Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

"No," said Kingsley, fervently, "as Heaven is my judge, no!"

"Mr. Manners," said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to the young man, "you said a moment or two since that I was doing you an injustice, and that I should be compelled to acknowledge it. I acknowledge it now, and I ask your pardon. You have been simply thoughtless. The time may come when, with children of your own to protect, you will look back to this meeting with satisfaction."

"I shall always do that, sir. And now, sir, as we are on better terms, I may ask what it is you expect of me."

"That you never see my daughter more; that you give me your promise not to intrude yourself upon her, nor write to her, and in that way help her in the task that lies before her, the task of forgetfulness."

"A hard task, sir."

"It may be, and all the sweeter when it is accomplished, because of the dangers from which its performance saves her. You promise me this?"

"A moment, sir. If your daughter and I had been equal in station-which we are not; she is far above me." Being more at his ease, he relapsed now into his old manner of discursiveness. "If you knew me better you would excuse me for flying off at a tangent. It is a butterfly habit of mine, though I hope there is something of the grub in me! It may be needed by and by. If, as I was about to say, your daughter and I were equal in worldly station, both being equally poor or equally rich, and I asked you for her hand, would you refuse it to me?"

"I think not," replied Mr. Loveday. "But knowing so little of you it would be necessary that I should know more, that I should be to some extent satisfied as to your past life."

"And your inquiries in that respect being satisfactory," interrupted Kingsley, "you would not refuse?"

"My daughter's heart should decide for me."

"Let it decide for you now, sir," said Kingsley, in a tone both light and earnest. "No, do not take it amiss that I make this proposition, but listen to me a moment. Hitherto I have been pretty well thrust aside in this matter, as if I were a bit of stone, without feelings, or something very nearly resembling a monster with them. I am quite conscious that I am of an erratic disposition, flying hither and thither as the whim seizes me-almost as bad, my dear sir, as your eccentric wanderings in a caravan-but I am not at all conscious that I have any very distinct vice in me; the explanation of which may be that I lack strength of character, a proof that it is as undesirable in one man as it is desirable in another. I am not speaking in praise of myself, except perhaps in a negative way, which is not much to one's credit. Though I may tell you, sir, that I have not unfrequently been called a radical, and a radical is a personage. What I am endeavoring to express is that I have feelings, and that I should prefer rather to be happy than miserable. There is nothing unreasonable in that, I hope."

As he paused for a reply, Mr. Loveday, somewhat mystified, said: "No, there is nothing unreasonable in such a desire."

"That much being admitted," continued Kingsley, "I repeat my request that your daughter's heart should decide for you, as you would allow it to decide for you if you supposed me to be a poor man. And this sends me flying off again. My father is a rich man; I am nothing but what he makes me. If he were to turn me off, my entire worldly wealth would consist of an inconsiderable sum of six hundred pounds, the whole of which would be swallowed up in paying my debts. Give me credit for frankness, sir."

"I do. Your frankness convinces me that for your own sake, as well as for my daughter's, it is best that you and she should not meet again."

"But she expects me, sir, and in your company. I would wager that she has prepared breakfast for me- There, sir, don't turn impatiently away; it is the fault of my temperament that I can be light and serious in a breath, that I can mean much and seem to mean little. This I promise. If you will allow me to accompany you to the caravan, where your daughter is waiting for us, I will abide by your decision, to be arrived at within five short minutes after we are together, as to whether I shall remain to breakfast or bid you farewell. Come, sir, I can't speak fairer."

There was an irresistible ingenuousness in Kingsley's voice and manner, and Mr. Loveday led the way to the caravan. Breakfast was laid, and Nansie, busy within the dwelling-house on wheels, cried out in the cheerfullest of voices:

"Is that you, father?"

"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.

"And Kingsley?"

"Yes, Nansie," said the young man. "Never mind the teapot. Come out at once; I have only five minutes' grace."

Nansie immediately ran down the little flight of wooden steps, and looked from one to the other of the men, both so dear to her.

"Nansie," said Kingsley, "I said that I would tell your father all. Forgive me; I have not done so."

"Why, Kingsley?"

"Because I left it to you."

"I may speak, then?"

"Yes."

And now there were tears in Nansie's eyes, happy tears. She approached closer to her father and took his hand.

"You said last night, father, that you thought I had a secret which I was keeping from you."

"Yes, child."

"I had; but I had given Kingsley a promise not to reveal it without his permission. I have his permission now, and I will tell it." Her bosom heaved, her lips trembled; she gazed fondly at her father.

"Well, child?"

"You will not be angry, father?"

"I do not know, Nansie."

"Father," said Nansie-her arms were round his neck, and her face half hidden on his breast-"Kingsley and I are married."

"Married!" cried Mr. Loveday, in a tone of wondering happiness.

"Yes, dear, married. Kingsley thought it best to wait until his father, who has been for some time abroad, returned home before we made it known; but I am glad that you know it earlier-glad and happy, my dear father. I wrote to Kingsley-I could not help it, father; I was afraid of losing him, we were wandering about so-and he came last night, when you were asleep. I was awake, listening to the nightingale. Kingsley being outside and I in, we could not talk comfortably together; that is how we met this morning at sunrise. You will forgive us, father, will you not?"

"Forgive you, dear child!" said Mr. Loveday, holding out his hand to Kingsley, who took it and pressed it warmly. "What can I have to forgive, seeing you and Kingsley so happy, and knowing that you have a protector? It is I who should ask forgiveness of him."

"Not at all, my dear sir, not at all," cried Kingsley, hastily. "I was to blame for allowing you to labor a moment under a misapprehension."

"My dear Nansie! my dear, dear child!" murmured the happy father. Then, turning to Kingsley: "When do you expect your father home?" As he asked the question his face became grave. He saw the difficulties in their way.

"He has arrived, sir. I had a letter from him yesterday, and I am going to him, to confess all. It was partly that, and partly because of Nansie's letter, but chiefly because I could not exist without seeing her before I went to my father, which brought me here. But, sir, my father is not the question."

"What is, then, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Loveday, still very grave.

"The question is, whether you are going to ask me to stay to breakfast with you."

Mr. Loveday brightened; there was something contagious in the young man's gay spirits.

"I invite you, Kingsley," he said.

"Thank you, sir; I am famished, Nansie."

Standing upon the wooden steps, she turned and gazed fondly at her father and her husband, and as her bright eyes shone upon them there issued from a thicket of trees a most wonderful chorus of birds. And Mr. Loveday, quoting from his favorite poet, said:

"'See, the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet the morn with melody.'"

And Nansie, going slowly into the caravan, thought that life was very sweet and the world very beautiful.

CHAPTER IV