Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

She did not understand the drift of all he said, nor, indeed, did he himself, nor was he aware that his speech was of a wandering nature. He spoke enthusiastically, and sometimes he ran his fingers through his hair; and although he did this rather perplexedly, there was no indication in his manner of any want of confidence in himself or his opinions. When Nansie said she had followed her heart, he kissed her and said:

"And I followed mine; it led me here to your side, my dearest, and I am happy. This is the loveliest morning! The rain has sweetened everything-for us! You are teaching me things, Nansie. I had no idea the early morning was so beautiful. The flowers, the dew-it is wonderful. If I were a poet I should say the earth was covered with jewels."

"You are a poet, Kingsley."

"No, no; I see things through your eyes. It is you who are the poet. But I have written verses, too. The fellows say poetry doesn't pay, and you must not encourage me. We must be sensibly worldly. What some of the fellows used to say was that I was prone to be discursive, but they were not judges. Between you and me, they were a little jealous because I could talk. Well, the gift of oratory is not a bad one-I don't say I have it, but I am seldom at a loss for words. It may not be a gift-it may be an art which a man may cultivate. That brings me back to my father. He was always fond of hearing me talk. He has often said, 'Talk away, Kingsley; you shall be in the House one day.' You know what I mean by the House, Nansie? – Parliament."

"I like to hear you speak of your father, Kingsley, and that he loves you."

"He does, sincerely. He says I am to do great things, and that all his hopes are centred in me. Why do you sigh, Nansie?"

"Did I sigh, Kingsley?" she asked, with feminine duplicity. "It must be because I am overjoyed that we are together."

"Dear girl! The reason I ramble on so about my father is because I wish you to know him thoroughly. He is very practical-so am I. Sentiment does not run in our family. Only he must be humored, because everything depends upon him. He is rather proud; he has a right to be so, being a self-made man. And obstinate; so am I. You do not know all sides of me yet, Nansie. I have heard it said of a man who has raised himself by his own exertions: 'Oh, he is only a man who has made money!' Now that is an exhibition of ignorance. For a man who was once poor to become a magnate-well, there is an element of romance in it. Look at Whittington. My father was a poor boy; his parents were poor, and could not afford to give him a good education. What he knows he has learned since he became a man. That opens up the question whether it was of any use sending me to college; whether a mistake was not made in not throwing me upon the world, as he was thrown? He has spoken to me of the philosopher's stone, and said he found it when he was young. 'Make use of others,' he says, and has furnished illustrations. 'Take a thousand workingmen,' he says, 'bricklayers, stonemasons, carpenters, anything. They work a certain number of hours per day for a certain number of shillings per week. So manage that from their labor you reap a profit of half an hour a day out of each man. That is a profit of five hundred hours per day for the organizer. At eight working hours per day you thus put, roughly speaking, into your pocket the earnings of sixty men out of the thousand.' That is the way in which my father became a contractor. Bridges, canals, foreign railways, he has made them all, and has had as many as eight thousand men working for him at one time. And all out of nothing. But this is prosaic stuff. Let us talk of ourselves. Your father is ill, you said. What is the matter with him?"

"He suffers from his heart, Kingsley; I am in deep distress about him."

"Perhaps he is frightening himself unnecessarily, my dear. He must consult the best physicians. Thorough rest, freedom from anxiety, a warmer climate-leave it to me, Nansie. It is only a matter of money."

Nansie thought with sadness of the disclosure made by her father of the extent of his worldly resources, and at that moment the subject of her thoughts made his appearance. Mr. Loveday did not betray surprise at finding his daughter with Kingsley, but she blushed scarlet when she saw him, and Kingsley was not free from a certain embarrassment.

"You rose before me this morning," said Mr. Loveday to Nansie. "Have you been out long?"

"About half an hour, father," she replied.

"You have not met Mr. Manners by accident," he observed.

"No, father; Kingsley and I made the appointment last night."

"Last night! At what strange hour, then, and where?" Kingsley looked at her encouragingly, and whispered: "Be brave. I will tell him all."

This gave her courage.

"The appointment, father," she said, archly, "was made last night when the nightingale was singing."

He allowed his eyes to rest for a brief space upon hers, and he saw truth and innocence so clearly depicted therein that a deep breath escaped him, as though a weight had been lifted off his heart. But this assurance of his daughter's guilelessness was another argument against the man who, in the father's opinion, was playing upon her feelings.

"Go and prepare breakfast, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday. "I will join you presently."

"And Kingsley?" she asked. "He will also come?"

"We shall see, we shall see," said Mr. Loveday, fretfully. "He and I have much to say to each other."

"But I shall expect him," she said, kissing her father; then, with a bright look at Kingsley, she departed.

"It was the only way to get rid of her," said Mr. Loveday, with a look of displeasure at the young man. "Even a father is compelled sometimes to practise deceit in his dealings with his children."

The implied accusation in this remark was acknowledged by Kingsley in silence. Impulsive and wayward as he was, he was apt to resent an imputation reflecting upon his honor.

"But then," continued Mr. Loveday, "a father is often justified in his deceit, especially in such a case as this, when he has to deal with a young and inexperienced girl."

His manner was as unfortunate as his matter, and it was impossible to mistake his meaning; but Kingsley exhibited no resentment.

"You are bringing an accusation against me, sir," he said. "The least you can do is to set it forth in plain terms."

"I will do so. Were I disposed to be lenient-which I am not, because the welfare of my daughter is too near to my heart-I should call your conduct rash and inconsiderate. As it is, I have no hesitation in declaring it to be criminal."

"I am glad Nansie is not present to hear you, sir."

"I, also, am glad. You know as well as I do that I would not dare to speak so plainly were she here. I should have to temporize with her-in plainer terms, to use some of the arts you have used to entangle her."

"Have I used such arts to such a purpose?" asked Kingsley. He was not accustomed to be addressed in such a manner and to be misjudged so promptly. "You make me aware of it for the first time."

"Use none with me; be straightforward, if it is in your power. I am my daughter's protector, and I intend to protect her with firmness and authority." And yet as he spoke he pressed his hand to his heart, and looked before him apprehensively for a moment with the manner of a man to whom a spiritual warning had presented itself. Firm and confident as he endeavored to make his speech, he felt his powerlessness. He was a beggar, and the shadow of death hovered over him. Nevertheless he bravely pursued what he conceived to be his duty. "I have called your conduct criminal. You have some knowledge of the world. In what other words would you describe the behavior of a young man of fashion-you see I do you justice-"

"You do not," interrupted Kingsley, "you do me a gross injustice, as you will be compelled to acknowledge before we have done."

"How other than criminal is the conduct of a young man of fashion when he makes an appointment with a pure and innocent girl such as this in which I have surprised you? What construction would the world place upon it?"

"I care little for the world, sir, where my affections are concerned."

"That is to say, that you care little for the consequences of wrong-doing. I know, I know; it is the fashion of your set."

"Upon my honor, sir," said Kingsley, warmly, "I cannot make up my mind how to take you. The attitude you have assumed rather puts me on my mettle, and though I could easily disarm you, perhaps it is as well that I should first hear you out."

"The attitude you assume, young gentleman, is an utterly unwarrantable one. I am speaking strongly, I admit, but I am justified by my duty as a parent."

"And yet, sir, I may have equal justice on my side."

"There can be no question of equality in this matter."

"Pardon me, sir," said Kingsley-hurt as he was, his bearing towards Nansie's father was, if not deferential, respectful-"I thought this was a matter of the affections." And, conscious of his integrity, he could not help adding: "Shall your daughter be the judge, sir, between us?"

In Mr. Loveday's eyes this was an added offence.

"It is an unworthy challenge, Mr. Manners. It is not difficult for an inexperienced girl to choose between a lover and a father. Old affections, old ties, all records of a parent's anxious care, fade into nothingness when her heart is touched by the new love." He spoke now plaintively, and he noted the sympathizing look in Kingsley's face. It inspired him with hope; his voice became more gentle, his manner more appealing. "Mr. Manners, have pity on me. Let us speak as honest man to honest man."

"Agreed, sir," said Kingsley, heartily.

"My daughter is a poor girl; I am a poor man, and have been so all my life. There is no great misfortune in this; as much happiness is to be found in the ranks of the poor as in the ranks of the rich. When, some short time since, it first came to my knowledge that my daughter entertained an affection for you, there was but one course open to me-to effect a separation between you, in the hope that time and distance might work a healthful cure, and cause her to forget you."

"But why, sir?" asked Kingsley, with smiling eyes.

"You ask why? Surely you can yourself supply the answer. There is between you a disparity which renders it impossible that any good can spring from such an affection."

"No, no, sir; not impossible. Pardon me for interrupting you."

"I, as a matter of course, can form some reasonable conception of the future that lies before my child. She is poor; she will live among the poor; it is her lot, and not a hard one. It is only temptation, it is only a longing for what is out of her reach, that is likely to spoil her life, as it has spoiled the lives of many who have not had the strength to resist. Will you help to spoil the life of a child who is very dear to me?"