From the day of its formation the Wilberforce Club had prospered, and although it could never boast of more than sufficient funds to carry out its modest requirements, the principal of which were books and newspapers, it had become in some sense a political power in the district. As was right, Mr. Bartholomew, to whom its existence was due, was elected its first president, a position which he filled for many years; but although he was still in vigor of life, he had resolved to retire from the office, and, in spite of all attempts to induce him to withdraw his resignation, he insisted that it was time a new president should be appointed.
"You want new blood, my lads," he said; "you might as well have a king over you as a president who reigns all the years of his life. A stirring up of the waters is good for the people. If the new man doesn't work to your satisfaction I will take office again, perhaps. The vacation will rub the rust off me."
It was, therefore, for the purpose of choosing another president that the Wilberforce Club mustered in full force. It was bruited about, and indeed known to some few, that there was a likelihood of the introduction of a personal matter at the meeting which might prove exciting and interesting. Mr. Bartholomew had found it no easy task to keep well in hand a strong and full-blooded team such as the members of this working-man's club. Boys with ideas, and with a fresher and more advanced kind of education than their parents had received, had grown to be men, and were playing their part at the club meetings and in the social gatherings; and to this younger element the prospect of a change in the direction of affairs was not unpalatable. Upon Mr. Bartholomew the necessity of keeping a tight hand upon these youthful members, whose ideas were apt to run ahead of the times, had frequently impressed itself.
There were two candidates for the presidency. One was Mr. Richard Chappel, who had taken part in the initiatory meeting at which the club was constituted. He was then somewhat of a timid orator, but he was an apt scholar, and was now fully competent to conduct working-men's meetings. He was fairly popular, and had many supporters. The other candidate was Kingsley Manners, who was popular, and a favorite with all the members of the Wilberforce Club. By some he was considered not strict or strong enough to lead, but a good proportion of those who entertained this notion had determined to support him. It was not of his own wish that he had come forward for the office. He had been proposed by a powerful section who believed that through him it could work its own ends. The backbone of this section were the young members, who were always ready to take a foremost part in any agitation--such as entertainments, in the heart of which lurked some political object: processions against, or in favor of, some measure which was then being discussed in the House of Commons; the right of public meeting in public places, and so forth. These ambitious and hot-blooded members had been kept in moderate subjection by Mr. Bartholomew, and now rejoiced in the prospect of a president of less force of character.
Nansie's uncle, Mr. Loveday, was also a member of the Wilberforce. He had joined it at Nansie's solicitation, who was in anxiety lest Kingsley, through his easy nature, should be prevailed upon to take part in some violent movement. Mr. Loveday's reports to her had removed this cause of alarm.
"Kingsley does no harm at the club," he said; "it is an amusement and a relaxation to him. He knows that he is liked by all the members, and the knowledge affords him pleasure; and he obtains there books and papers which occupy his mind, and which otherwise would be out of his reach."
Kingsley's candidature for the presidency had, however, seriously discomposed Mr. Loveday. He saw beneath the surface, and suspected that Kingsley was simply put forward to assist the views of others.
Mr. Bartholomew opened the proceedings.
"You know," he said, "what we are met to decide. This is the last occasion--at least, for some time--upon which I shall take the chair at the gatherings of the Wilberforce; but that will not lessen my interest in its welfare, and I shall work quite as hard and earnestly as a soldier in the ranks as I have done in the position of your chief. Now, I want to give you a little bit of advice. Times are different from when this club was first started; men and opinions are more advanced; there is a better kind of education going on in the land, and people who, under the old ways, would never have learned to read and write can now do both very well. But I want to warn you. It's a good thing to be able to read and write, but it's a better thing to be able to profit by these advantages. Go ahead we must; the onward march cannot be stopped; but beware of going ahead too fast. Slow and sure is a motto I was not very fond of when I was a young man, but I have learned its value since, especially in such movements as ours. There is no telling what changes the next fifty years may see; in my opinion they will be more startling than any that has gone before; but in order that these changes shall be for the real benefit of the people--that is to say, of us--it will be necessary to look before we leap. Now, I am not going to particularize; I am speaking in a general sense. There are individual instances of wrong with which I sympathize as much as any of you can do, but I don't intend to make any such instance a ground for general action. What we have to attend to is the interest and prosperity of ourselves as a body. According to the rules, you are now to elect a president for the year. You have done me the honor of re-electing me again and again for a number of years, and I believe I have given you satisfaction. I hope that our new president will work as I have done--for the general good of all."
Mr. Bartholomew having resumed his seat, a member rose to propose Mr. Richard Chappel as president. He was duly seconded, and then another member proposed Mr. Kingsley Manners, who was also seconded. There being no other candidates, the aspirants for office addressed the meeting:
"I propose," said Mr. Chappel, "to tread in the footsteps of our late worthy president, Mr. Bartholomew. I quite agree with him in all his opinions, and all he has done. More haste, less speed. We have never been in a hurry, and we have done a good deal since we started. In elections we have made ourselves a bit of a power, and the reason of this is that we have always seen where we were going to fix our nails; we have not knocked them wildly about, and made holes in wrong places. If you elect me as your president, I will do the best I can in the office."
"Good," said Mr. Bartholomew.
"Good," also said and thought many of the elder members; but the younger ones looked at each other and shook their heads.
"Richard Chappel promises nothing," said one, starting up.
"What do you want him to promise?" asked Mr. Bartholomew; and, as young Hotblood could not exactly say, he sat down abashed, but in no wise satisfied.
"That is it," said Mr. Bartholomew; "and I should like you to bear it in mind. I don't wish to influence you, nor to say a word against Mr. Kingsley Manners, who is a favorite with all of us; but as a common member of the club I am entitled, as every other common member is, to express my opinion upon this subject. Here is a candidate for office, Mr. Richard Chappel, who pledges himself, if elected, to govern the club in the same way that it has hitherto been governed; and here is one of our members jumping up and saying that he promises nothing. To that I reply that Richard Chappel promises a great deal. He promises to do everything that is constitutional; he promises to act for the benefit of the club, as I have acted. If that doesn't satisfy you, I don't know what will. Mind, I'm not saying one word against Mr. Manners; I respect and like him, but I shall give my vote to Richard Chappel."
"Let us hear Mr. Manners," said a member.
Kingsley rose and addressed the meeting. He had for some little while past regarded this approaching event as of great importance, and had prepared himself for it. He said he was in favor of public meeting in all public spaces. He spoke strongly against the monopoly of brewers and distillers. He advocated universal suffrage, and he characterized as infamous the neglect of sanitary laws in the dwellings of the people. The whole aim of government, he said, should be for the benefit of the many, and not of the few. There were old-time privileges which, perhaps, could not be suddenly abolished, but to which, at all events, a limit should be set. He spoke for half an hour, and the tenor of his observations may be gathered from this brief description. When he sat down some were pleased, some were displeased, and some did not know exactly what to think.
"Mr. Manners," said Mr. Bartholomew, "has generalized almost as much as Richard Chappel."
"No," cried some of Kingsley's supporters; "there is a great difference between them."
"Let us hear and discuss," said Mr. Bartholomew; "it will open our minds."
"What does Richard Chappel say about universal suffrage?" asked a member.
Richard Chappel scratched his head. He had not given the subject that necessary consideration which enabled him to reply on the instant. Up jumped Mr. Bartholomew.
"I like that hesitation on Richard Chappel's part," he said. "Universal suffrage has bothered cleverer heads than any in this room."
"What do you say about it?" asked a bold member. Mr. Bartholomew laughed.
"I would give it to every man who has a right to it."
"Every man has a right to it!"
"No, no; there must be qualifications. The Reform Act did a lot for us, and a lot has been done since, and a lot more will be done in the future. Theremustbe electoral qualification. Even in our little club here every man has not a right to become a member. The difference between some of us is this--we agree upon the main point, but we do not agree in the way of bringing it about. 'Go slow' is my motto."
"Yes," grumbled one, "and die before we reap."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Bartholomew, gravely. "But does that lessen the value of our work, which, I take it, lies greatly in its unselfishness? We look more to the future than to the present. We think of our children and of the benefits they will enjoy, benefits brought about by us who may not live to see the fruit."
Much discussion of a similar nature followed, and it seemed likely at one time that the result would be largely influenced by the private wrongs of a member who had resolved to take this opportunity of ventilating them, and had, indeed, been urged to that course by the more inflammatory spirits. His story was not an uncommon one, and may be narrated in a very few words. He was a working-man, of course, with one child, a daughter whom he idolized. This daughter, to his grief and despair, had left her home; and it was, the father said, a gentleman who had brought the shame upon them. The man was very eloquent in his description of the monstrous wrong. He did not know the name or the whereabouts of the villain who had inflicted it, and said that if he could find him he would strike him dead at his feet. Mr. Bartholomew was too wise to prevent the father from speaking, although he strongly disapproved of the intrusion of this private matter into the club business; but he saw that it had been prearranged, and was intended to influence the election in favor of Kingsley. As a prudent general, therefore, he proposed the adjournment of the meeting, which broke up in some slight confusion.
This meeting led to important results. It is by small and apparently trivial matters that the main issues of life are determined. A fall of rain, the plucking of a flower, the accidental turning to the right or the left--any one of these trifling incidents is sufficient to stamp the future with an indelible impress.
Parkinson was the name of the man whose daughter had been tempted from her home by the false wooing of a man in a superior station of life to her own; the daughter's name was Mary. The disclosure of this private wrong proved to be the most exciting incident in the proceedings of the Wilberforce Club on the night of the proposed election, and after the meeting broke up the grievance formed the subject of animated discussion all around the neighborhood. To feel and express sympathy for the father was humanly natural, but here and there this sympathy was expressed in an unreasoning and dangerous manner, and served as a peg--as was attempted at the Wilberforce--upon which to hang an ominous string of hardships as between class and class. Dr. Perriera, who had remained a firm and faithful friend to Nansie and her family, had just listened to certain outpourings of this nature mouthed by a trenchant demagogue to a small band of working-men and lads, among whom, also, was Mr. Loveday. These two more intelligent of the audience walked away together.
"It is remarkable," said Dr. Perriera, "to note the blindness of these ignorant orators to palpable facts. The way in which Mary Parkinson was brought up was enough to ruin any girl. A father at work all day and spending his nights at the Wilberforce Club. A mother dying when her daughter was twelve years of age, and leaving as a legacy to her child a recollection of frivolities. This was one of the reasons--perhaps the principal one--why Parkinson spent nearly all his leisure time away from his home. His wife had no notion of domestic duties, was a bad cook, and either would not or could not make his home attractive to him. Parkinson is a good and skilful workman, has never been ill a week in his life, has never been out of employment. This is an unusual record, but it has not benefited him. When his wife was alive she and he between them spent every penny of his earnings; she was fond of incongruous color in her dress, fond of mock jewelry, fond of aping the foolish fashions of her betters. She was fond of worse things--of music-halls and their brutalizing vulgarity. I am well aware that it is absolutely necessary to provide amusement for the people; without it life would be unendurable; but I have always been of the opinion, and experience has confirmed it, that amusement in a worse form than that provided by the music-hall could scarcely be devised. I speak of the entertainments as a whole. There are portions of them which are innocently amusing and healthful, but the most popular features are those which the exponents of coarseness and vulgarity provide. I had some opportunity of studying Mrs. Parkinson's character, and I know that it was this coarser element of the entertainments that attracted her. I frequently heard her singing verses of songs which, I regret to say, were and are popular, and the true meaning of which is an offence to decency. The mischief is that this moral poison is at the bottom of the cup; but it is well known to be there by everybody who partakes of it; and even when it is so cleverly veiled that it can only be conveyed by a motion or a gesture, this form of expression is carried away by the audience and used by them when they sing the song in private. It is to Parkinson's credit that he preferred the Wilberforce Club to the music-hall; but it is not to his credit that he left the entire social education and recreation of his daughter to one so unfitted for these duties as his wife. I would not make life too serious, but I refuse to excuse any person who ignores its responsibility. Parkinson allowed his wife to take their little Mary to the music-halls, and to implant in her nature a foundation of frivolity which has borne bad fruit; it could not be hoped that it would bear good."
"I agree entirely with you," said Mr. Loveday, "and if I take the matter more closely to heart it is because of the affection which our Hester bears for the poor girl. Mary is bright and attractive, and has many good qualities."
"Good qualities which needed home training," said Dr. Perriera, "and which should not have been allowed to run wild. Bright and attractive! Frequently a misfortune when the early education has been bad. I will finish my argument. The orator to whom we have just listened is one of an unreasoning class who takes into account only the faults and errors of one side of his case. That side, in his view, is thoroughly black; the other side is thoroughly white. Fair-minded men are bound to take into consideration both cause and effect, and men incapable of doing this are not fitted to lead. I am sorry that Mr. Bartholomew has resigned the presidency of the Wilberforce; in addition to being a man of sound, advanced opinions, he was a restraining force. Do you think Kingsley Manners fit for the position?"
"I do not," replied Mr. Loveday, firmly, "and I have done all I could to dissuade him from standing for office. At times I thought I was succeeding, but some kind of outside influence has always thwarted me. 'A man must follow his star,' he said; and he said it, I believe, with but a vague idea of his meaning."
"There are members of the Wilberforce," said Dr. Perriera, "who want to use Kingsley Manners as a tool; and he, with his amiable nature, might easily be led into a false position. His true friends must save him from this danger, if possible."
"The difficulty is to find a way," observed Mr. Loveday.
As he made this remark a hand was laid upon his arm, and, turning, he saw Nansie. From her face the beauty of youth had quite fled; sorrow and trial had left their traces there, but her brave spirit and cheerful endurance of long hours of toil had so chastened her that no one could be long in her presence without being made to feel that here was one in whom the highest attributes of fortitude, faith, and duty's performance were manifest. The time was within a few minutes to eleven, and Mr. Loveday was surprised to see her out at that hour of the night.
"Do you know where Kingsley is?" she asked.
"No," replied Mr. Loveday. "Is he not at home?"
"He has not returned yet," said Nansie, "and I am anxious about him."
"I will find him for you," said Mr. Loveday. "He will come home at once when he hears you are uneasy about him."
"Yes, I know he will do that. I should like to see him myself, to explain--"
"Nansie," cried Mr. Loveday, as she paused, "something is troubling you."
"Yes," she answered, frankly; "I cannot tell you what it is--I do not think I ought."
"Where is Hester?"
"At home, alone. She will not go to bed until her father returns."
"But you, Nansie, are you not going back?"
"No; I have something to do that will keep me out late. That is what I wished to see Kingsley for--to explain it to him. Tell him I may not be home till the morning, and that Hester is waiting for him. He is not to worry himself; everything is right."
"There goes a true woman," said Dr. Perriera, looking after her, "upon an errand of mercy and goodness."
"Do you know what it is?" asked Mr. Loveday.
"No, nor can I guess, but I would stake my life that it is as I say, and that you believe as I do, notwithstanding that we are both in the dark."
"You are right," said Mr. Loveday. "Dr. Perriera, misfortune sometimes proves a blessing. It has been so to me. Had I been rich and prosperous, I doubt whether it would have been given to me to know the perfect sweetness and beauty to be found in common lives."
"It is the fashion to call them common lives," responded Dr. Perriera, "though here and there is a life which an angel would be proud to live."
Some three months after this night a gentleman was sitting with a friend in a well-appointed house in Harley Street. The host was a man in the prime of life, his name Hollingworth; the guest was his elder in years, his name Manners--none other than the once great contractor--Mr. Valentine Manners, Kingsley's father. They had dined, and were sitting over their claret.
Mr. Valentine Manners had long since retired from business. For many years he had travelled the world in search of something--he knew not what--which he had lost, and had returned home without finding it. Part of the time his nephew, Mark Inglefield, who was to be his heir, had travelled with him; but the younger man had made periodical visits to England upon his uncle's private affairs, of which he had the practical management. A fortune so vast as Mr. Valentine Manners had amassed was in itself a business, the care of which occupied a great deal of time.
Mr. Hollingworth and his guest had discussed many matters, the most important of which was a proposed marriage between Mr. Hollingworth's only daughter, Beatrice, and Mark Inglefield, the rich contractor's heir. The girl was barely twenty, Mark Inglefield nearly fifty; but these disparities are not uncommon in matrimonial unions in which money and not love is the principal factor. Mr. Hollingworth had only one other child, a son of twenty-six, who had just been elected a member of the House of Commons. The conversation of the two gentlemen was interrupted by the announcement of a servant that a man wished to see Mr. Hollingworth.
The tone of the servant when he uttered the words "a man" was a sufficient indication of his opinion of the visitor's standing. Mr. Hollingworth accepted his servant's opinion.
"Did you say I was busy?"
"I told him so, sir, and that you could not be disturbed."
"Well?"
"He said he must see you, sir, and that he would come every day and night till he did." Mr. Hollingworth groaned. "Did he give you his name?"
"Yes, sir, and said you would know it. Mr. Parkinson--a stone-mason, he said he was."
"Parkinson--Parkinson! I do not know the man, and I have not been engaged in building. More in your way, Mr. Manners."
His guest nodded, but made no remark; there was nothing in the incident to interest him.
"He has been here several times this week, sir," said the servant.
"I remember now hearing of it, and I left instructions that he was to put his business with me in writing."
"He paid no attention to that, sir, but kept on calling."
"Well, we must get rid of him somehow. A stone-mason, eh? Parkinson--the very name for a stone-mason. My boy Dick carried his election on the working-man's interests. A popular cry; we are becoming very radical. Show Mr. Parkinson up. You have no objection, Mr. Manners?"
"None at all."
The servant retired, and returned, ushering in Mr. Parkinson. Mr. Hollingworth cast a keen glance at his visitor, and saw that he was to all appearance a respectable working-man.
"You wish to see me?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson in a respectful tone, and yet with something of defiance. He had repaid Mr. Hollingworth's keen glance with interest. He was calmer now than when he had recounted his wrongs at the meeting of the Wilberforce Club; but although he was holding himself in check, he was quite as much in earnest.
"It seems that a personal interview was imperative."
"It was, sir."
"Well, I am not disinclined to listen to you. Anything respecting politics? My son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth, has lately been returned to Parliament in the interests of the working-man, as I dare say you know."
"Yes, sir, I know it. That is how I found you out, though I expected to see an older gentleman than you."
Mr. Hollingworth smiled. "You may do that in the course of years if I live. Your expectation is an inexplicable one, however, and as strange as your expression that you have found me out. Almost a crime," he continued, still with a smile on his face, "to be found out in these days. You have come, then, upon political business?"
"No, sir; I have come upon private business."
"Upon private business! A singular time to introduce it. As singular as the question. What private business can there be between you and me, who are perfect strangers to each other?"
"Thereisprivate business between us, sir, of a vital nature. You will understand if you will listen to me, as you said you would."
"Will you be long?"
"I will try not to be, but there's a tale to tell."
"Tell it, my friend, as briefly as you can. Will you wait?" he asked, turning to his guest, "or shall we resume our conversation to-morrow?"
"I will wait," replied Mr. Manners, "unless you wish to hear this person in private."
"I have no such wish."
"I think it will be better, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that we shall speak without witnesses."
"Let me be the judge of that," said Mr. Hollingworth, warmly. "You have chosen to intrude upon me at an untimely hour, and if you have anything to say of which you are ashamed, you have only yourself to blame for the publicity."
"The shame's on your side, not on mine," retorted Mr. Parkinson, speaking as warmly as Mr. Hollingworth had done, "and the blame rests with you and yours."
Mr. Hollingworth's hand, at this retort, was extended towards the bell, and but for the last two words uttered by his visitor he would have ordered him to the door. He sank back in his chair, and with some sternness desired Mr. Parkinson to proceed.
"I am, as you may see, sir, a working-man, and have been so all my life. I live Whitechapel way, and this is my full name and address." He placed an envelope on the table. "I am a widower with one child, a daughter, just eighteen years of age. My wife died eight years ago, and I brought up my girl as well as I could. She is good-looking, worse luck! and can read and write. There has never been anything against me; I owe no man a penny, and my character in my line is as good as yours or any gentleman's in his."
"I don't see how all this affects me," said Mr. Hollingworth, with an assumption of weariness. "Cannot you spare me further details?"
"I must tell my story my own way, sir, and you will soon see how it affects you."
"Go on, then, if it must be so."
"If we had been let alone, my girl and me, there would have been no occasion for me to be here now; but we were not let alone, to live our lives our own way. We were interfered with by a gentleman."
"Come, come, my friend," said Mr. Hollingworth, "this is mere clap-trap."
"Not a bit of clap-trap about it, sir. Hard, bitter truth; that's what it is. According to the order of things, my girl would have married one of my sort, one of her own--there were plenty after her, but she wouldn't look at 'em--and would have had her regular ups and downs, and gone through life respectable."
"Oh," remarked Mr. Hollingworth, flippantly, "she has spoiled her chance for that!"
"It's been spoiled for her, sir. When and where she met this gentleman of hers I've no means of saying; she's as close as wax; and it is only by a trick--a just trick that a father has a right to use--that I've come to some knowledge of things. But I'll tell my story straight, and won't run ahead more than I can help. It's months ago now since my girl run away from me, and left never a word behind her that I could find her by."
"In the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth, "you have not come to me to find her for you?"
"No, sir; that's not my business here. My girl was found and saved by an angel."
"A veritable angel?" asked Mr. Hollingworth. He was nettled by the tone and attitude of the man, and was disposed to resent these signs by a lightness of manner in his reception of the uninvited confidence that was being reposed in him.
"What do you mean by veritable?" demanded Mr. Parkinson; and quickly himself answered his own question. "Oh! I know; a kind of mockery of me! The angel I mean is a woman with a name which I'll give you if you like."
"It's a matter of perfect indifference to me, my good man."
"I'll give it to you, then. There are not many like her, and as I come here alone, unsupported by evidences or witnesses, you might, when I've done, like to find out for yourself whether I'm speaking the truth. That would be only fair. The good angel who found and saved my Mary is Mrs. Manners, who is something more than loved--she's worshipped by every one who knows her."
When Mr. Parkinson uttered the name of Manners, Mr. Hollingworth started, and glanced at his visitor; but the great contractor made no movement.
"Your daughter being found and saved," said Mr. Hollingworth, "there is a pleasant ending of your story."
"Not at all, sir. There's been a wrong done that must be righted; and before we come to the way of that, there's more to say. When my girl ran away from her home I was for a long time fairly mad, and was ready to strike both him and her dead at my feet if I had the chance. I was as bitter against her as against him; and if I'd known what I know now, there would have been a case in the papers, and the boys in the streets screaming out the news. But I couldn't discover who the man was; all that reached me was through hearsay from one of her girl companions, who had happened to see her in the company of a man they called a gentleman. They didn't know who he was any more than I did; and when I made up my mind that my girl had been brought to shame, I swore that she should never darken my doors again. A good many weeks passed by, and my feelings against my girl got harder instead of softer; and then, sir, the usual thing happened."
"I understand," said Mr. Hollingworth, "as little of what you mean by 'the usual thing happened,' as I do of how the story you are telling can possibly affect me."
"A little more patience, sir, and it will be clear to you. The usual thing is, that the man who wronged my child deserted her."
"Ah!"
"She was left pretty well shipwrecked in this big city of cruelty. Where should she turn to? Where do they all turn to in their thoughts? To the home they have brought disgrace upon; to the father and mother whose hearts they have broken. But my girl was afraid to come to me. She had somehow heard that I had sworn she should never cross my threshold again; that I had sworn to strike her down dead if she ever came before me again. So she hid herself and her shame, and fell into a fever, and was close to the death I had sworn against her. I knew nothing of it; the news didn't reach my ears, but it reached the ears of the angel woman I spoke of, Mrs. Manners. The way of it was that, thinking she hadn't many hours to live, my girl wrote a letter to one whom she loved and honored, a girl of her own age, sweet, and loving, and good, Miss Hester Manners. 'Dear Hester,' my girl wrote, 'come to me, if only for a minute, and give me one kind look before I die. Heaven will reward you for it.' There was more in the letter that I won't trouble you with. Miss Hester, as was right and proper, showed her mother the letter, and her mother, as was right and proper, said, 'My dear,Iwill go and see the poor girl.' Heaven bless her for her merciful act all the days of her life! She is poorer than I am by a long way, and has had such a battle to fight as few women have, and has fought it in a way that no other woman could. I have been pretty much of a careless, selfish man, I can see that now; not through her telling me of it; no, sir; but through her ways, somehow, that I've seen so much of lately. I've been neglectful of my duty, though I've led an honest life, which is about the best that can be said about me, but I'm a different man now through her, a different and a better man, I hope, than I've ever been; and if I could serve her by suffering any pain that a man can suffer, I'd do it gladly, and thank the chance. It was late at night when Miss Hester gave her the letter from my poor girl, and her husband wasn't at home, but she went straight on her errand of mercy, and remained with my child, nursing and attending to her till daylight came; and when she went away she promised to go again, and she did, day after day, night after night, taking her sewing with her, for the minutes were precious, and bread for her family had to be earned. This went on, sir, for some time in secret without me ever knowing it, until my Mary was snatched from death's door by this bright angel. Then, sir, Mrs. Manners began to speak to me of my child; how she did it I can't remember, try my hardest; there was nothing sudden, no news all at once that my Mary had been almost dying, and nursed back to life by her; she softened my heart gradually in a cunning and beautiful way, bringing Miss Hester with her to my rooms, and making me feel, as the dear young lady moved about, doing this and that for me, how happy I might be once more if I could see my child doing as she was doing. Mrs. Manners's heart is not only a heart of love and mercy, it is a heart of wisdom, and when she had well prepared me, and had led up to it so that I couldn't have refused to do the hardest task she set me, then, sir, it was that she told me all that had happened to my Mary, and told me, in her loving, gentle voice, that it was my duty to open my arms to the child who had been led into wrong through her own innocence and helplessness, and perhaps through my own neglect. She didn't put this last thought into my mind; it came there out of my own sorrow and self-reproach, but it was Mrs. Manners who planted the seed. I took my girl home, hoping and believing that everything would be right, and resolved, too, to do all I could to make 'em right. But the contrary has happened, and another disgrace, that none of us but my Mary knew, is threatening me now. The companions she used to associate with won't have anything to say to her. The poor can be hard, sir, as well as the rich--I've found that out; can be hard, and unjust, and merciless. Perhaps it was my Mary's own fault. She went away a merry, chattering magpie, singing and laughing, and chirruping like a cricket. She came back quiet and melancholy, and she moves about as though she wanted to die. The only women friends she has are Miss Hester and her mother; she's faithful and loving to them, but often when they are gone I find her crying fit to break her heart. Now, sir, as was natural, I tried to get out of her the name of the man who has brought this ruin and shame upon us, but never a word would she let slip, even to them who proved themselves better friends to her than I was. Seeing she was so quiet and shy, I looked out for letters; none came, and if she wrote any she has kept it secret from me. Now, sir, with the new disgrace threatening us that only a few days ago came, to my knowledge, I was more determined than ever to find out the man who must do her justice. I had never pried into the little box of clothes she brought home with her, and that she kept always locked in her bedroom, but I thought myself justified now in opening it unknown to her. It wasn't difficult; it is a cheap, common box, and almost any key the size of the lock would open it. I found no letters there, but a portrait, with a name at the back in my girl's writing. I went to her straight, and told her what I had done. 'Is this the man?' I asked her. She said, 'Yes,' in a whisper. 'Did he give it to you himself?' I asked. 'No,' she answered, 'I took it without his knowing, and he doesn't know now that I've got it.' That shows the wickedness and artfulness of the villain--I beg your pardon, sir, for letting the right word slip."
"Why beg my pardon?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, coldly.
"Can't you guess what I'm coming to, sir?"
"Indeed, I cannot; and I may add that up to this point, although I sympathize with you in your trouble, and wish it were in my power to relieve you, I have not the remotest idea why you have inflicted your story upon me."
"Is that true?"
"As this is the last time you will have the opportunity of speaking to me, I forgive the impertinence. It is quite true."
"But you sympathize with me, you say?"
"I have said so. You are yourself aware that your unhappy story is one which many poor fathers can relate; but that does not render it less detestable. You seem to be mistaken in me, my friend. You present yourself here to me, and plainly, although not in the exact words, you say, 'I am a working-man, and therefore an honest man. You are a gentleman, and therefore a scoundrel. I credit myself with virtue; I credit you with vice. I am a worthy member of society; you are an infamous one.'" And now Mr. Hollingworth spoke with real dignity: "You are absolutely and fatally in error. The pernicious views you have in effect expressed are, I am well aware, shared by many of your class. They are erroneous views. Among the class I may be supposed to represent are a number of very worthy and honest persons who are really earnest in their desire and endeavors to set right what is wrong in society. I believe myself to be one of these persons; I believe my son to be another; and it is you and such as you who throw obstacles in our way. There is something too much of this parade of exceptional virtues on the part of such demagogues as yourself. Have I made myself clear to you?"
"Quite clear, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson, frankly and respectfully. He had listened with eager attention and interest to Mr. Hollingworth, from whose speech he seemed to derive satisfaction. "And I am free to admit that there is some truth in what you have said."
"Really!" exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth, letting his earnest mood slip from him. "Perhaps you are as free to admit that even among the humbler classes such wrongs are done as you have come here to descant upon."
"I admit it, sir; but each wrong must be treated on its own special ground. Had a poor man betrayed my child, I should have gone to him as I now come to you."
"This is beyond endurance--"
"No, sir," interposed Mr. Parkinson, "do not summon your servants until you hear what name is written on the back of the portrait I found in my poor girl's box."
"Let me hear it, then, without any further beating about the bush."
"It is that of your son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth!"
Mr. Hollingworth fell back in his chair, shocked and horrified, and a panorama of years of deceit crossed his mind. If what this man said was true, he had undoubted justice on his side. If what this man said was true, the son in whose honor and rectitude the father had implicitly believed had lived a life of treachery, had secretly lived the infamous life, and had successfully concealed the knowledge from those who held him dear.
"When I read the name on the picture," said Mr. Parkinson, "it did not enlighten me, and as my daughter, after her first admission, obstinately refused to give me further particulars of her betrayer, I should have remained in the dark but for one circumstance. I belong to a working-man's club, the Wilberforce, which is in some sense a political club, as all such clubs are more or less. For weeks before my discovery of the portrait, I had not visited the club, having no heart to mix in its affairs; but it happened that I strolled into the club-room on the night the portrait fell into my hands. Political matters are freely discussed there, and the effect of every fresh election is commented upon. The evening papers contained the result of the election which has made your son a member of Parliament, and then it was that I saw his name in print. I took counsel with certain friends upon whose judgment I can rely, and their advice was that I should come direct to you. I have done so, and you will now know whether I was justified in seeking this interview."
He paused, and it was only after a long silence that Mr. Hollingworth said:
"Quite justified." Mr. Parkinson bent his head and waited. When Mr. Hollingworth spoke again it was in a constrained voice. "I should have preferred that your disclosure should have been made to me privately."
"I wished it, sir," interrupted Mr. Parkinson.
"Yes; I forgot. The fault was mine." He looked at Mr. Manners, but the contractor's eyes were averted. Not by word or motion had he denoted that he had been an interested listener to what had passed. "Nothing can be decided in the absence of my son, and you must not suppose that I shall condemn him unheard. What reparation can be made--" He could not finish the sentence; his agitation was so great that he scarcely knew what he was saying.
"You would not think of offering us money," said Mr. Parkinson, in a tone of deep sternness.
"No, no, of course not. And yet--but I can say no more at present. Have you the portrait with you?"
"Yes, I brought it, expecting you to ask to see it."
He handed it to Mr. Hollingworth, who, the moment he saw it, gave utterance to a cry of joyful surprise. It was the cry of a man who had been suddenly and unexpectedly released from unendurable torture.
"You are not mistaken?" he exclaimed. "This is the picture you found in your daughter's box?"
"It is," replied Mr. Parkinson, gazing suspiciously at Mr. Hollingworth. "Your son's name is written on the back."
"I see it, in your daughter's handwriting." Mr. Parkinson could not understand the meaning of another strange expression in Mr. Hollingworth's face as that gentleman raised his eyes from the picture and partly turned to the contractor. "You are satisfied that this is the portrait of the--the gentleman who has wronged your daughter?"
"She told me it was, and I am satisfied."
"You lift a weight from my heart. Mr. Parkinson, this is not the portrait of my son, nor of any member of my family."
"I'll not take your word for it," cried Mr. Parkinson, taking, with some roughness, the picture from Mr. Hollingworth. "Tell me, sir, you," he said, addressing Mr. Manners, "whether he speaks the truth."
Before Mr. Hollingworth could prevent him he thrust the picture into Mr. Manners's hand, who, gazing upon it, recognized the likeness of his nephew, Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners and Mr. Hollingworth exchanged meaning glances.
"My friend speaks truly," said Mr. Manners, "and you might have believed him without appealing to me. This is not his son."
"What infamous plot is here?" cried Mr. Parkinson.
"None of our making, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth. "With all my heart I sympathize with you."
"I want none of your sympathy," said Mr. Parkinson, "I want justice, and I will have it. Whoever this man is, I will drag him into the light." In his passion he turned from one to the other with furious looks.
"You cannot blame the innocent," said Mr. Hollingworth, pointing to a picture on the wall. "That is my son, Mr. Parkinson. You can trace no resemblance between the portraits."
"No, they are not the same men. What is the meaning of this mystery? It shall not remain a mystery long--I swear it!"
"Is there any reason why this interview should be prolonged?" said Mr. Hollingworth. "If you doubt my word, and that of my friend, you can set your doubt at rest by looking at the illustrated papers this week, in which the portrait of my son, a newly elected member of Parliament, will appear. It would be the height of folly on my part to attempt to deceive you. I make this promise to you, Mr. Parkinson. If you prove the portrait to be that of my son--who is as dear to me as your daughter is to you--and if he has done your child wrong, he shall make her the only reparation in the power of an honorable man."
"I hold you to your word, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "and if I have been mistaken, I ask your pardon. There is, however, something more for me to say. I am not blind; I have watched the faces of you gentlemen, and I believe you know who this person is. I may be mistaken in this belief, as I am in the other, according to you. Will you tell me if I am right or wrong?"
Mr. Hollingworth made a deprecatory motion with his hand which the injured father construed into a refusal. Mr. Manners was motionless.
"Very well, gentlemen," said Mr. Parkinson, with a gesture, half despairing, half scornful, "I will take your silence for what it is worth. But listen to me. There appears to be a double villainy in this affair, and it shall be brought to light. In my daughter's belief, the name of the man who betrayed her is Richard Hollingworth; and if your son's name has been so used it has been used for a vile purpose, and your honor is concerned as well as my own--if you will excuse a common working-man for speaking of his honor."
"Nay, nay, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, gently, "surely you will not do me a further injustice!"
"It is far from my wish, sir; but it is natural--perhaps you will admit it--that words should escape me for which I ought not to be held strictly accountable. Again I ask your pardon. You have met me fairly, and I thank you for it. That is all, I think."
"Good-night, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, holding out his hand. "There are reasons why I should say nothing further at present. I will make a point of calling upon you and your daughter, with my son, if you will permit me. And if I can in any way befriend you--"
"You can in one way," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, "and in one way only; by helping me unmask this villain and bringing him to justice. He has ruined my daughter's life, and I will ruin his if it is in my power--ay, I will, though it cost me the last drop of my blood. Good-night, sir."
He turned to go, but stopped at the instance of Mr. Manners.
"One moment," said that gentleman; "your visit here is at an end, and mine is nearly so. Would you have any objection to waiting for me below for two or three minutes? I wish to speak privately with you."
"Will it serve any good purpose?" demanded Mr. Parkinson.
"It may," replied Mr. Manners. "There are other wrongs than yours."
"I don't dispute it. But I am concerned only in my own. Excuse me for speaking roughly."
"I excuse you readily, and may perhaps have cause to be grateful to you. Other persons whom you honor may also have cause to be grateful that what you had to say to this gentleman was said in my presence. Let this assurance content you, and give me the favor of your company when you leave this house."
"I'll do so, sir. I seem to be struggling in a net. A little mystery more or less won't matter much."
With a rough bow--in which there was some native grace of manner which well became him in his grief and perplexity--he left the room. The two gentlemen, being alone, waited each for the other to speak; but the silence was soon broken.
"The man's tale is true," said Mr. Hollingworth; "of that there can be no doubt. But I will not rashly commit myself to what may be an act of injustice. It remains for your nephew, Mr. Inglefield, to clear himself from the foul charge. If he cannot do so, he has played the part of an infamous scoundrel in the use he has made of my son's name; it is conduct which cannot be forgiven. Why, he might have ruined my lad at the very outset of his public career! If you were in my place, with an only son, upon whom all your hopes were set--for, although he has a sister, a girl counts for very little--would you overlook an act so base?"
"No," replied Mr. Manners. A sharp pang had passed through him at Mr. Hollingworth's reference to an only son. He thought of Kingsley, with his bright, ingenuous face, with his eager voice, and simple, loving ways, with his clear ideas of duty and honor. Yes, even duty, which, in the years that were gone, he had accused Kingsley of forgetting and neglecting, crept into his mind side by side with honor. A rash act to marry without a father's consent, against a father's wishes; but Kingsley was ever rash and impulsive, but never in a dishonorable direction--never! And the step being taken, he did not flinch from its consequences. He had thrown in his hard fortune with the woman to whom he had pledged his faith, and had not for one instant wavered in the course he had believed it was right to follow. Would his nephew, Mark Inglefield, have stood so unflinchingly firm; would he have withstood temptation as Kingsley had done? Mentally he surveyed the two men, and a sound like a groan escaped his lips.
"Have I pained you by my decision V asked Mr. Hollingworth, in a solicitous tone.
"No; it is just. My thoughts were upon another matter."
The sadness of his voice impressed Mr. Hollingworth, and he remembered that Mr. Manners had an only son, whom he had cast off for disobedience. This remembrance came to him now with strange significance. Mr. Parkinson had mentioned the name of Mrs. Manners, and had described her as an angel of goodness. Was it possible that some close relation existed between these two who bore the same name?
"You had a son," he ventured to say.
"Yes, I had a son," said Mr. Manners, "who disappointed and disobeyed me."
"Children have no appreciation of the sacrifices parents make for them. I am sorry for you. I should not have spoken of him but for a reference made by the man who has just left us.
"Yes; he spoke of a Mrs. Manners. The name is not a common one, and it may be--" He broke off here. "Mr. Hollingworth, it is not correct for me to say that my son disobeyed me, and you must not suppose that he was guilty of a dishonorable action. He was incapable of it."
"Is he living still?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, laying his hand sympathizingly on his guest's shoulder.
"I do not know. I have heard nothing of him for years. We will not pursue the subject; it is too painful, and I am waited for below. With respect to Mr. Inglefield, your best course will be to see or write to him. There need be no disguise. I myself shall speak to him, and shall mention names plainly."
"I will write to him to-night; he must know at once that his visits here are at an end, unless he has been maligned."
Mr. Manners found Mr. Parkinson waiting for him in the street.
"I could not stop in the house," he said, "there is something about it that suffocates me."
"I intended to ask you to walk with me to mine," said Mr. Manners.
"I will walk with you, but I refuse to enter it," rejoined Mr. Parkinson, roughly. "You are, of course, a rich man."
"Yes, I am rich."
"I am poor, and I will keep my place. It would be better for all of us if every man did the same. We can talk in the streets. It will serve some good purpose, you said. I ask nothing for myself, mind, nothing but justice."
"In the sad story you have told," said Mr. Manners, "you spoke of a woman who was kind to your daughter."
"I did, and what I said of her is true. She is an angel of goodness, and she saved my daughter, body and soul. See here, sir. I am not a church-going man, and I hate sanctimonious people, but I am not a heathen either. There's some kind of a power that made the world and sent us into it for some purpose. I often wonder what, when I think of things. And there's a hereafter, and I'm glad to know it. I'll tell you why I'm glad. Because, if that scoundrel who ruined my daughter escapes his punishment here--and I'll do my best that he sha'n't--but if hedoesescape it here, he'll meet it there! That's a satisfaction to me, and the thought of it will make me religious. I'll go to church next Sunday."
"My object in speaking to you now," said Mr. Manners, "is to obtain information of Mrs. Manners. I gathered from what you said that she is poor."
"Very poor," said Mr. Parkinson, "and that stands to her credit here, and 'll stand to her credit in the next world--if there's any justice there."
"In what way does it stand to her credit?"
Mr. Parkinson stopped suddenly to look at Mr. Manners's face, upon which the light of a street lamp was shining.
"You are asking close questions," he said, "and I'm getting suspicious of people."
"You are suspicious of me?"
"Put it as you like. You don't know me, and never heard of me before to-night, and I don't suppose you care a brass farthing whether you ever hear of me again. I never saw you before to-night, and I don't know your name even; so you have the advantage of me. You're in the light, you see, and I'm in the dark, and here we are talking together confidentially, with the difference that you know what you're talking about, and I don't. Stop a bit. I see you want to speak; but I must work off my reel first. I don't care for interruptions. You've heard me tell my story; you've got in your mind my name, and my girl's name and shame, likewise the name of the man I'd take by the throat if he stood before me now and I knew it. Likewise the name of the angel woman who saved her, and who'd stand by her--I'll take my oath on it--if all the rest of the world was hounding her and throwing mud at her. Likely as not you're a friend of the scoundrel that's brought this upon us. I saw something in your face that makes me sure now he's not a stranger to you. He was a gentleman, so-called; you're another. I've only got your word for it that the talk you're having with me is for a good purpose. It may be for a bad one. I've no call to trust you that I can see. Give me a reason."
"I find no fault with you for your suspicion of me. My name is Manners."
"Oh! And is the woman I'd die to serve a connection of yours?"
"She may be. It is to ascertain whether she is that I am questioning you now."
"For a good purpose, you said?"
"What I said I mean."
"Let me have another look at you."
Again they stopped, and again Mr. Parkinson's eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Manners's face. He was to some extent apparently satisfied.
"Go ahead," he said.
"You said," resumed Mr. Manners, steadily, "that her being poor, very poor, stands to her credit here, and will stand to her credit in another world, and I asked in what way."
"All right. You've got a clear head on you. In this way. She's got nothing to gain by it. What she does is done out of pure goodness--not only what she's done for me and my girl, but what she does for every one who's in trouble. There isn't a face that don't light up when she comes by; there isn't a lodging, the commonest you can think of, that isn't brightened when she opens the door. If she was to die to-morrow--the good Lord forbid that she should! but I'm putting it that way to make it plain to you--if she was to die to-morrow, there'd be hundreds of us, men, women, and children, who'd follow her to the grave, and know that they'd lost a friend that could never be replaced. There would be no money to pay for a stone, but she'd have one in our hearts. God Almighty bless her and hers!"