She shook her head in something like embarrassment.
“Money got by slavery—yes, who should get it?” interposed Kingsley carefully, for her eyes had turned to him for help. “Would you favour his heirs getting it? Should it go to the State? Should it go to the slaves? Should it go to a fund for agitation against slavery?... You, for instance, could make use of a fortune like his in a cause like that, could you not?” he asked with what seemed boyish simplicity.
The question startled her. “I—I don’t know.... But certainly not,” she hastened to add; “I couldn’t touch the money. It is absurd—impossible.”
“I can’t see that,” steadily persisted Kingsley. “This money was made out of the work of slaves. Certainly they were paid—they were, weren’t they?” he asked with mock ignorance, turning to Dicky, who nodded assent. “They were paid wages by Kingsley—in kind, I suppose, but that’s all that’s needed in a country like the Soudan. But still they had to work, and their lives and bodies were Kingsley’s for the time being, and the fortune wouldn’t have been made without them; therefore, according to the most finely advanced theories of labour and ownership, the fortune is theirs as much as Kingsley’s. But, in the nature of things, they couldn’t have the fortune. What would they do with it? Wandering tribes don’t need money. Barter and exchange of things in kind is the one form of finance in the Soudan. Besides, they’d cut each other’s throats the very first day they got the fortune, and it would strew the desert sands. It’s all illogical and impossible—”
“Yes, yes, I quite see that,” she interposed.
“But you surely can see how the fortune could be applied to saving those races from slavery. What was wrung from the few by forced labour and loss of freedom could be returned to the many by a sort of national salvation. You could spend the fortune wisely—agents and missionaries everywhere; in the cafes, in the bazaars, in the palace, at court. Judicious gifts: and, at last, would come a firman or decree putting down slavery, on penalty of death. The fortune would all go, of course, but think of the good accomplished!”
“You mean that the fortune should be spent in buying the decree—in backsheesh?” she asked bewildered, yet becoming indignant.
“Well, it’s like company promoting,” Dicky interposed, hugely enjoying the comedy, and thinking that Kingsley had put the case shrewdly. It was sure to confuse her. “You have to clear the way, as it were. The preliminaries cost a good deal, and those who put the machinery in working order have to be paid. Then there’s always some important person who holds the key of the situation; his counsel has to be asked. Advice is very expensive.”
“It is gross and wicked!” she flashed out.
“But if you got your way? If you suppressed Kingsley Bey, rid the world of him—well, well, say, banished him,” he quickly added, as he saw her fingers tremble—“and got your decree, wouldn’t it be worth while? Fire is fought with fire, and you would be using all possible means to do what you esteem a great good. Think of it—slavery abolished, your work accomplished, Kingsley Bey blotted out!”