Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
Mr. Manners strolled slowly through streets and narrow ways with which, in his youth, he had been familiar, and he derived a sad pleasure in renewing his acquaintance with the aspects of life which characterized them. He noted the changes which had taken place. Here, a well-known street had disappeared; rows of private dwellings had been turned into shops; but for the main part things were as they used to be. He searched for a certain house in which he had resided as a boy, and, finding it, gazed upon its old walls as he would have gazed upon the face of an old friend who had long since passed out of his life. He recalled himself as he had been in the past, a brisk, stirring, hard-working lad, taking pleasure in his work, eager to get along in the world, keen for chances of promotion, industriously looking about for means to improve himself. Between that time and the present was a bridge which memory re-created, and over that bridge he walked in pensive thought, animated by tenderer feelings than he had experienced for many, many years. Once more he felt an interest in the ways and doings of his fellowmen, and it seemed to him as if he had long been living a dead life. The crust of selfishness in which he had been as it were entombed was melting away, and even in these humble thoroughfares the sun was shining more brightly for him. Such a simple thing as a geranium blooming in a pot on the window-sill of his old home brought an unwonted moisture to his eyes. He knocked at the door, conversed with the woman who opened it, ascertained her position, listened to what she had to say about her children, wrote down their names, and left behind him some small tokens for them from one who once was as they were now.
"You shall hear from me again," he said to the surprised woman; and as he left her he felt new channels of pleasure and sweetness were opening out to him. He was becoming human.
When he started with Mark Inglefield from his home in the west of the city, he had formed no plan as to the means by which he should approach Kingsley and Nansie; but after some time spent in wandering among the thoroughfares and seeking old landmarks, he resolved not to present himself to them until evening. It would be a more favorable hour for what he purposed to do. Until then he could profitably employ himself in ascertaining how they stood in the neighborhood, and whether Mr. Parkinson's report of them was correct. It was three o'clock in the afternoon before he felt the necessity of eating, and then he entered a common eating-house and sat down to a humble meal. It was strange how he enjoyed it, and how agreeable he felt this renewal of old associations. When he had finished, he took out his pocket-book and made some rough calculations. The poverty of the neighborhood had impressed itself upon him, and he thought how much good the expenditure of money he could well spare would do for the children who were growing into men and women. He remembered the want of rational enjoyment he had experienced occasionally in his boyhood. He had not then many spare hours; but there had come upon him at odd times the need for social relaxation. There was only one means of satisfying this need-the public-house-and that way, as he knew, led to ruin. From what Mr. Parkinson had told him, Nansie was untiring in her efforts to ameliorate and smooth the hard lot of the wretched and poverty-stricken; and, poor as she was, had succeeded in shedding light upon weary hearts. If, in her position, she could do so much, how vast was the field before him to do more!
He made his calculations, and was surprised to find, when the figures were before him, that he was richer than he had supposed himself to be. In former days he was in the habit of making such calculations; but for a long while past he had not troubled himself about them-a proof how truly valueless his great store of wealth was to him, and how scanty was the enjoyment he derived from it. Supposing that Mark Inglefield justified and cleared himself in this affair of Mary Parkinson-of which, notwithstanding all that had transpired, Mr. Manners was not yet completely satisfied-half of his fortune should go to the redeeming of his promises to that person in respect of the expectations held out to him. The remaining half would be ample for the carrying out of schemes as yet unformed, in the execution of which, if all went well, Kingsley and Nansie would assist him.
Issuing from the eating-house with a light step, he proceeded to make his inquiries respecting his son's family. What he heard made him even more humble and remorseful. Every person to whom he spoke had affectionate words for them; nothing but good was spoken of them. They were not only respected, but beloved.
"If you want to know more about them than I can tell you, sir," said one poor woman to whom Nansie had been kind, "go to Dr. Perriera."
Receiving Dr. Perriera's address, Mr. Manners wended thither, and found the worthy doctor, who was now a man well advanced in years, in his shop. With Dr. Perriera he had a long and pregnant interview. In confidence he told the doctor who he was, and Dr. Perriera's heart glowed at the better prospect which seemed to present itself to friends whom he honored. Forces which had long lain dormant in Mr. Manners came into play; always a good judge of character, he recognized that he was conversing with a man of sterling worth and honor.
"I have been informed," he said, "that you are a doctor of great skill. You would have succeeded in more flourishing neighborhoods than this."
"I preferred to stay here," said Dr. Perriera. "Elsewhere I should not have found the happiness I have enjoyed among these poor people."
"But you would have been rich."
"It would have marred my life," was the simple rejoinder. "You and I are on equal ground, about the same age, I judge. We have not many years to live. Of what use presently will much money be to you and me? Men and women grow into false ideas; most of those who become rich become slaves. Gold is their master-a frightful tyrant, destructive, as it is chiefly used, of all the teachings of Christianity. But, then, Christians are scarce."
Mr. Manners hinted at his unformed schemes, and Dr. Perriera was greatly interested.
"What the poor and wretched want," he said, "is light, first for the body, afterwards for the soul. Not the light of gin-shops, which are poisonously planted by the wealthy at every convenient corner. Sweep away the rookeries; purify the gutters; commence at the right end. There are darksome spaces round about, in which only vice and crime can grow; and they are allowed to remain, defiling and polluting body and soul. There is a false, convenient theory, that you cannot make people moral by act of Parliament. My dear sir, you can. Cleanliness is next to godliness; that is a wiser saying; and governments would be better employed in enforcing this than in ninety-nine out of every hundred of the acts they waste their time in discussing."
"What do you mean," asked Mr. Manners, "by your remark, commence at the right end?"
"Commence with the children," replied Dr. Perriera, "not neglecting meanwhile those who are grown up. These children presently will become fathers and mothers, and their early teaching bears fruit. It is impossible to train anew firmly rooted trees, but they can be gently and wisely treated. With saplings it is different."
They remained in conversation until evening fell. Mr. Manners had received Kingsley's address, and the two men were standing at the door of the doctor's shop when an elderly man and a young girl passed. In the elderly man Mr. Manners recognized Mr. Loveday, Nansie's uncle, who had once paid him a visit in his grand mansion. But it was the girl who chiefly attracted him. Her sweet face, her gentle bearing, impressed him, but more than all was he impressed by a likeness which caused his heart to beat more quickly. It was a likeness to his son.
Dr. Perriera glanced at Mr. Manners, and called the girl, who, with her companion, paused to say a word or two.
"Is your mother well?" asked the doctor.
"Quite well, thank you," replied the girl.
"And your father?"
"Quite well."
"How is business, Mr. Loveday?"
"So-so," said the old book-man. "I can't compete very well with the youngsters. Their brazen voices beat me."
He said this quite good-humoredly.
"We must make way for the young," observed the doctor.
"Yes, yes; but the necessity of living is upon the old as well."
"Are you going home now?"
"Yes," said the girl, answering for her uncle. "We have been to see the new shop."
"Whose?"
"Timothy Chance's."
She laughed kindly as she spoke the name.
"See," said Mr. Loveday, opening a small parcel he held in his hand, "we've been making a purchase there."
What he disclosed to view was half a cooked fowl. Dr. Perriera appeared to be greatly interested in this simple food.
"How much did you pay for it?"
"One and four."
"That is cheap. A fat fowl, too."
"Yes. The shop is crowded; people are buying like wildfire. Timothy will make a fortune."
"He has pretty well made one already. Sharp fellow, Timothy Chance, and a worthy fellow, too."
The girl nodded, and Mr. Loveday observed:
"He is just the same as ever. Not a bit altered. Never forgets old friends, and never will forget them. That come-by-chance waif is of the right mettle. He is with Nansie now. We are going to see him. Come along, Hester."
"Can you guess who that young lady is?" asked Dr. Perriera of Mr. Manners.
"I am almost afraid to guess. Tell me."
"Your grandchild. Have you never seen her before?"
"Never."
"If I had a daughter," said Dr. Perriera, "I should esteem it a great blessing if she were like Hester Manners. She has all the virtues of her mother, all the simplicity and nobility which distinguish her father. She has been trained in the right school. I regard it as an honor that I am privileged to call myself her friend. Do you wish to proceed at once to your son's poor dwelling?"
"I would prefer to see him alone. This friend whom my grandchild spoke of is there; I will wait awhile."
"It will be best, perhaps. My place is at your service. If it accords with your desire you can remain here, and I will bring your son to you."
"I thank you," said Mr. Manners, "and accept your kind offer."
His heart was stirred by hopes and fears. It went out to the sweet girl he had seen for the first time; she was of his blood; but had he any claim to her affection? How would her parents receive him-her parents, to whom she was bound by the strongest links of love, and whom he had treated so harshly and unjustly? There was a time when he thought he could never bring himself to forgive the son who had disappointed his worldly hopes; but now it was he himself who needed forgiveness. The happiness of his brief future depended upon the son he had wronged; if Kingsley and Nansie rejected him, the anguish of a lonely, loveless life would attend him to his last hour.
"I should advise," said Dr. Perriera, "that you wait awhile before the interview takes place. Timothy Chance and your son's family are much attached to each other, and it will be an act of delicacy not to immediately intrude upon them."
"An act of delicacy?" repeated Mr. Manners, looking at Dr. Perriera for an explanation.
"I have an idea," said the doctor, "that Timothy Chance has a tender feeling for your grandchild. Whether it is reciprocated or not, I cannot say. There is a disparity in their ages of fourteen or fifteen years, but that should be no obstacle. I hold that in married life the man should be some years older than the woman."
"You have hinted that this Timothy Chance is well-to-do."
"He is more than that. He is on the high-road to a fortune. I am curious to see the shop he has opened. Will you come? We have time. On the road I will relate to you Timothy Chance's story. It is, in its way, remarkable."
They started out together, and, with a heart gloomed by the intrusion of this friend of his son's family, Mr. Manners listened to the doctor's narrative. In Kingsley's eyes his money had never been deemed of importance; Kingsley had never stooped or cringed before that universal idol. How much less was he likely to do so now that he had by his side a friend who could lift him from the state of poverty to which the hard father had condemned him? Not purse-strings, but heart-strings, would decide the issue of his heart's desire.
Up to the point with which we are familiar there is no need to set down here what Dr. Perriera imparted to his companion. We will take up the thread from the time of Timothy Chance's last appearance upon the scene.
"Timothy has made the best use of his opportunities," said the doctor. "From the small beginnings which I have recounted he has risen by slow and sure steps to be, I should say, the largest poultry breeder in the kingdom. He has farms in half a dozen different places, and it is necessary, of course, that at stated intervals he should get rid of old stock to make room for new. His contracts are really important ones, and he turns over a large amount of money during the year. Lately an idea occurred to him, which he is now turning to practical account. Instead of selling his old stock to hotels and shopkeepers, he believes it will be more profitable to speculate in it himself. As a trial, he has opened a shop in the neighborhood here, which I regard as a boon to the people. He will send so many fowls there every day, and they will be cooked and disposed of to those who can afford to buy. I think his idea was inspired by something of a similar nature which he saw in France. You can purchase a whole roasted fowl, a half, a wing and breast, or a leg. The prices are very moderate, the poultry is of good quality, the cooking is sure to be excellent, for Timothy is perfect in all his arrangements. Here we are at his trial shop."
It was, indeed, a notable establishment, and, as Hester had said, was crowded with customers. The predominating features of the shop were light and cleanliness. At the rear of the shop were the stoves at which the fowls were roasted, and these were cut up, or arranged whole, upon marble slabs. The attendants were all females, and wore light print dresses and spotlessly clean white aprons and caps; order and system reigned, and the money was rolling in. It was an animated scene, made the more agreeable by the pleasant faces and the civility which distinguished those who were attending to the customers.
"It will do," said Dr. Perriera, in a tone of approval. "Before the year is out Timothy will have a score of such shops in poor localities. He is made of the right stuff; his future is assured. Let us return now, and I will bring your son to you."
CHAPTER XLV
Mr. Manners sat alone in Dr. Perriera's living-room, awaiting the arrival of his son. The last twenty-four hours had been the most pregnant in his life; in a few minutes his fate would be decided; in a few minutes he would know whether the years that remained to him would be brightened by love, or made desolate by loneliness-loneliness in which reigned a terror and despair he had never yet experienced. Hitherto he had been a law unto himself; hitherto he had borne the fate he had courted with a stern, implacable spirit, bearing with bitter resolve the burden he had inflicted upon himself. There had been no resignation in his soul to soften his sufferings, and he had not sought the consolation which charity or religion would have shed upon him. His heart had been as a sealed box, into which no ray of light had entered; all was dark and desolate. He would soon learn whether this would continue to be his fate. Some savage comfort had come to him in the past from the belief that he was in the right, and Kingsley in the wrong, but this would be denied to him now. The thought had occasionally intruded itself that Kingsley would come to him as a suppliant, begging for mercy and forgiveness; but the positions were reversed; it was he, not his son, who was the suppliant; it was he, not his son, who pleaded for forgiveness.
Each moment seemed prolonged. "He refuses to come," thought the repentant man. "I am to my only child as one who is dead. It is a just punishment." It was in accordance with his character that he should recognize the justice of the position in which he stood.
When he heard footsteps in Dr. Perriera's shop he rose to his feet and looked towards the door as a criminal might, awaiting his sentence. The door opened, and Kingsley entered.
His face was radiant; a tender light shone in his eyes.
"Why, father!" cried Kingsley, and opened his arms.
"Thank God!"
He did not speak the words aloud; they were spoken by his grateful heart as he pressed his son to his breast. Then he gently released himself, and gazed with tearful eyes upon the son he had turned from his home.
Kingsley was much altered. His hair was grayer than that of his father; his face was worn and thin; but the tender, whimsical spirit of old dwelt in his eyes.
At the present moment it was only the sympathetic chords in his nature which found expression.
"I knew you would come, father," said Kingsley, and at the tender utterance of the word Mr. Manners's heart was stirred by a new-born joy; "I always said you would come to us one day. And Nansie, too; she never wavered in her belief that we should see you. 'The time will be sure to arrive,' she often said to me, 'when we shall be reunited; and when your dear father comes to us, we have a home for him.' Yes, father, our home is yours. A poor one, but you will not mind that. It needs but little for happiness, and we have been happy, very happy."
"Oh, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners, "can you, can your good wife forgive me?"
"Forgive you, father!" exclaimed Kingsley, in a tone of surprise. "For what? You have done nothing but what you thought was right. Indeed, the fault has been on our side, for not coming to you. It was our duty, and we neglected it. Father, I do not think you know Nansie as well as I should wish."
"I do not," said the humbled man. "Oh, Kingsley, that I should ever have shut you from my heart!"
"I declare," said Kingsley, putting his hand fondly on his father's shoulder, "if any man but you said as much, I should feel inclined to quarrel with him. Shut me from your heart! I am sure you have never done that. I am sure you have thought of us with tenderness, as we have thought of you. Yes, father, in our prayers you have always been remembered. And we were content to wait your will, which was ever wise and strong. Not like mine-but that is my loss. A man cannot help being what he is, and I am afraid that I have been wanting in strength." He passed his hand across his forehead, half sadly, half humorously. "But I am truly thankful that I have had by my side a helpmate who has strewn my life with flowers. Dear Nansie! Ever patient, ever hopeful, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon the light which you have brought to us now! Then, there is our dear daughter, your grandchild, father-ah, what a blessing she is to us! You will love Hester. Beautiful as her mother was-and is, father-with a nature as sweet and gentle, and as trustful and confiding and pure."
A sudden weakness overcame him here, and with a little, pitiful motion of his arms, he sank into a chair.
"Kingsley!" cried Mr. Manners, alarmed. "Kingsley-my dear son!"
"It is nothing, father," said Kingsley, looking up, and pressing his father's hand to his lips. "The shock of happiness is so great! I scarcely expected it to-night. I was thinking of Nansie. She will be so grateful-so grateful!"
"Does she not know?"
"She knows nothing of this sweet joy. Nor did I when Dr. Perriera called me from the room. I am glad he told me as we came along. You will remain with us a little while?"
"We will never part again, Kingsley, if you and Nansie and Hester will have me."
"If we will have you! Why, father, how can you ask that? Nansie will be overjoyed, and Hester will go wild with delight and happiness. How often has the dear child asked, 'When am I going to see grandfather?' Well, now her desire will be gratified. She will see you, and will love and honor you, as we have always done, and we always shall do. Hush! Is not that Nansie's voice I hear?"
It was, indeed, Nansie who was speaking softly to Dr. Perriera in the shop without. Anxious about Kingsley, she had slipped on her hat and mantle, and had followed him. In a few hurried words the good doctor had told her all, and she was now standing in trembling hope to learn the best or worst.
"Kingsley," said Mr. Manners, "if it is your wife outside, go to her, and ask her if she will see me. Let her come in alone."
"As you wish, father. I will remain with Dr. Perriera while you speak to her."
With a fond look at his father he left the room, and a moment afterwards Nansie and Mr. Manners stood face to face. Tearfully and wistfully she stood before him. Better than Kingsley did she recognize what this meeting might mean to her and her beloved ones. He held out his hand, and with a sudden rush of joy she bent her head over it.
Had any barrier remained standing in the proud man's heart, this simple action would have effectually destroyed it. He could more easily have borne reproachful words, and was ready to acknowledge them his due, but this sweet and grateful recognition of a too tardy justice almost broke him down. He turned his head humbly aside, and said:
"Can you forgive me, Nansie-my daughter?"
"Father!" she cried, and fell sobbing in his arms.
It was a night never to be forgotten. In his heart of hearts Mr. Manners breathed a prayer of thankfulness that the flower of repentance had blossomed for the living, and not for the dead. Often it blossoms too late, and then it is a fateful flower, and leaves a curse, and not a blessing, behind it.
But this night was not only to bear the sweet fruit of goodness and self-denial; it was to bring forth a fitting punishment of a life of cunning and duplicity.
Linked close together, Mr. Manners and his children walked to Kingsley's humble rooms, and there the old man received his grandchild's kiss. Instinctively he was made to feel that, through all this long and bitter separation, no word of complaining had ever reached Hester's ears. All the brighter in his eyes shone the characters of Kingsley and Nansie, and readily did he acknowledge that never was nobility more truly shown. The little room in which they sat was a garden of love.
Nor was the old book-man forgotten. He and Mr. Manners, in one firm hand-clasp, forged a link which even the grave would not sever.
Timothy Chance was not with them; he had other business to see to. What that business was, and to what it led, will now be told.
CHAPTER XLVI
The clock struck nine when a knock was heard at the door. Hester rose and opened it, and Dr. Perriera appeared. He looked round upon the happy group and smiled; but when the smile faded they observed an unwonted gravity in his face.
"What has happened?" asked Nansie, solicitously. Her sympathetic nature was ever on the alert to detect signs of trouble in her friends.
"Hester," said Dr. Perriera, "leave us for a moment or two. I wish to speak to your parents alone."
The girl retired to the inner room, and shut herself in.
"It is best to keep it from her ears," said Dr. Perriera; he addressed Mr. Manners. "You are as much concerned as any here in the news I have to impart. I was not present when you and a friend came to the neighborhood this morning to see Mr. Parkinson; but, if I am not mistaken, you are interested in the misfortune which has fallen upon him."
"I am deeply interested in it," replied Mr. Manners, "and have pledged myself to sift the unhappy matter to the bottom. But, unfortunately, the poor girl has disappeared."
"The truth may be made clear this very night," said Dr. Perriera. "Strange news has strangely reached me. May I ask if this is the portrait of the friend who accompanied you?"
He handed to Mr. Manners the portrait of Mark Inglefield which Mr. Parkinson had shown to him and Mr. Hollingworth on the previous night.
"Yes, it is he," said Mr. Manners.
"I obtained it from Mr. Parkinson," said Dr. Perriera, "and promised that I would return it."
"But your reason?" asked Mr. Manners.
"If you will come with me," replied Dr. Perriera, "all shall be explained. No, not you, or you" – Kingsley and Nansie had both risen, in token of their willingness to assist him. "Leave the matter in our hands. I am at present," he added, glancing at Mr. Manners, "somewhat in the dark, and perhaps I have small right to inquire into your motives. What chiefly concerns me, as taking what I may call a vital interest in the poor people among whom I have passed my life, is that a worthy man has been foully wronged, and a weak-minded girl beguiled by the arts of a scoundrel. To right this wrong I am willing to make some sacrifice, if only in the cause of justice."
