Toilers of Babylon. B. L. Farjeon
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?"
"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