Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

"Nothing could be fairer."

"I am sorry to learn," continued Mark Inglefield, "that this man has been wronged, and sorry to learn that trouble has come to him through his daughter. They are both entire strangers to me. What I ask is that he bring his daughter forward now to corroborate my statement that she and I never saw each other in all our lives."

"But that," said one of Mr. Parkinson's friends, "is just what he can't do. His daughter has strangely disappeared in the night."

Mark Inglefield turned towards Mr. Manners, with a smile of incredulity on his lips.

"Our errand here seems to be wasted. Let me speak to you a moment out of hearing of these people."

The working-men moved aside to allow the two gentlemen to pass, and when they were a little apart Mark Inglefield said:

"I hope you are satisfied, sir."

"So far as you are concerned," replied Mr. Manners, "I cannot help being. But there is something still at the bottom of this that I would give much to get at the truth of."

"Why, sir," said Mark Inglefield, scornfully, "can you not see that the whole affair is trumped up?"

"No, I cannot see that. These men were not aware that we were coming here this morning, and even if they were it is not likely that they would have got up this excitement for our especial benefit."

Mark Inglefield bit his lip.

"I am not quite right, perhaps, in saying that the whole affair is trumped up, but undoubtedly it is much exaggerated, and more importance is being attached to it than it deserves. You must not mind my saying that I cannot form the same opinion of Mr. Parkinson as yourself. It seems to me that he is desirous of making capital out of his calamity. I have done all I could, have I not, to clear myself of the charge?"

"I do not see that you could have done more."

"There is nothing more to stop for, then. Shall we go?"

"Not yet. You may, if you wish, but I shall remain to make inquiries."

"I will remain with you, sir, of course. It would not be safe to leave you alone in such a neighborhood as this."

"It would be quite safe. You forget that it was in just such neighborhoods I passed my young days. I know them better than you appear to do, Inglefield. The people we see about us are respectable members of society-quite as respectable as ourselves. As to remaining, please yourself. I do not feel at all out of place in such society."

"Nor do I, sir," said Mark Inglefield, with a frank smile. "It is only my anxiety for you that made me say what I did."

"There is another matter which you seem to have forgotten. It is in this neighborhood that my son and his wife and daughter live, If I am not mistaken, Mr. Parkinson wishes to say something to us."

During this colloquy Mr. Parkinson had calmed himself greatly, and now, followed by his friends, approached the gentlemen.

"I should like to ask you a question or two," he said, addressing himself to Mark Inglefield, "if you have no objection."

"Of course I have no objection," said Mark Inglefield. "I will do whatever I can to help you; only come to the point."

"I'll do so, sir. Your visit here, on the face of it, seems fair and above-board. What I want to know first is, how it happens that my daughter had a portrait of yours in her possession?"

"My dear sir," replied Mark Inglefield, blandly, "you are putting a conundrum to me."

"You don't know how she got hold of it, sir?"

"I haven't the remotest notion."

"How comes it that, when I taxed her with it, she confessed that it was the portrait of the scoundrel who had brought her shame upon her?"

At this question all eyes were directed towards Mark Inglefield. Nothing daunted, he said:

"That is a question it is impossible for me to answer. She must, of course, have had some motive in giving utterance to so direct a falsehood. My only regret is that she is not here to tell you herself that we are complete strangers to each other. Has your daughter always told you the truth? Has she never deceived you?" Mr. Parkinson winced; these questions struck home. "Why, then," continued Mark Inglefield, perceiving his advantage, "should she not have deceived you in this instance? Perhaps she wishes to screen the man against whom you are justly angered; perhaps she still has a sneaking fondness for him, and protects him by throwing the blame upon a stranger."

"I don't dispute," said Mr. Parkinson, "that you may be right. But are you public property?"

"I fail to understand you."

"Are you a public man, sir?"

"Thank Heaven, no. I am a private gentleman."

"Your portraits are not put up in the shop windows for sale?"

"No."

"Then what I want to know is," said Mr. Parkinson, doggedly sticking to his point, "how your portrait fell into her hands."

"And that, I repeat," said Mark Inglefield, impatiently, "is exactly what I am unable to tell you."

"She couldn't have bought it. She must have had it given to her by some one."

"Well?"

"Whoever gave it to her must know you, and you must know him."

A murmur of approval ran through the throng. Nothing better pleases such an audience, as was now assembled, than an argument logically worked out.

"That does not follow," disputed Mark Inglefield, annoyed at Mr. Parkinson's pertinacity, but seeing no way to avoid it without incurring the risk of reviving Mr. Manners's suspicions.

"That's where the chances are, at all events," said Mr. Parkinson. "You see, sir, that you can't help being dragged into this bad business."

"And if I decline to be dragged into it?"

"It is what very few men would do, sir. I should say-and I think most of those round us will agree with me-that you are bound to do all you can to assist me in discovering the scoundrel who would ruin you as well as me."

Mr. Manners looked straight at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Parkinson's view tallied with that which he had expressed to Inglefield in their interview.

"I will do what I can," he said, "but I really am at a loss how to take even the first step."

"Thank you for saying so much, sir. We are all at a loss, but I don't intend to rest till I discover the scoundrel. You'll not object to giving me your name and address."

"What for?" demanded Mark Inglefield, wishing that the earth would open and swallow his tormentor.

"Give it to him," said Mr. Manners, quietly.

Thus forced to comply, Mark Inglefield, with a show of alacrity, handed Mr. Parkinson his card.

"I am obliged to you, sir," said Mr. Parkinson.

A possible road of escape presented itself to Mark Inglefield.

"Who saw this portrait?" he asked.

"No one in this neighborhood," replied Mr. Parkinson, "that I know of, except me and my daughter."

"It may not be my portrait, after all," suggested Mark Inglefield.

"There isn't a shadow of doubt, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that it is a picture of you. I'm ready to swear to it."

It was at this precise moment that there occurred to Mark Inglefield a contingency which filled him with apprehension. From what Mr. Manners had told him, Kingsley's wife had befriended Mary Parkinson, and was doubtless in the confidence of the poor girl. Suppose Mary had shown his portrait to Nansie, would she have recognized it? It was long since he and Nansie had met, and time had altered his appearance somewhat, but not sufficiently to disguise his identity. He did not betray his uneasiness, but a new feature was now introduced that caused him to turn hot and cold. This was the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Blooming Bess upon the scene.

CHAPTER XLIII

The wretched girl did not come alone. A woman dragged her forward.

"Here you are, Mr. Parkinson," said the woman. "Blooming Bess can tell you something about Mary's disappearance last night."

"I am ruined," thought Mark Inglefield, and hoped that Blooming Bess would not recognize him. There were chances in his favor. It was night when they met, and he had taken the precaution to change his clothes and wrap himself in an ulster. To these chances he was compelled to trust; and perhaps he could keep himself out of the girl's sight.

"What do you know about it?" asked Mr. Parkinson, in great excitement.

"Oh, I don't mind telling," said the girl. "Here, you! Just let go of me, will you?"

She released herself from the woman's grasp.

"Do you want the lot," she asked of Mr. Parkinson, "from beginning to end?"

"I must know everything," he replied, "everything."

"You must, must you? Well, that's for me to say, not you. I could tell you a lot of lies if I wanted to."

He made a threatening motion towards her, but was held back by his mates. "You'll only make things worse," they said.

"A precious sight worse," said Blooming Bess, with a reckless laugh. "Oh, let him get at me if he likes! Who cares? I don't. But I'll tell him what he wants, never fear. She's a respectable one, she is! When I went to the bad, passed me by as if I was so much dirt. Wouldn't look at me-wouldn't speak to me; holding her frock like this, for fear I should touch it. And now what is she, I'd like to know? Better than me-or worse?"

Mr. Parkinson groaned.

"Groan away; much good it'll do you. It won't bring her back; and if it did, who'd look at her? Not me. She's come down, with all her stuck-up pride. I'm as good as her, any day of the week!"

"Come, come, Bess," said a man in the crowd, "you're not a bad sort; let us have the truth, like a good girl."

"Oh, yes, I'm a real good un now you want to get something out of me! But never mind; here goes. It was in the middle of the night, and I didn't have a brass farthing in my pockets. They turned me out because I couldn't pay for my bed. It wasn't the first time, and won't be the last. So out I goes, and here I am in the middle of this very street, when a swell comes up to me, and says, says he, 'Do you want to earn half a bull?' I laughs, and holds out my hand, and he puts sixpence in it, and says, says he, 'The other two bob when you tell me what I want to know.'"

"Are you making this up out of your head, Bess?"

"Not me! not clever enough. Never was one of the clever ones, or I'd be a jolly sight better off. Then the swell asks me if I can tell him the names of the people that lives in the street, and plump upon that asks me if I can keep a secret. I thought he was kidding me, I give you my word, and I says, 'Make it worth my while.' With that he promises me five bob, and I walks with him, or he walks with me-it don't matter which, does it? – from one end of the street to the other, and I tell him everybody that lives in it. 'Who lives here?' says he, and 'Who lives here?' says he; and thinks I, this is a rum game; wonder what he's up to! But it ain't my business, is it? My business is to earn five bob, and earn it easy; and when I have told him all he wanted, he gives me four bob and a bender, and sends me off. What can you make of all that?"

"Not much," said the man who had taken her in hand. Mr. Parkinson could not trust himself to speak, and Mark Inglefield did not dare. "What time was it when this occurred?"

"By my gold watch," replied the girl, "with a fine sarcasm, it was half-past the middle of the night. Perhaps a minute or two more. I like to be particular."

"And that is all you know? You can't tell us anything more?"

"Oh, I didn't say that, did I? All? Not a bit of it. Why, the cream's to come. It's only skim-milk you've got as yet."

"Let's hear the end of it, Bess," said the man, coaxingly.

"That's the way to speak to me. Be soft, and you can do what you like with me; be hard, and to save your life I wouldn't speak a word. The end of it was this. The swell had done with me, and thought I had done with him. Never more mistaken in his life. I was born curious, I was; so thinks I to myself, 'I'm blowed if I don't see what he's up to;' and when I turned the corner of the street and he thought I was gone for good, I come back, and there I was, you know, standing in the dark, out of sight. He walks back to the middle of the street, and stops right before this house, and looks up at Mary's-I beg your pardon, at Miss Parkinson's window. There's a light burning there, you know. He's got a letter in his hand, and what does he do but pick up a stone and tie them together. Then he picks up another stone, and throws it at Mary's window, and it opens and she looks out. I'm too far off to hear what they say to each other; but I suppose he says, 'Catch,' as he throws the letter up, and catch she does. And would you believe it? A little while afterwards down she comes and takes his arm as natural as life, and off they go together. I follow at a distance; I didn't want my neck twisted, and he looked the sort of cove that wouldn't mind doing it, so I keep at a safe distance, till he calls a growler, and in they get and drive away. And that's the end of it."

"It's a true story," said Mr. Parkinson. "When I went into her bedroom this morning, her window was open."

Those who had heard it gathered into groups, and discussed its various points; some suggesting that it looked as if the police were mixed up in it; others favoring Mark Inglefield's view that Mary Parkinson's statements to her father were false, from first to last. Meanwhile Mark Inglefield and Mr. Manners were left to themselves, the younger man congratulating himself that he had escaped being seen by Blooming Bess. His great anxiety now was to get away as quickly as possible, and, at the risk of offending Mr. Manners, he would have chosen the lesser evil, and have made an excuse for leaving him, had it not been that he was prevented by Blooming Bess, whose aimless footsteps had led her straight to Mark Inglefield, before whom she now stood. She gazed at him, and he at her. Her look was bold, saucy, reckless; his was apprehensive; but knowing, if she exposed him, that there was no alternative for him but to brazen it out, he did not decline the challenge expressed in her eyes. She said nothing, however, but slightly turned her head and laughed. As she turned she was accosted by Mr. Parkinson, who had joined this group.

"Did you see the man?" asked Mr. Parkinson.

"Did I see him?" she exclaimed. "Yes; though it was the middle of the night, and dark, I saw him as plain as I see you. Why, I could pick him out among a thousand."

But to Mark Inglefield's infinite relief she made no movement towards him; she merely looked at him again and laughed.

"Describe him," said Mr. Parkinson, roughly. "It may be a laughing matter to you, but it is not to us."

"To us!" retorted the girl. "What have these gentlemen got to do with it?"

"We are interested in it," said Mr. Manners.

"Oh, are you? And are you interested in it too, sir?" she asked, addressing Mark Inglefield.

"I am," he replied, finding himself compelled to speak.

"That's funny. You're the sort of gentleman, I should say, that would pay well for anything that was done for him."

"I am," said Mark Inglefield, growing bold; her words seemed to indicate a desire to establish a freemasonry between them, of which neither Mr. Parkinson nor Mr. Manners could have any suspicion.

"That's a good thing to know," said Blooming Bess, "because, you see, I should be an important witness-shouldn't I?"

"Very important," said Mr. Manners, "and I would pay well also."

"You would, would you, sir?" She looked from one man to the other.

"Allow me to manage this, sir," said Mark Inglefield. "It is more to my interest than yours."

Mr. Manners nodded acquiescence.

"I asked you to describe the man," said Mr. Parkinson.

"I can do that. He was short and fat, and his face was covered with hair. Oh, I can spot him the minute I see him."

Mark Inglefield gave the girl a smile of encouragement and approval. The description she had given could not possibly apply to him. Every fresh danger that threatened vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

"There seems to be nothing more to stop for, sir," he said to Mr. Manners; "with respect to this man's daughter, we have learned all that we are likely to hear. It occurs to me that you might prefer to carry out the second portion of your visit to this neighborhood alone."

"You refer to my son," said Mr. Manners.

"Yes; and I might be an encumbrance. Whether justly or not-out of consideration for you I will not enter into that question-your son and his wife would not look upon me with favor if they were to see me suddenly; and the circumstance of my being in your company might be misconstrued. I am willing, sir, that the past should be buried; your simple wish that your son and I should become friends again is sufficient for me. I will obey you, but a meeting between us should be led up to; it will be more agreeable to both of us. Do you not think so?"

"You are doubtless right, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "I appreciate your delicate thoughtfulness."

"Thank you, sir. There is another reason why I should leave you now. The story that girl has told may be true or false. You must not mind my expressing suspicion of everything in connection with Mr. Parkinson's daughter. It is even possible that she and that girl may be in collusion for some purpose of their own, and that they have concocted what we have heard. I have cleared myself, I hope."

"It would be unjust to deny it," said Mr. Manners.

"But I shall not allow the matter to end here," said Mark Inglefield, warmly. "I shall put it at once in the hands of a detective, who will, I dare say, be able to ascertain how far we have been imposed upon. The sooner the inquiry is opened up the stronger will be our chances of arriving at the truth. Do you approve of what I propose?"

"It is the right course," said Mr. Manners. "I was about to propose it myself."

"I will go then at once. In simple justice to me, sir, if you see Mr. Hollingworth, you should tell him how cruelly I have been suspected."

"You shall be set right in his eyes, Inglefield. If I can find time to-day, I will make a point of paying him a visit."

"My mind is greatly relieved, sir. Good-morning."'

"Good-morning, Inglefield."

Mark Inglefield, without addressing a word to Mr. Parkinson, went his way. The conversation between him and Mr. Manners had been quite private. Before he left the street he looked to see if Blooming Bess was still there, but she had disappeared.

He did not proceed to the office of any detective. Slowly, and in deep thought, he walked towards the Mansion House; the crowds of people hurrying apparently all ways at once disturbed him and annoyed him; it was impossible to think calmly in the midst of such noise and bustle. If ever there was a time in his life when he needed quiet and repose to think out the schemes which were stirring in his cunning mind, that time was now. The danger was averted for a while, but he could not yet regard himself as safe. He had to reckon with Blooming Bess.

That she had recognized him was certain-as certain as that she had played into his hands, and put his enemies off the scent.

"I wonder," he thought, "that she did not ask my name and address. What a misfortune that she should have presented herself when I was in the street!"

He was not aware that the girl of whom he was thinking was following him stealthily, and had never for a moment lost sight of him.

He turned to the left, and reached the Embankment. It was quieter there. Blooming Bess followed him. There were few people about, and he strolled leisurely along, looking at the river. The principle of evil was strong within him. He belonged to that class of men who will hesitate at nothing that can be done with safety to protect themselves. He was not bold enough for deeds of violence; his nature was sufficiently ruthless, and he was not troubled with qualms of conscience; but his first consideration had ever been to keep himself on the safe side. In his methods he was sly, cunning, deceitful, treacherous; but physically he was a coward. He had, however, the greatest confidence in his resources. "I shall beat them all yet," he thought; and thought, too, what a stroke of fortune it would be if sudden death were to overtake those who stood in his path. He had passed Waterloo Bridge when he felt a touch upon his arm. He looked down and saw Blooming Bess.

"Oh," he said, with no outward show of displeasure.

"Yes," she said, with a smile.

To strangers this simple interchange of greeting would have been enigmatical, but these two understood each other, though socially he stood so high and she so low.

"Have you been following me?" he asked.

"Of course I have," she replied. "Too good to miss. I'm in luck. I say, you are a gentleman, ain't you-a real swell?"

"I am a gentleman, I hope," he said, with perfect sincerity.

"I hope so too. You've got plenty of tin?"

"Very little."

"All right. I'll go off to the other one."

He caught her arm.

"Don't be a fool!"

"That's just what I ain't going to be. Well, you're a nice one, you are! Not even a thankee for standing by you as I did."

"You will not be content with thanks," he said, gloomily.

"Not likely. Want something more solid. Now, didn't I stand by you like a brick? Just one word from Blooming Bess, and your whole box of tricks would have been upset. But I didn't let on, by so much as a wink. We took 'em in nicely between us, didn't we? 'You're the sort of gentleman,' says I, 'that would pay well for anything that was done for him.' 'I am,' says you. I say, if they'd guessed the game we were playing there'd have been a rumpus. I want to know your name, and where you live."

"You don't," he retorted. "You want money."

"I want that, too; but I want your name and address, and I mean to have it. I won't use it against you so long as you square me."

She spoke with so much determination that he gave her what she demanded.

"Mr. Parkinson knows the other one," she said; "and if I don't find you at home when I want, I'll find him. Have you got a sovereign about you?"

Surprised at the moderateness of the request, he gave her a sovereign.

"How's Mary?" she asked.

The question suggested to him a plan which offered greater safety than allowing her to go away with money, and perhaps drinking herself into dangerous loquacity.

"Would you like to see her?" he asked.

"I wouldn't mind," she replied.

"Come along with me, then," he said. "I'll take you to her."

CHAPTER XLIV

Mr. Manners experienced a great sense of relief when Mark Inglefield had taken his departure. The presence of that person had hampered not only his movements, but his will. Now that he was alone, he felt himself absolutely free. He exchanged a few words with Mr. Parkinson, in which he expressed again his good intentions towards the distracted father, and he spoke also to two or three other of the working-men, who, when he moved away from them, looked after him with marked favor. It chimed with his humor not to be known, and he was pleased that Mr. Parkinson had not made free with his name. The reminiscences attaching to him, from a working-man's point of view, would have caused him to be followed and gazed at with curiosity. The name of Manners was a name to conjure with; the great fortune he had made caused him to be regarded as a king among the class from which he sprang, and it was to his credit that he had amassed his wealth fairly, according to the conditions of things. Perhaps in the not far-off future these conditions will be changed, and it will be recognized that labor has a right to a larger proportion of its profits than at present falls to its lot. Meanwhile it may be noted that, despite the private wrong which lay at the door of Mr. Manners, and which he was happily stirred now to set right, despite the fact that in his business relations he had driven hard bargains, his public career was one of which he might be justly proud. Hard as were the bargains he had driven, he had not ground his workmen down; if they did a fair day's work they received a fair day's wage; he had made no attempt to filch them of their just due. In contrast with many a hundred employers of labor, who grind the men and women they employ down to starvation point, Mr. Manners stood forth a shining example. As for his private affairs, they were his, and his alone, to settle. Whatever changes for the better may come over society in the coming years, the purely human aspect of life will never be altered. There will always be private wrongs and private injustices; and although it is to be hoped that the general inequalities of mankind may be lessened, the frailties of our common nature will ever remain the same.