dead! I don't much care which."

"It isn't much of a secret, only don't talk about it to any one. You know this street, you say, and everybody in it. Just walk along with me, and tell me who lives in the houses."

"That's a lot to make a fuss about," said the wretched girl, and walked past the houses in his company, and said, here lives such and such a one, here lives so-and-so, here's a dozen of 'em living together, and so on, and so on. Now and again, to put her off the scent, Mark Inglefield asked questions concerning strangers, as to their trade, families, and other particulars. At length she came to Mr. Parkinson's house, and said,

"Here lives old Parkinson."

"And who is he?"

"Oh, one of us," replied the girl.

"One of us!

"Leastways, no better than the others. No more is his gal. I'm as good as she is, any day."

"His daughter, do you mean?"

"Yes. Stuck up, she used to be. Not stuck up now, not a bit of it. That's her room on the first floor, with a light in it. Afraid to go to bed in the dark. A nice lot she is!"

Mark Inglefield, having ascertained what he wanted, marked the number of the house, and congratulated himself on the lighted candle. Then he walked to the end of the street, listening to the account the girl gave of the residents, and when he came to the end of it he handed her four-and-sixpence, and said that was all he wanted to know.

"You're a rum un," said the girl. She had enough to pay for a bit of supper and a miserable bed. Late as it was, she knew where to obtain them.

All was silent and dark as Mark Inglefield wended his way back to Mr. Parkinson's house. Making sure that he was alone, he stepped back and threw a small stone at the window. Mary Parkinson was awake, for he had but to throw another before the sash of the window was raised, and the girl looked out.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Hush!" said Mark Inglefield. "Read this."

He had the letter ready, with a stone attached to it, and he threw it skilfully almost into her hand. The girl retreated into her room, and Mark Inglefield waited. He had purposely disguised his voice, fearing that, in the excitement of recognizing it, Mary might have screamed out and alarmed the house. He had not long to wait. He heard the key being softly turned in the street door, and the next moment Mary Parkinson was by his side.

"Oh, Richard!" she cried; "is it you-is it you?"

"Yes," he said, hurriedly. "Don't make a fool of yourself. No, no, I don't mean that; I mean, speak low. You're a good girl; you've got your hat on; now, let us get out of this. You thought I was going to leave you in the lurch. See, now, how you were mistaken in me. I will explain all as we go. I couldn't help acting as I did. My whole future and yours, Mary, depended on it. But everything is right now, and you will not have any reason to complain of me again. It did look bad, I admit; but all your trouble is over now."

He was hurrying her away as he spoke, and already they were at some distance from her father's house.

"Oh, Richard, Richard, it is all so sudden!" sighed the girl. "I have been so unhappy-so unhappy!"

"Yes, yes," he said, interrupting her, having no desire to encourage her to talk, but you are happy now, and everything will be well. "You read my letter, didn't you? All that I wrote in it is true. Ah, here's a cab. Get in."

"Shall we never part again, Richard?" asked Mary, trembling so in the sudden happiness of this adventure that he had to support her into the cab.

"Never again, Mary, never again. Never mistrust me again."

"I won't, I won't!" said the girl, and burst into a fit of passionate weeping.

Mark Inglefield gave an instruction to the driver, and they rattled along at a great pace through the City.

CHAPTER XLII

At eleven o'clock punctually the next morning Mark Inglefield knocked at the door of Mr. Manners's study. They were not in the habit of taking their meals together; this was the reason of their not meeting at the breakfast-table.

"Good-morning, sir," said Inglefield.

"Good-morning," said Mr. Manners.

Mark Inglefield was cheerful and composed, and Mr. Manners, gazing at him, could not help thinking that he must be mistaken in suspecting him of wrong-doing.

"Shall we start at once, sir?"

"At once."

"I have been thinking," said Mark Inglefield, "of what took place last night, and I almost fear that I laid myself open to misconstruction."

"In what way?"

"By my manner. I was nervous and agitated, and I am afraid I expressed myself badly. It was not quite unnatural. The shock of finding myself charged with a crime so vile was great. Stronger men than I would have been unnerved. Indeed, sir, I could bear anything except the loss of your esteem."

"It will soon be put to the proof, Inglefield."

"Yes, sir, and I am truly glad that I shall be brought face to face with my accusers. When the poor girl who has been wronged sees me you will be immediately undeceived. Let us go, sir."

"This," thought Mr. Manners, "is innocence; I have done Inglefield an injustice." His manner insensibly softened towards the schemer who up till now had so successfully plotted; but this more lenient mood was attributable only to his stern sense of justice. It was this which induced him to say aloud, "Inglefield, you gathered from what I said last night that it is not unlikely I may take steps to reconcile myself with my son and his wife?"

If Mark Inglefield had dared he would have denied that he had gathered any such impression, but so much now depended upon his keeping his patron in a good-humor with him that he merely said, "Yes, sir," and waited for further developments.

"Should this take place," continued Mr. Manners, "we shall both have to confess ourselves in the wrong. Your mistake may have been only an error of judgment; mine was much more serious; but that is a matter with which you have nothing to do. If Kingsley is willing, I should wish you and he to be friends."

"I am ready to do anything," said Inglefield, "to please you. But may I venture to say something?"

"Say whatever is in your mind, Inglefield."

"Nothing, believe me, sir, could be farther from my desire than that you should find yourself unable to carry out your wishes. No effort shall be wanting on my part to bring happiness to you, quite independent of any reflection that may be cast upon my truthfulness and single-mindedness in what I unhappily was compelled to take part in many years ago. I waive all selfish considerations. I feel that I am expressing myself lamely, but perhaps you understand me."

"Yes, and I appreciate your delicate position. Go on."

"Having, then, made this clear to you, having as it were consented to have a false light thrown upon my actions, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that you have my warmest wishes towards the success of what you desire. But this is what I wish to say, and I beg you will not misconstrue me. The new impressions you received were gained from this Mr. Parkinson, whom you so unexpectedly met at Mr. Hollingworth's house last night."

"Yes."

"Heaven forbid that I should step between father and son! The duty that I once felt devolved upon me was a most painful one, but I did it fearlessly, in the hope that the disclosures it was unhappily in my power to make might have been the means of assisting you to the accomplishment of your wishes with respect to your son. As I did my duty then, fearless of consequences, so must I do it now."

"Well, Inglefield?"

"I repeat, sir, that the new impressions you gained were gained from statements made by Mr. Parkinson. I have no hesitation-you must pardon me for being so frank-in declaring him to be a slanderer. I have no key to the mystery of the plot which, in the hands of a man less just than yourself, would almost surely have been my ruin, and I should be wanting in respect to myself were I not indignant at the monstrous charge of which it seems I stand accused, and of which I am now going with you to clear myself. That will be a simple matter, and I will pass it by. But, sir, if it is proved that Mr. Parkinson is wrong in my case, if it is proved that for some purpose of his own, and perhaps of others, he has invented an abominable story, and committed himself to abominable statements, may he not also be wrong in the statements he has made respecting persons whom, out of consideration for you, I will not name?"

"You refer to my son and his wife," said Mr. Manners. Inglefield was silent. "I can cast no blame upon you, Inglefield. I can only repeat that everything shall be put to the proof."

With this remark Inglefield was fain to be satisfied; but he inwardly congratulated himself that he had done something to throw doubt upon Mr. Parkinson's eulogies of Kingsley and Nansie.

They did not walk all the way to the east of London, but, as Mark Inglefield had done but a few short hours ago, they rode to within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's residence, to which they then proceeded on foot. As they drew near they became aware that the neighborhood was abnormally excited. It was past twelve o'clock when they reached the street in which Mr. Parkinson resided, and this was the dinner-hour of a great many of the working men and women roundabout. The majority of these were standing in groups, talking excitedly of an event in which it was evident they were hugely interested. Mark Inglefield guessed what it was, but Mr. Manners had no clew to it. He inquired his way to Mr. Parkinson's house, and, at the moment he reached it, was confronted by Mr. Parkinson himself.

The man was in a violent state of agitation. His limbs were trembling, his features were convulsed with passion, and he gazed upon Mr. Manners without recognizing him.

"I have come," said Mr. Manners, "in accordance with my promise-"

"What promise?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "I want my daughter-my daughter!"

"It is about her I have come," said Mr. Manners, in great wonder.

"What of her?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "You have come about her? Well, where is she-where is she? But let her be careful, or I may be tempted to lay her dead at my feet!"

"I do not understand you. Do you not remember what you and I said to each other last night? I said I would see you righted. I said I would bring the man whom you accused."

"I remember, I remember," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, in a voice harsh with passion. "You made fair promises, as others have made before you! But what does it matter now? My daughter is gone-gone! Run away in the night, like a thief! She may be in the river. Better for her, a great deal better for her! Stop! Who are you?" He advanced to Mark Inglefield, and, laying his trembling hands upon him, peered into his face. "I know you, you black-hearted scoundrel! You are the man whose picture I found in my daughter's box. Give me my daughter-give me my Mary!"

Mark Inglefield shook him off, but with difficulty, and the man stood glaring at him. Already a crowd had gathered around them; the words, "black-hearted scoundrel," caused them to cast angry glances at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners looked in astonishment at one and another, utterly unable to comprehend the situation.

"The man is mad," said Mark Inglefield.

"Yes, I am mad," cried Mr. Parkinson, striving to escape from those who held him back from springing upon Mark Inglefield, "and therefore dangerous. What! Is a man's home to be broken up, is he to be robbed of his only child and disgraced, and is he to stand idly by when the scoundrel is before him who has worked this ruin upon him? As Heaven is my judge, I will have my revenge!"

"Come, come," said a working-man, "this violence will do no good, Parkinson. Be reasonable."

"If violence will do no good," retorted Mr. Parkinson, "still struggling, what will?"

"The truth," replied the working-man who had interposed.

"Ah, yes, the truth," said Mr. Parkinson; "and when that is told, let us have justice!"

"Spoken like a man," murmured some in the crowd.

"But what kind of justice?" demanded Mr. Parkinson. "A cold-blooded law court, with cold-blooded lawyers arguing this way and that, while those who have been brought to ruin and shame sit down with their wasted lives before them? No-not that kind of justice for me! I will have the life of the man who has cast this upon me! And that" – pointing with furious hand towards Mark Inglefield-"that is the monster I will have my justice upon, without appeal to lawyers!"

"I give you my word of honor," said Mark Inglefield, appealing to those by whom he was surrounded, and who hemmed him and Mr. Manners in, determined that they should not escape-"I give you my word of honor that I have not the least idea what this man means. I do not know him, nor any person belonging to him."

"You lie!" cried Mr. Parkinson.

"I speak the truth," said Mark Inglefield, perfectly calm. "This gentleman who has accompanied me here will testify to it. If I did not suspect that this man is not accountable for his words, I would not remain here another moment."

"But you must," said a friend of Mr. Parkinson; and, "Yes, you must, you must!" proceeded from others in the throng.

"I will," said Mark Inglefield, "because I have come here for the express purpose of unmasking a foul plot-"

"Rightly put," shouted Mr. Parkinson. "A foul plot-a foul plot! And it shall be unmasked, and the guilty shall suffer-not the innocent! For, after all, mates" – and now he, in his turn, appealed to the crowd-"what blame lies at the door of a weak, foolish girl who is led to her ruin by the lying, plausible words of gentlemen like these?"

But here the unreasoning torrent of his wrath was stemmed by many of his comrades, who said:

"None of that, Parkinson. It won't help you, and it won't help us. The gentleman speaks fair. He says he has come here to unmask a foul plot."

"That is my intention, and the intention of my friend here," said Mark Inglefield, "and, as you say, it will not help him nor any of us to be violent and abusive. Why, does it not stand to reason that we could have kept away if we had chosen? Does it not prove, coming here of our own accord as we have done, that we are of the same mind as yourselves?"