Toilers of Babylon: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

have him taken to Godalming, where I shall be if you can come to me. If that is not possible, I shall go after the funeral to my uncle in London, whose address you have. There you will find me. Pity me, Kingsley, and do not leave me long alone. I have only you in the world. Believe me.

"Ever your loving wife, Nansie."

      Deeply shocked and grieved, Kingsley went to his father with Nansie's letter in his hand. "I want you to release me from my promise," he said.

      "I never release a man from a promise given," was his father's cold reply, "and I never ask to be released from one I have made."

      "You cannot refuse me," said Kingsley, whose eyes were bedewed with tears.

      "I do refuse you," said Mr. Manners, sternly.

      Kingsley gazed irresolutely around, but his irresolution lasted for a moment or two only. "I must go," he said, straightening himself.

      "Against my will?" asked Mr. Manners.

      "Yes, father, against your will, if you refuse."

      "I have refused."

      Kingsley was silent.

      "It is what I will never forgive," said Mr. Manners.

      "I cannot help it, father. There are duties which must be performed, and one is before me." He held out the last page of Nansie's letter, but his father thrust it aside.

      "I do not wish to see it. I will not see it. It is from that woman."

      "It is from my wife."

      "And you are going to her?"

      "I am going to her."

      "If you leave my house now you never enter its doors again. If you persist in your madness I cut you out of my heart forever. I shall have no longer a son, and for evermore you and I are strangers."

      "It is cruel-it is pitiful, but I must go."

      "You understand the consequences of your disobedience?"

      "You have made them only too plain to me, father," said Kingsley, mournfully.

      "And you still persist?"

      "There is no other course open to me. I am a man, not a dog."

      "You are an ingrate. Go! – and never let me look upon your face again. From this moment I do not know you."

      CHAPTER VIII

      There are extant numerous clippings from famous writers which, coming "trippingly off the tongue," have grown into popular favor and are generally accepted as the essence of wisdom, but which will not stand the test of cold and logical analysis. Hence it is that so many familiar proverbs belie themselves. Among these popular sayings may be classed the description of life as a fitful fever. There are few men and women to whom this will apply; with the great majority of human beings life glides from one groove into another with ease and naturalness, and the most startling changes are effected without violent strain. Poor men grow rich, rich men grow poor, the lowly mount, the high slip into the downward paths, and one and all accept the reversals of position with a certain innate philosophy which makes life desirable, and often sweet, however wide the gulf which separates the present from the past. It is something to be genuinely grateful for; were it otherwise, existence would become an intolerable burden, and every waking moment would be charged with pain.

      These observations are pertinent to the course of our story, in respect of which the incidents already narrated may be accepted as a kind of prologue. The scene changes to the busy East of this mighty city, the precise locality being a second-hand bookshop in Church Alley. The proprietor of this shop was Mr. Joseph Loveday, Nansie's uncle, and that the reflections upon the shiftings in life's kaleidoscope are not out of place was proved by words which fell from his lips as he sorted a pile of books which he had purchased at auction.

      "Change, change, change-nothing but change. Some drop out, some remain, and time rolls on. I live, with a likelihood of living for many years; he is dying, with the certainty of death in the course of a few days. So he says in his letter, and in serious affairs he was never given to light talk. Presently he will leave the world behind him. What matters?"

      The question, addressed with mingled bitterness and mournfulness to himself, aroused him from his reverie.

      "It does matter," he said. "We are not exactly lumber."

      He was a man of middle age, a bachelor, and he conducted his business alone, without assistance of any kind, taking down his shutters in the morning and putting them up again at night, arranging the books on his shelves within and on the stall without, and knowing where to lay his hand, almost blindfold, upon any volume which he or a customer required. In this lonely mode of carrying on his trade there were inconveniences which were beginning to tell upon him. The toilers round about were not as a rule blessed with libraries of any value, and although he was always ready to purchase any odd lots that were brought to him, he picked up very little stock in this way. The greater portion of his treasures was bought at book auctions in the West, and whenever he attended one of these sales he was under the necessity of shutting up his shop and taking the key with him. Of late he had thought seriously of employing an assistant, but the difficulty was to find one to suit both his business and his peculiarities. In his domestic arrangements he was compelled to call in assistance. He employed a charwoman twice a week, for half a day on each occasion, to clean his place and set it in order; his breakfasts, teas, and suppers he prepared himself with his own hands, and when he did not purchase his dinner at a convenient cook-shop, it was sent in to him by Mrs. Peeper, keeper of a wardrobe-shop in Church Alley. He looked older than he was, and had too early acquired a stoop from poring over books; he had blue eyes, large and shapely hands, and features furrowed with lines of thoughtfulness. When he was not called away to attend an auction or upon other business, he would be seen sitting at his counter, or upon the floor, sorting books and making lists of them, or standing at his door in slippers, wearing a loose dressing-gown and a plain skull-cap, and with a pair of spectacles resting generally above his eyebrows. His reputation extended far beyond the immediate East in which his shop was situated. In the course of his career it had been his good-fortune to light upon rare books in the odd lots he had picked up at auction, and book-hunters from afar would come to look over his stock of treasures. On the day of his introduction to the reader he had been much exercised. There was the letter from his brother, to which he had replied in terms with which we are familiar; it had taken his thoughts to the past, and old memories had troubled his mind; domestic and business worries were also troubling him. The charwoman he had employed for years, and who was now up-stairs making a noise which annoyed him, had, during the last few weeks, generally made her appearance in a state of inebriation. He had expostulated with her upon this new and evil departure, but his remonstrances had not effected an improvement, and now, as he sat musing and sorting his books, a sudden crash in the room above caused him to start to his feet with an angry exclamation. He calmed himself instantly, having a great power of self-control, and, going to the staircase, called out:

      "What is the matter, Mrs. Chizlet?"

      "Only the wash'and basin, sir," replied a voice from above.

      "Oh," he said.

      "And the jug, sir."

      "Oh."

      "And the soap-dish, sir."

      "Oh."

      Then there was a pause and an ominous stillness.

      "Have you broken anything else?" he asked.

      "I didn't break 'em, sir," was the reply. "It was the cat."

      "There's no cat in the house. Come down."

      "In a minute, sir, when I've recovered myself."

      He waited the minute, and down came the woman, with a vacant smile on her face, and a number of pieces of broken crockery in her hands, which she let fall with a crash on the floor of the shop.

      "The cat, eh?"

      "Yes, sir, the cat."

      "Where did it come from? The sky? What is that sticking out of your pocket? The skeleton of the cat? No. A bottle. Empty, of course."

      "Yes, sir, worse luck."

      "Mrs.