Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

These two practical men immediately understood each other.

"It saddens me," said Timothy, addressing himself chiefly to Mr. Manners, "to see those I have known from childhood on the wrong path. Generally these things come home to one, but they appeal to us more closely when there is a personal connection. The lot of the poor is hard enough, without those who should know better making it harder. I do not speak as a class man, but as a man who is desirous to mend social grievances. Perhaps by and by I may be able to do something in a public way."

"Mr. Chance is ambitious," observed Dr. Perriera.

"Not for myself, nor from vanity, am I so. I have nothing to boast of in my parents, for I never saw their faces. I have lifted myself out of the evil they might have brought upon me. These things lie deep, sir, deeper than most people consider. But that is not to the point. This is what I have to say with respect to Mary Parkinson. I have a poultry farm in Finchley, and I attend to my business. I am up early and late. It happened last night that I had much to look after, and my affairs kept me up till the small hours of this morning. Within a hundred yards of my farm is a public-house, the Three Tuns. At four o'clock this morning I walked from my office into the fresh air, before retiring to rest. I do this often; it freshens me up. When I was within a few yards of the Three Tuns, my attention was attracted to a cab which had just driven up to the door. It was an unusual hour for such a thing to occur. A man got out of the cab, and knocked at the door, and after some delay it was opened. Exchanging some words with the person who answered his summons, he returned to the cab, and assisted a woman to alight. I did not catch sight of her face, but I saw the man's; it was strange to me. The woman appeared to be in great agitation, and it seemed to me that she had been crying. Presently they entered the public-house, the door of which was closed upon them. I got into conversation with the driver of the cab, and learned that he had had a long drive from the east end of London, quite close to this spot. He was to drive the gentleman back to London, he said; and soon the gentleman came out, entered the cab, and was driven away. I don't know why this simple adventure should have made an impression upon me, but it did. However, I had other things to think of, and I went to bed. I was up early, and in London here, to see to the new shop I have opened. I was due in Finchley again this afternoon--I am a busy man, you see, sir--and it happened that when I arrived there I saw another cab stop at the Three Tuns. But though it was another cab, it was the same man who got out of it, and I saw his face very clearly. It was not the same woman, though, that jumped out, and I knew her well. It was a poor, foolish girl, almost a child in years, but a woman in sin, who goes by the name of Blooming Bess. Both the man and the girl went into the Three Tuns. My curiosity was aroused; my suspicions also. I did not like the face of the man; it was cold, heartless, cunning. He had cast looks about him in which I seemed to discern evil; he came from a quarter, or at least his companion did, with which I was intimately acquainted. We don't live in the world without learning, and I have learned something of the ways of scoundrels. If chance had put it into my power to unmask one--and I had a strange idea that it might be really so--I resolved not to throw it away. I hung about the place for some time, and at length bribed a servant to tell Blooming Bess secretly that a friend wished to speak to her in private. Out she came in a few minutes, and I had talk with her, and learned that the woman who had been brought to the Three Tuns, in the middle of the night, was no other than Mary Parkinson. Blooming Bess is a careless, reckless soul, the sort of girl who might have grown into an honest, respectable woman if she had had fair chances. She hadn't, and that is why she is what she is. I don't say it as a boast that I have helped her out of hunger sometimes, and I know she is grateful to me. This afternoon I promised her something which I shall fulfil; she shall have the chance that has never yet been put in her way of becoming a decent member of society. And upon the strength of that promise she told me all I wished to know. It seems that the man, whose name she had obtained, had come in the dead of night to the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived. He did not know the house, and he bribed Blooming Bess to point it out to him. When he thought he had got rid of her, he threw a letter up to Mary Parkinson, whom he had succeeded in awaking, and she came down to him. They went away together, and Blooming Bess saw them drive off in a cab. She had kept watch upon his movements. This morning the scoundrel came to the neighborhood for the purpose of clearing himself from some kind of suspicion which had attached itself to him in relation to Mary Parkinson. He came with a friend."

"With me," said Mr. Manners.

"I guessed as much. The scoundrel professed absolute ignorance of the whereabouts of Mary Parkinson, and had it not been for what happened to me last night, might even now have been regarded as an innocent man. I will not lengthen the story. Blooming Bess expressed her opinion of the man in terms which he would not have regarded as flattering. 'He's promised me I don't know what,' she said, 'to keep his secret; but I know the sort of man he is. When he's got all out of me he can, he'll throw me away like an old glove--as he'll throw away Mary. The fool believes in him even now!' Then she told me that he had tried to disguise himself in the night by putting on another suit of clothes--I had observed that myself--and that if it hadn't been for her, his villainy would have been exposed this morning when he came here with you. These are the main lines of the story, and I determined to bring the scoundrel to book. I gathered from Blooming Bess that the three of them were to remain at the Three Tuns to-night, and were all to go away together to some place or other; but where she did not know. He refused to tell her when she asked him. However, my intention was to take Mr. Parkinson to the Three Tuns to-night, and see what could be done. But I have not spoken to him yet of my plan. Dr. Perriera, to whom I have told the whole of the story, has persuaded me to be guided by him in the affair; he has a wise head and a kind heart, and I am satisfied that he will do what is right. The first thing he did was to go to Mr. Parkinson and obtain a portrait of the scoundrel who has brought Mary to shame. This I recognized as the man who brought Mary Parkinson and Blooming Bess to the Three Tuns. Then he desired me to wait here until he returned. He has returned, with you, sir. That is all I have to say for the present."

"I need no further assurance," said Mr. Manners; "but you may as well mention the name which that girl Bess gave you."

"Mr. Mark Inglefield," said Timothy Chance.

"It is enough. You have rendered me a great service, for which I cannot be sufficiently grateful. I will go to this man myself to-night, and he shall learn from my lips that his knavery and villainy have been brought to light. I hold a power over him which I can serviceably use."

"Your plan is a good one," said Dr. Perriera. "It would never do to take Mr. Parkinson to his daughter. There would be mischief done. He has been heard to say a dozen times today, 'If I meet the villain who has ruined my daughter, and if he will not make an honest woman of her, I will hang for him.' You will not go alone?"