Читать книгу Toilers of Babylon - B. L. Farjeon - Страница 16

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There occurred here a pause. Kingsley did not know what to say. His father was waiting for him to speak.

"No man should think of marrying," said Kingsley, presently, "unless there is love on both sides."

"There is no occasion to discuss that point," said Mr. Manners. "As you will win your way to the young lady's heart, so will she win her way to yours. Wait till you see her, and meanwhile give me your promise that you will do your best to further my wishes. I do not expect a blind compliance; you shall go to her with your eyes open, and if you do not say she is very beautiful you must be a poor judge of beauty."

"But," murmured Kingsley, "to have an affair like this cut and dried beforehand for the man who is most deeply concerned--well, father, there is something sordid and mercenary in it."

"There might be," said Mr. Manners, calmly, "if the young lady knew anything of it; but she knows nothing."

"Yet you said you spoke with authority."

"Quite so. The young lady's mother has been indirectly sounded, and I spoke the truth. Listen, Kingsley," and Mr. Manners's more serious tone increased Kingsley's discomfort. "I said I have set my heart upon the projects I have unfolded concerning your future. I have set something more than my heart upon them--I have set all my hopes upon them. You are my only child, and will be my heir if everything is right between us. You will come into an enormous fortune, greater than you have any idea of, and by its means and a suitable marriage you will rise to power. There are few men who would not jump at the proposition I have made, which, plainly explained, means your coming into everything that can make life desirable. If I were asking you to marry a lady who was ugly or had some deformity I could understand your hesitation. Do you still refuse to give me the promise I ask?"

"I cannot give it to you, father."

"Why?" demanded Mr. Manners, in a stern voice; but he did not give Kingsley time to reply. "Listen further to me before you speak." He took a pocket-book from his pocket, and drew from it a paper which he consulted. "I can make excuses for slight faults of conduct, but will not pardon an opposition which threatens to destroy the most earnest wish of my life. You are acquainted with a person of the name of Loveday."

"I have the honor of his acquaintance," said Kingsley, nerving himself for the contest which he saw impending, and considerably surprised at his father's acquaintance with the name.

"He is a person of no character," said Mr. Manners.

"He is a gentleman," interrupted Kingsley.

"That is news to me," said Mr. Manners, "and is not in accordance with the information I have received."

"Have you been playing the spy upon me?" asked Kingsley, with some warmth.

"I should require to be in two places at once to have done that. This time last week I was in Russia."

"Then you have been paying some one to watch me. By what right, father?"

"You jump too hastily at conclusions. You make a statement which is not true, and you proceed to question me upon it."

"I beg your pardon; but you must have obtained your information from some source."

"Quite so."

"Will you tell me from whom?

"I may or I may not before we part to-night. You refused to give me a promise; I refuse to give you one. I might well take offence at the imputation that I have paid a spy to watch you."

"I withdrew the imputation, father."

"The suspicion was in itself an offence. I have allowed you to go your way, Kingsley, in the belief and hope that your way and mine were one, and that you would do nothing to disgrace me."

"I have done nothing to disgrace you."

"We may take different views. As a young man you have had what is called your 'fling.' I made you a most liberal allowance--"

"For which I have always been deeply grateful, father," said Kingsley, hoping to turn the current of his father's wrath. It smote him with keen apprehension, for Nansie's sake and his own, that the anger his father displayed when he first mentioned the name of Loveday should be no longer apparent, and that Mr. Manners spoke in his usual calm and masterful voice.

"I made you a most liberal allowance," repeated Mr. Manners, "which you freely spent. I did not demur to that; it pleased me that you should be liberal and extravagant, and prove yourself the equal in fortune, as you are in education and manners, of those with whom you mixed. You committed some follies, which I overlooked--and paid for."

"It is the truth, father. I got into debt and you cleared me."

"Did I reproach you?"

"No, sir."

"If I am not mistaken--and in figures I seldom am--I paid your debts for you on three occasions."

"It is true, sir."

"And always cheerfully."

"Always, sir."

"I am not wishful to take undue credit to myself by reminding you of this; it is only that I would have you bear in mind that I have endeavored to make your life easy and pleasurable, and to do my duty by you. Nor will I make any comparison between your career as a young man and mine at the same age. I am satisfied, and I suppose you are the same."

"I think, father," said Kingsley, "that I should have been content to work as you did."

"Not as I did, because we started from different standpoints. Pounds, shillings, and pence were of great importance to me, and I used to count them very jealously. I value money now perhaps as little as you do, but I know its value better than you, and what it can buy in a large way--in the way I have already explained to you. For that reason, and for no other, it is precious to me. There are men who have risen to wealth by discreditable means; that is not my case; what I possess has been fairly worked for and fairly earned. All through my life I have acted honorably and straightforwardly."

"All through my life, father," said Kingsley, with spirit, "I shall do the same."

"Well and good. I have a special reason, Kingsley, in speaking of myself in the way I have done."

"Will you favor me with your reason, father?"

"Yes. It is to put a strong emphasis upon what you will lose if you cut yourself away from me."

"Is there any fear of that, father?" asked Kingsley, with a sinking heart.

"It will be for you, not for me, to answer that question; and it will be answered, I presume, more in acts than in words. I return to the Mr. Loveday, who is described to me as a person of no character, and whom you describe as a gentleman."

"He is one, father, believe me," said Kingsley, earnestly.

"Do gentlemen travel about the country in caravans, sleeping in them by the roadsides?"

Kingsley could not help smiling. "Not generally, father, but some men are whimsical."

"Let us keep to the point, Kingsley. According to your account we are speaking of a gentleman."

"We are," said Kingsley, somewhat nettled at this pinning down.

"Then you mean that some gentlemen are whimsical?"

"I mean that."

"In what respect is this Mr. Loveday a gentleman? Does he come of an old family?"

"I do not know."

"Do you know anything of his family?"

"Nothing."

"Is he a man of means?"

"No."

"A poor man, then?"

"Yes."

"Very poor?"

"Very poor."

"And travels about in a broken-down caravan, and you wish me to believe he is a gentleman. I would prefer to take your word, Kingsley, against that of my informant, but in this instance I cannot do so. It would be stretching the limits too far."

"We will not argue it out, father."

"Very well. But Mr. Loveday does not travel alone in this caravan; he has a person he calls his daughter with him."

"It is coming," thought Kingsley, and he set his teeth fast, and said': "His daughter, a lady, travels with him."

"So far, then, my facts are indisputable. This young woman is described to me as an artful, designing person who has used all her arts to entangle you--because you have a rich father."

"Who dares say that?" cried Kingsley, starting up with flashing eyes.

"My informant. I understand, also, that some months since she contracted secretly a disreputable marriage, and that her husband--do not interrupt me for a moment, Kingsley--has conveniently disappeared in order to give her time to bleed you, through your rich father. To go through the ceremony again would be a light matter with her."

"It is a horrible calumny," cried Kingsley, in great excitement.

"Although," pursued Mr. Manners, exhibiting no agitation in his voice or manner, "the circumstances of my own private life have not made me personally familiar with the tricks of adventuresses, I have in the course of my experiences learned sufficient of them to make me abhor them. How much deeper must be my abhorrence now when such a woman steps in between me and my son to destroy a cherished design which can only be carried out in his person! I will listen to no vindication, Kingsley. Before you arrived home to-night I had a strong hope that some mistake had been made in the information which has reached me concerning your proceedings. I was wrong; it is unhappily too true."

"You received the information from an enemy of mine."

"No, Kingsley, from a friend."

"Ah!" There was here, even in the utterance of the simple word, a singular resemblance between father and son. Kingsley's voice no longer betrayed excitement, and his manner became outwardly calm. "There is only one so-called friend who could have supplied you with the information--my cousin, Mark Inglefield."

Mr. Manners was silent.

"Was it he, sir?" asked Kingsley.

Still Mr. Manners was silent.

"I judge from your silence, sir, that Mark Inglefield is the man I have to thank."

During his silence Mr. Manners had been considering.

"I must say something here, Kingsley. I have no right to betray another man's confidence, and you no right to betray mine."

"It would be the last of my wishes, father."

"If I tell you who is my informant, will you hold it as a sacred confidence?"

It was Kingsley's turn now to consider. He was convinced that Mark Inglefield was his enemy, and by giving his father the desired promise of a sacred confidence, he would be shutting himself off from all chance of reprisal. On the other hand, he might be mistaken; and his father might also refuse to continue the interview, which Kingsley felt could not be broken at this point; and after all, how could he hope to help himself or Nansie by a personal encounter with his cousin or by further angering his father, who, he knew only too well, was now in a dangerous mood?

"Do you insist upon my holding it as a sacred confidence, father?"

"I insist upon it," said Mr. Manners, coldly.

"I will hold it so."

"On your honor as a man? Not as a gentleman, for our views differ there."

"On my honor as a man."

"You were right," said Mr. Manners. "I received the information from your cousin, Mark Inglefield."

"As I expected. I must now relate to you, father, the circumstances of my acquaintance with Mr. Loveday and his daughter, and the manner in which my cousin Mark comes into connection with it."

"I will listen to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners. "Our conversation has assumed a complexion which may be productive of the most serious results to you and myself. I do not hold this out as a threat; I state a fact. I am, in my convictions, inflexible. Once I am resolved, no power on earth can move me. And do not lose sight of another thing. Mark Inglefield is your mother's nephew, and therefore your cousin. That I have given him the advantage of a university education, and that I sent you both to college at the same time, is my affair. I should have done the same by you had you been my nephew and he my son. It was always my intention to advance him in life, and it is my intention still. He is worthy of it. He is your equal in birth and attainments. Therefore speak of him with becoming respect. I shall know the exact value to place upon intemperate language in a case like this, where the passions are involved."

"I will do my best to obey you, father," said Kingsley, "but a pure reputation is at stake, and I may fail in my endeavor. It was my cousin, Mark Inglefield, who first introduced me to Miss Loveday. He spoke to me of her, as he spoke to others, in a light tone, and I do not know what it was that induced me to give ear to his boastings, although I entertained a contempt for him and a doubt of his truth. One day, while we were walking together and he was indulging with greater freedom and boisterousness than usual--though his ordinary habit was bad enough--of his acquaintanceship with Miss Loveday, it happened that we met her. He could do no less than introduce me, and I had not been in her company five minutes before I suspected that his vaporings about her were those of a base man, of one who was dead to honor. A true man is respectful and modest when he makes reference to a lady for whom he entertains an affection, and the doubts I had previously entertained of my cousin when he indulged in the outpourings of his coarse vanity were now confirmed. I followed up the introduction by courting Miss Loveday's intimacy, and she grew to respect me, to rely upon me. The more I saw of her the more I esteemed her. Never had I met a lady so pure and gentle, and it was a proud moment in my life when she asked me to protect her from my cousin's insolent advances. I spoke to him, in a manner not too gentle, I own, for my indignation was aroused, and from that time he and I were enemies. I know it now; I did not know it then. He was far too subtle for me, and I, perhaps too much in the habit of wearing my heart upon my sleeve, was, as I now discover, sadly at a disadvantage with him. He showed no anger at my supplanting him, and this should have warned me; your cold-blooded man is a dangerous animal when he becomes your enemy; but I suppose I was too deeply in love and too happy to harbor suspicion against one who had no real cause for enmity against me. Nor did I consider the consequences--not to myself but to the lady I loved--of my frequent visits and meetings with her. There is no doubt that she was compromised by them, but she was as guileless and innocent as myself, and it was not till it was forced upon me that her reputation was in my hands that I prevailed upon her to take the step which gave the lie to malicious rumor."

"And that step, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Manners.

"I married her. She is my wife."

"You think so?"

"Think so, father! What do you mean? Am I a man with reason, gifted with some standard of intelligence, that I should think--which implies a doubt--where I am sure?"

"You are a man deluded, Kingsley, as other men have been by other women. This woman has deceived you."

"No, sir, truly as I live."

"The farce would not be complete unless you protested. It is the least you can do. All that you have said confirms your cousin's story. He has not erred in one particular, except in what is excusable in him, and perhaps in you. Mischief is done, but it can be remedied. An impulsive man like yourself is no match for an artful woman."

"I will not hear the lady I love and esteem so spoken of," said Kingsley, with warmth.

To this remark Mr. Manners was about to reply with equal warmth, but he checked himself, and did not speak for a few moments. When he resumed the conversation he spoke in his usual calm tone, a tone which never failed in impressing upon his hearers a conviction of the speaker's absolute sincerity and indomitable will.

"It has happened--fortunately for others--but rarely in my life, Kingsley, that such a crisis as this has occurred; and I regret this difference in our ideas all the more because its consequences may be fatal to you and may shatter hopes upon which I have set great store. When you say to me that you will not hear me speak in such or such a manner, because it displeases you, you behave in a manner to which I am not accustomed. When you place yourself in opposition to my wishes you treat me to a new experience which I do not welcome. Were I holding this interview with any other than yourself I should have put an end to it some time since; after that there would be nothing more to be said on either side. I am not used to disappointments, but I should be able to bear them; I am rather fond of difficulties because it is a pleasure to overcome them. I am inclined to regard this difference of opinion between us as a difficulty which may be overcome without much trouble, if you are reasonable."

"It is not a difference of opinion, father," said Kingsley, moderating his tone; the interests at stake were too serious to allow him to give his indignation free play, "it is a difference as to facts, of which I, and not you, am cognizant."

"I hold to what I say, Kingsley," replied Mr. Manners. "I have received a certain statement of particulars which I choose to accept as true; you have imparted to me certain information which I do not choose to accept in the manner you wish. Setting aside for a moment all question of the young woman of whose character we have formed different estimates, I ask you, supposing you to be legally married, what is the kind of respect you have shown me, a father who has never crossed your wishes, by contracting a lifelong obligation without consulting me?"

"It was wrong, father," said Kingsley, with contrition. "I have only the excuse to make that I loved her and was eager to defend her reputation."

"It is an excuse I cannot accept. And the deliberate committal of a fault so fatally grave as this, with a full knowledge of the consequences, cannot be condoned by the weak confession, when it is too late to repair the fault, that you were wrong. There is a repentance which comes too late, Kingsley. But even that I might have forgiven had I reason to approve of your choice."

"You have but to see her, father," said Kingsley, eagerly. "Let me bring her to you! You will be as proud of her as I am; you will know then that I have not chosen unworthily."

"No," said Mr. Manners, "if I see her at all I must see her alone."

"Give me a minute or two to consider, father."

"Certainly, Kingsley."

The young man turned aside, and allowed his thoughts to travel to Nansie, and to dwell upon the beauty of her character. He knew her to be patient and long-suffering, and that she would not shrink from making a sacrifice for one she loved as she loved him; he knew also that these qualities were allied to a spirit of independence which, while it would enable her to bear up outwardly under the pressure of a great wrong, would rather intensify than abate the anguish which would wring her soul were such a wrong forced upon her. It would be a lifelong anguish, and would rack her till her dying day. His father, with his iron will, was just the man to force the sacrifice upon her, was just the man to so prevail upon her that she might, at his persuasion, remove herself forever not only from the presence but from the knowledge of the man she loved and had vowed to love while life remained. Poor, helpless, dependent, and alone in the world--for Kingsley had an inward conviction that her father's days were numbered--to what a future would he, the man who had sworn to love and cherish her, be condemning her if he permitted his father to have his way in this matter! The crime would be his, not his father's; upon his soul would rest the sin. And then the image of Nansie rose before him, not at first sad and despondent, but bright and sweet, and full of innocent, joyous life; and in that image he saw a sunshine of happiness which he and Nansie would enjoy together if he played a true man's part in this contention. He saw also with his mind's eye the other side of the picture in the figure of a heart-broken woman brooding over the misery and the torture of life, and praying for death. This sad figure vanished, and he and Nansie were sitting together hand in hand, their hearts beating with the sacred love which sweetens and makes life holy, and she was whispering to him that her greatest joy lay in the knowledge that he was true to her.

He had shaded his eyes with his hand during this contemplation. He now removed it, and raised his eyes to his father's face.

"I cannot consent, father," he said, in a low, firm tone, "to your seeing her alone."

"You have come deliberately to that determination?" asked Mr. Manners.

"I have, father."

"It is irrevocable?"

"It is irrevocable."

"I will still not hold you to it," said Mr. Manners. "It would grieve me in the future to think that the matter was too hastily decided. You owe me some kind of obedience, some kind of duty."

"I acknowledge it, father. In all that becomes me to yield you shall have no cause of complaint against me."

"Very well. Let there be some slight pause before the final word is pronounced. Remain here a week, and give the matter a calmer and longer deliberation. Its issues are sufficiently important to make my request reasonable."

"I will do as you wish, father," said Kingsley, after a slight hesitation, "on two conditions."

"Name them."

"First, that you do not invite my cousin, Mark Inglefield, here during the time."

"I agree."

"Second, that you do not seek my wife for the purpose of relating what has passed between us."

"I agree to that also. I will not seek your--the young woman for that or for any purpose. Are you content, Kingsley?"

"Yes, father, I am content."

"As you admit that you owe me some small measure of duty and obedience, you will not object to my request that you hold no correspondence with her until the week is past."

"It is a hard request, father, but I will obey you."

"There remains, then, in this connection, but one thing in respect of your future which I think it necessary to impress upon you. As I have made my fortune by my own efforts it is mine to dispose of as I please. Comply with my wishes, and the bulk of it is yours. Oppose them, and not one shilling of it will be yours to enjoy. To this I pledge myself. And now, Kingsley, we will drop the conversation."

Kingsley had a reason for consenting to the week's delay. He had a hope that within that period his father would relent. It was a faint hope, but it seemed to him that it would be criminal to let it slip.