Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
"No, no, of course not. And yet-but I can say no more at present. Have you the portrait with you?"
"Yes, I brought it, expecting you to ask to see it."
He handed it to Mr. Hollingworth, who, the moment he saw it, gave utterance to a cry of joyful surprise. It was the cry of a man who had been suddenly and unexpectedly released from unendurable torture.
"You are not mistaken?" he exclaimed. "This is the picture you found in your daughter's box?"
"It is," replied Mr. Parkinson, gazing suspiciously at Mr. Hollingworth. "Your son's name is written on the back."
"I see it, in your daughter's handwriting." Mr. Parkinson could not understand the meaning of another strange expression in Mr. Hollingworth's face as that gentleman raised his eyes from the picture and partly turned to the contractor. "You are satisfied that this is the portrait of the-the gentleman who has wronged your daughter?"
"She told me it was, and I am satisfied."
"You lift a weight from my heart. Mr. Parkinson, this is not the portrait of my son, nor of any member of my family."
"I'll not take your word for it," cried Mr. Parkinson, taking, with some roughness, the picture from Mr. Hollingworth. "Tell me, sir, you," he said, addressing Mr. Manners, "whether he speaks the truth."
Before Mr. Hollingworth could prevent him he thrust the picture into Mr. Manners's hand, who, gazing upon it, recognized the likeness of his nephew, Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners and Mr. Hollingworth exchanged meaning glances.
"My friend speaks truly," said Mr. Manners, "and you might have believed him without appealing to me. This is not his son."
"What infamous plot is here?" cried Mr. Parkinson.
"None of our making, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth. "With all my heart I sympathize with you."
"I want none of your sympathy," said Mr. Parkinson, "I want justice, and I will have it. Whoever this man is, I will drag him into the light." In his passion he turned from one to the other with furious looks.
"You cannot blame the innocent," said Mr. Hollingworth, pointing to a picture on the wall. "That is my son, Mr. Parkinson. You can trace no resemblance between the portraits."
"No, they are not the same men. What is the meaning of this mystery? It shall not remain a mystery long-I swear it!"
"Is there any reason why this interview should be prolonged?" said Mr. Hollingworth. "If you doubt my word, and that of my friend, you can set your doubt at rest by looking at the illustrated papers this week, in which the portrait of my son, a newly elected member of Parliament, will appear. It would be the height of folly on my part to attempt to deceive you. I make this promise to you, Mr. Parkinson. If you prove the portrait to be that of my son-who is as dear to me as your daughter is to you-and if he has done your child wrong, he shall make her the only reparation in the power of an honorable man."
"I hold you to your word, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "and if I have been mistaken, I ask your pardon. There is, however, something more for me to say. I am not blind; I have watched the faces of you gentlemen, and I believe you know who this person is. I may be mistaken in this belief, as I am in the other, according to you. Will you tell me if I am right or wrong?"
Mr. Hollingworth made a deprecatory motion with his hand which the injured father construed into a refusal. Mr. Manners was motionless.
"Very well, gentlemen," said Mr. Parkinson, with a gesture, half despairing, half scornful, "I will take your silence for what it is worth. But listen to me. There appears to be a double villainy in this affair, and it shall be brought to light. In my daughter's belief, the name of the man who betrayed her is Richard Hollingworth; and if your son's name has been so used it has been used for a vile purpose, and your honor is concerned as well as my own-if you will excuse a common working-man for speaking of his honor."
"Nay, nay, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, gently, "surely you will not do me a further injustice!"
"It is far from my wish, sir; but it is natural-perhaps you will admit it-that words should escape me for which I ought not to be held strictly accountable. Again I ask your pardon. You have met me fairly, and I thank you for it. That is all, I think."
"Good-night, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, holding out his hand. "There are reasons why I should say nothing further at present. I will make a point of calling upon you and your daughter, with my son, if you will permit me. And if I can in any way befriend you-"
"You can in one way," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, "and in one way only; by helping me unmask this villain and bringing him to justice. He has ruined my daughter's life, and I will ruin his if it is in my power-ay, I will, though it cost me the last drop of my blood. Good-night, sir."
He turned to go, but stopped at the instance of Mr. Manners.
"One moment," said that gentleman; "your visit here is at an end, and mine is nearly so. Would you have any objection to waiting for me below for two or three minutes? I wish to speak privately with you."
"Will it serve any good purpose?" demanded Mr. Parkinson.
"It may," replied Mr. Manners. "There are other wrongs than yours."
"I don't dispute it. But I am concerned only in my own. Excuse me for speaking roughly."
"I excuse you readily, and may perhaps have cause to be grateful to you. Other persons whom you honor may also have cause to be grateful that what you had to say to this gentleman was said in my presence. Let this assurance content you, and give me the favor of your company when you leave this house."
"I'll do so, sir. I seem to be struggling in a net. A little mystery more or less won't matter much."
With a rough bow-in which there was some native grace of manner which well became him in his grief and perplexity-he left the room. The two gentlemen, being alone, waited each for the other to speak; but the silence was soon broken.
"The man's tale is true," said Mr. Hollingworth; "of that there can be no doubt. But I will not rashly commit myself to what may be an act of injustice. It remains for your nephew, Mr. Inglefield, to clear himself from the foul charge. If he cannot do so, he has played the part of an infamous scoundrel in the use he has made of my son's name; it is conduct which cannot be forgiven. Why, he might have ruined my lad at the very outset of his public career! If you were in my place, with an only son, upon whom all your hopes were set-for, although he has a sister, a girl counts for very little-would you overlook an act so base?"
"No," replied Mr. Manners. A sharp pang had passed through him at Mr. Hollingworth's reference to an only son. He thought of Kingsley, with his bright, ingenuous face, with his eager voice, and simple, loving ways, with his clear ideas of duty and honor. Yes, even duty, which, in the years that were gone, he had accused Kingsley of forgetting and neglecting, crept into his mind side by side with honor. A rash act to marry without a father's consent, against a father's wishes; but Kingsley was ever rash and impulsive, but never in a dishonorable direction-never! And the step being taken, he did not flinch from its consequences. He had thrown in his hard fortune with the woman to whom he had pledged his faith, and had not for one instant wavered in the course he had believed it was right to follow. Would his nephew, Mark Inglefield, have stood so unflinchingly firm; would he have withstood temptation as Kingsley had done? Mentally he surveyed the two men, and a sound like a groan escaped his lips.
"Have I pained you by my decision V asked Mr. Hollingworth, in a solicitous tone.
"No; it is just. My thoughts were upon another matter."
The sadness of his voice impressed Mr. Hollingworth, and he remembered that Mr. Manners had an only son, whom he had cast off for disobedience. This remembrance came to him now with strange significance. Mr. Parkinson had mentioned the name of Mrs. Manners, and had described her as an angel of goodness. Was it possible that some close relation existed between these two who bore the same name?
"You had a son," he ventured to say.
"Yes, I had a son," said Mr. Manners, "who disappointed and disobeyed me."
"Children have no appreciation of the sacrifices parents make for them. I am sorry for you. I should not have spoken of him but for a reference made by the man who has just left us.
"Yes; he spoke of a Mrs. Manners. The name is not a common one, and it may be-" He broke off here. "Mr. Hollingworth, it is not correct for me to say that my son disobeyed me, and you must not suppose that he was guilty of a dishonorable action. He was incapable of it."
"Is he living still?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, laying his hand sympathizingly on his guest's shoulder.
"I do not know. I have heard nothing of him for years. We will not pursue the subject; it is too painful, and I am waited for below. With respect to Mr. Inglefield, your best course will be to see or write to him. There need be no disguise. I myself shall speak to him, and shall mention names plainly."
"I will write to him to-night; he must know at once that his visits here are at an end, unless he has been maligned."
Mr. Manners found Mr. Parkinson waiting for him in the street.
"I could not stop in the house," he said, "there is something about it that suffocates me."
"I intended to ask you to walk with me to mine," said Mr. Manners.
"I will walk with you, but I refuse to enter it," rejoined Mr. Parkinson, roughly. "You are, of course, a rich man."
"Yes, I am rich."
"I am poor, and I will keep my place. It would be better for all of us if every man did the same. We can talk in the streets. It will serve some good purpose, you said. I ask nothing for myself, mind, nothing but justice."
"In the sad story you have told," said Mr. Manners, "you spoke of a woman who was kind to your daughter."
"I did, and what I said of her is true. She is an angel of goodness, and she saved my daughter, body and soul. See here, sir. I am not a church-going man, and I hate sanctimonious people, but I am not a heathen either. There's some kind of a power that made the world and sent us into it for some purpose. I often wonder what, when I think of things. And there's a hereafter, and I'm glad to know it. I'll tell you why I'm glad. Because, if that scoundrel who ruined my daughter escapes his punishment here-and I'll do my best that he sha'n't-but if he does escape it here, he'll meet it there! That's a satisfaction to me, and the thought of it will make me religious. I'll go to church next Sunday."
"My object in speaking to you now," said Mr. Manners, "is to obtain information of Mrs. Manners. I gathered from what you said that she is poor."
"Very poor," said Mr. Parkinson, "and that stands to her credit here, and 'll stand to her credit in the next world-if there's any justice there."
"In what way does it stand to her credit?"
Mr. Parkinson stopped suddenly to look at Mr. Manners's face, upon which the light of a street lamp was shining.
"You are asking close questions," he said, "and I'm getting suspicious of people."
"You are suspicious of me?"
"Put it as you like. You don't know me, and never heard of me before to-night, and I don't suppose you care a brass farthing whether you ever hear of me again. I never saw you before to-night, and I don't know your name even; so you have the advantage of me. You're in the light, you see, and I'm in the dark, and here we are talking together confidentially, with the difference that you know what you're talking about, and I don't. Stop a bit. I see you want to speak; but I must work off my reel first. I don't care for interruptions. You've heard me tell my story; you've got in your mind my name, and my girl's name and shame, likewise the name of the man I'd take by the throat if he stood before me now and I knew it. Likewise the name of the angel woman who saved her, and who'd stand by her-I'll take my oath on it-if all the rest of the world was hounding her and throwing mud at her. Likely as not you're a friend of the scoundrel that's brought this upon us. I saw something in your face that makes me sure now he's not a stranger to you. He was a gentleman, so-called; you're another. I've only got your word for it that the talk you're having with me is for a good purpose. It may be for a bad one. I've no call to trust you that I can see. Give me a reason."
"I find no fault with you for your suspicion of me. My name is Manners."
"Oh! And is the woman I'd die to serve a connection of yours?"
"She may be. It is to ascertain whether she is that I am questioning you now."
"For a good purpose, you said?"
"What I said I mean."
"Let me have another look at you."
Again they stopped, and again Mr. Parkinson's eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Manners's face. He was to some extent apparently satisfied.
"Go ahead," he said.
"You said," resumed Mr. Manners, steadily, "that her being poor, very poor, stands to her credit here, and will stand to her credit in another world, and I asked in what way."
"All right. You've got a clear head on you. In this way. She's got nothing to gain by it. What she does is done out of pure goodness-not only what she's done for me and my girl, but what she does for every one who's in trouble. There isn't a face that don't light up when she comes by; there isn't a lodging, the commonest you can think of, that isn't brightened when she opens the door. If she was to die to-morrow-the good Lord forbid that she should! but I'm putting it that way to make it plain to you-if she was to die to-morrow, there'd be hundreds of us, men, women, and children, who'd follow her to the grave, and know that they'd lost a friend that could never be replaced. There would be no money to pay for a stone, but she'd have one in our hearts. God Almighty bless her and hers!"
CHAPTER XXXVI
The earnest sincerity of the grateful man shook Mr. Manners to the soul, and for once in his life his self-control slipped from him. He recovered himself quickly, but the impression produced by Mr. Parkinson's words remained.
"You speak," he said, "of a woman and her daughter who have laid you under an obligation-"
"A moment, if you please," interrupted Mr. Parkinson; "I spoke of a lady and her daughter. Mrs. Manners is a lady; we all know that, every one of us, and we've often wondered how she found her way among us, and how it is she is almost as poor as the poorest of us. I object to your calling her a woman in a tone that means, if it means anything, that she is no better than the rest of us. It's clear enough to me that you look down on us. Well, look down. It doesn't hurt us, any more than it's to your credit."
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Manners, gently; "I do not look down on you. I was once a working-man myself." He sighed as he made the admission, at the thought that in those early days when he was struggling and making his way up the ladder he was a happier man than he had ever been since.
"Were you?" exclaimed Mr. Parkinson, in wonder. "Let me think a bit. I remember when I was a boy hearing of a Mr. Manners, a great contractor, who was once no better than a bricklayer, and who had made himself a millionaire by his cleverness. It may be that you're the gentleman."
"I am he."
"I take off my hat to you. I'm not one of the envious ones. You made your money fairly, I've heard, and though you drove hard bargains, you didn't cut down wages."
"That is true. I shall be pleased if yon will reckon it to my credit now."
"I'll do that-it's no more than fair. And the lady I speak of may be a connection of yours, you say. That's interesting, though I never thought of linking you two together."
"She never gave you cause to suspect it?"
"Never. If she had it would have been known and talked of. These things get about, you see."
"What you say makes me think all the better of her. May I proceed with my questions?"
"You may."
Had Mr. Manners been inclined to reflect, in his usual spirit, under the peculiar nature of this conversation, he would have loftily resented Mr. Parkinson's occupation of the higher ground; but in truth there was that stirring within him which humbled him; and it is good to know that it humbled without mortifying him.
"Are Mrs. Manners and her daughter," he asked, "living alone? Is she a widow?"
"No," replied Mr. Parkinson. "She is married, and lives with her husband."
"Are you acquainted with his Christian name?"
"Yes. It is Kingsley."
A sigh of relief escaped Mr. Manners. He was not childless, then. It was still in his power to make reparation, or if not to make, to offer it. The latter alternative trod close upon the heels of the new-born impulse to atone for his harshness; the reflection intruded itself that his overtures towards a reconciliation might be declined. Many years had passed since there was peace between him and his son, and during all those years he had been, figuratively speaking, rolling in gold. So vast was his fortune that, living the life he did, he could not spend one half of it, and every day of his existence its colossal proportions grew. To Mark Inglefield he had made a most liberal allowance, and Inglefield, cunning and careful of the future, had occasionally drawn largely upon the great contractor's generosity. The requests he made were never refused, the reasons for them never inquired into. Mr. Manners had set store upon his wealth before he discarded his son; it meant then distinction, fame, political power, in which he would have a share. Kingsley's sense of right, no less than the ingenuousness and unselfishness of his nature, would have caused him to lay at his father's feet the honor and glory which he would assuredly have won had he been allowed to follow the career which, in his young manhood, had been mapped out for him. The rich man's heart was tortured as the image of Kingsley rose before him: the frank, laughing mouth, the bright eyes, the eager manner, smote him now with more than the force of actual blows. Those he could have parried or returned; not so the accusing voices from the past which proclaimed him tyrannical, ruthless, and unjust. The manner of Kingsley's life, as indicated by Mr. Parkinson's championship of his wife and daughter, was an added sting to the torture he was suffering. Kingsley and those with whom he had, without a murmur, thrown in his lot, had borne privation and poverty cheerfully, and had won a place in the esteem and affections of the poor people around them of which the highest in the land might have been proud. And all this time it had been in his, the father's, power to have lightened and brightened their lot without in the remotest degree feeling the loss; and all this time they had lived and labored without uttering one Word of reproach against him whose unreasoning, dictatorial conduct had made their life one of daily, hourly struggle; and all this time they had made no appeal to him upon whom they had a just claim, but trod, with courage and resignation, the thorny paths into which he had thrust them. Well might he hide his face in his hands with shame. He thought of Nansie, and of the surprise he felt when he first saw her-surprise at her modesty and gentleness of manner, surprise at the soft, pleading voice, surprise that she was a lady, fitted to grace any position to which wealth could raise her; to grace and adorn it, and to bring into it qualities of goodness which would have made her a shining example amid the follies and frivolities of fashionable life. What were the grounds of his anger against her and his son? That Kingsley, meeting her, had fallen in love with her, and had wooed her honorably, and that she, urged in some degree by youth and love, and in some degree by Kingsley's confident view of the future, had accepted him and become his wife. How, then, was Nansie to be blamed? How had she merited the lot to which he had condemned her? And wherein lay Kingsley's misconduct? In that having wooed and won a lady, he had held an opinion of his father which placed Mr. Manners above the sordid considerations of a sordid age. That surely was not a crime; but the father and judge had viewed it as such, and had meted out a cruel punishment. Kingsley might have acted differently; he might have acted towards Nansie as Mark Inglefield had acted towards the working-man, whose visit to Mr. Hollingworth had brought about disclosures which had led-and perhaps happily led-to the contemplations in which Mr. Manners indulged as he stood in the dark night with Mr. Parkinson. The conversation between them had been continued, and Mr. Manners, anxious to obtain as much information as it was in Mr. Parkinson's power to impart, had been told of Kingsley's connection with the Wilberforce Club, and of the project to make him president in the place of Mr. Bartholomew. This project Kingsley himself had relinquished, further experience of the violent views of his partisans having convinced him that their methods were not such as he could approve of. Mr. Parkinson, being led on by Mr. Manners, dilated at some length on working-men's politics in connection with Kingsley.
"Not so easily led as you would imagine, sir," observed Mr. Parkinson, referring to Kingsley's characteristics. "Sympathizing with all who suffer from unjust and unequal laws, but stanch in his belief that those wrongs can only be set right by temperate means. Mr. Kingsley Manners has a will of his own."
The father had already been compelled to acknowledge that. Strikingly different as he and his son were in their dispositions, they resembled each other in one respect; having resolved upon what they deemed right to do, they walked straight forward, regardless of consequences. Kingsley had done this in his relations with Nansie, and Mr. Manners had done this in his relations with his son. But Kingsley had sacrificed everything, his father nothing; and yet, of the two, Mr. Manners could not help confessing that the lot of the man who had cheerfully embraced poverty was the higher and nobler of the two.
"And now," said Mr. Parkinson, after further questions had been asked and answered, "I've told you all I know about Mr. and Mrs. Manners and their daughter, and I should like to know what good it is going to do me."
"I do not follow you," said Mr. Manners.
"You've been so much occupied," explained Mr. Parkinson, "in the object you've been driving at, getting all you can out of me, and telling me precious little to enlighten me, that maybe you've lost sight of my story."
"I acknowledge it," said Mr. Manners.
"I told you," proceeded Mr. Parkinson, "when we were in Mr. Hollingworth's house, that I believed you knew who the man is who has wronged my child. I say so again. You do know him. Come, come, sir, I've played fair with you; play fair with me."
"If the portrait you showed Mr. Hollingworth," said Mr. Manners, "is that of the man who has done you this wrong, I do know him."
"Thank you for that much. I'll trouble you for his name. I don't want any one to take my quarrels on himself; I'm equal to them, and can carry them through. His name, sir, if you please."
"At present I must decline to give it to you," said Mr. Manners, and would have proceeded had he not been interrupted roughly by Mr. Parkinson, who exclaimed:
"That's the thanks I get! I might have known what to expect! But I'll find out where you live, and I'll dog you like your shadow till I come face to face with him."
"There is no cause for you to speak to me like that. I have told you who I am, and wished you to come with me to my house. Mr. Parkinson, you have done me a great service, and in return I would give you all the assistance in my power. But threats and violence will not help you here. For the present, leave your wrongs to me; it is not unlikely I may be able to render you an infinitely greater service than you dream of. I ask you to trust me."
"For how long?"
"For a few days."
"Have you influence with the scoundrel?"
"I have."
A queer smile played about Mr. Parkinson's lips. "An infinitely greater service than I dream of," he said, repeating Mr. Manners's words. "Of course there's but one way of setting this thing right, and then I should lose my daughter. That's what we have children for-to plague, or torment, or disgrace us."
Mr. Manners laid his hand gently on Mr. Parkinson's arm, and said, "We bring such punishment upon ourselves often. Perhaps it is the parents, not the children, who are chiefly to blame. Good-night, Mr. Parkinson. Here is my card; if you wish to see me you are welcome at any time. If you do not come to me I will come to you. There is one other favor I would ask of you."
