"I told you," said Mr. Manners, "that the matter we have left is one vital to your interests. The matter we are now approaching is vital to mine."
"I am sure, sir," said Inglefield, wondering, "anything I can do to serve you--"
"The truth will serve me; nothing less. How long is it since you saw my son, Kingsley?"
"A great many years," replied Inglefield, with a fainting heart.
Here was another unforeseen danger threatening him, for there was nothing of harshness or severity in Mr. Manners's voice; it was, indeed, gentle and tender.
"How long since you have heard of him?"
"Nearly as long. I never corresponded with him, you know. It was enough for me that he offended and deceived you--you, the best of men and fathers!"
Mr. Manners gazed at Mark Inglefield in surprise. This reference to himself as the best of men and fathers was new to him, and from such a quarter quite unexpected.
"I do not deserve your good opinion," he said; "I am not the best of men, and have not been the best of fathers."
"Let others judge," murmured Inglefield.
"They would condemn me, but not more strongly than I condemn myself."
"Why do you agitate yourself, sir?" said Inglefield. "The affair is dead and buried long ago. You have no cause for reproach."
"It is because I have true cause for reproach that I am tortured now. Wrongs may be buried, but they do not die. They live to bear after-fruit."
He leaned his head upon his hand, and a thought flashed suddenly into Mark Inglefield's mind.
"The past has been recalled to you, sir," he said, in a tone of false commiseration, "in some special way."
"Yes, Inglefield."
"Through this Mr. Parkinson?" asked Inglefield. "Yes, through him."
"Ah," cried Inglefield, "then these men are acquainted with each other."
"These men?" repeated Mr. Manners, in inquiry.
"Mr. Parkinson and your son," replied Inglefield, somewhat confused by the question.
"Yes, they are acquainted with each other."
"Then it is your son," exclaimed Inglefield, starting to his feet with a show of passion which was not entirely simulated, "I have to thank for the vile accusation which has been brought against me! It is he I have to thank for blackening my character! And it is by these means that he, after all these years, endeavors to supplant me in your respect!"
"Restrain yourself," said Mr. Manners, "You are doing Kingsley an injustice. With what has passed between us he has nothing whatever to do."
"Then how comes it, sir," demanded Inglefield, speaking still with violence, "that this Mr. Parkinson, this sham working-man--oh, I know them, sir; they trade upon the term, and twist it artfully to their own advantage--how comes it, I ask, that this Parkinson visited Mr. Hollingworth with this trumped-up story while you were with that gentleman? Why, the plot is as clear as daylight! I see it all. The shameless villains!"
"Stop, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners, sternly; "I will not allow you to brand my son with such an epithet. Recall it."
"At your bidding, yes, sir. But none the less am I amazed that you should permit yourself to be duped by such a barefaced, superficial trick."
"How was it possible," asked Mr. Manners, "that Mr. Parkinson knew that I was with Mr. Hollingworth when he called?"
"How was it possible, sir? There was no difficulty in ascertaining a fact so simple. It belongs to the deep-laid plot by which my enemies hope to ruin me."
"Once more I tell you," said Mr. Manners, "that the expectations I have held out to you shall be fulfilled to your satisfaction if you clear yourself of the charge in relation to Mary Parkinson. Be wise, Inglefield; I am not a man to be lightly trifled with, especially at a time like this, when you can see I am deeply moved. Whether Mary Parkinson's story affects you or not, it is a true story; there is no room for doubt; and the introduction of my son's name into it was not premeditated."
"What is it you wish of me?" asked Inglefield, seating himself sullenly.
"Some assistance in recalling what I learned from your lips with respect to my son and his wife."
"Well, sir, I am bound to obey you, though the subject is intensely painful to me."
"How much more painful must it be to me when I have heard that which leads me to doubt the justice of an act which condemned my son to a life of privation!"
"What you have heard from Mr. Parkinson to-night, sir?"
"Yes, from Mr. Parkinson. Inglefield, I remember that you spoke of the lady who won Kingsley's love as an artful, designing woman. If I am exaggerating, correct me."
"I certainly said little in her favor," replied Mark Inglefield, sullenly and ungraciously. There could have been no more unwelcome topic than this, and it was broached at a time when all his attention and skill were required to ward off impending ruin. It proved that he was a man of infinite resource that two such blows dealt at once and so unexpectedly did not completely confound him.
"You must be a great deal more explicit with me, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "You said nothing in her favor."
"Well, sir, if you will have it so."
Mr. Manners frowned.
"It is not as I would have it; it is or is not the truth."
"I have no intention of denying it;" and here came a cunning stroke. "Consider, sir. Is it not natural that I should be to some extent unbalanced by what has transpired?"
"Yes, it is natural, Inglefield, and I will excuse much. But I must have plain answers to my questions, or I shall ask you nothing further."
The turn which this conversation had taken and the unexpected nature of the disclosures which Mr. Manners had made were, indeed, surprises for which Mark Inglefield could not possibly have been prepared. He had entered the house in a condition of mind which may be designated beatific. All his plans had prospered, and he had expected to hear from Mr. Manners a thoroughly satisfactory account of the interview between his patron and Mr. Hollingworth. The celebration of the contemplated union with Miss Hollingworth would have been the crowning triumph of all his scheming. From the day when he first instilled into Mr. Manners's ears the poisoned insinuations which were to effect the separation of father and son, success had attended him. Wary, cunning, and most painstaking in the early years of his association with Mr. Manners, he believed that he had so firmly established his position that there was no possibility of his being shaken from it. Gradually he had allowed himself to be lulled into a state of perfect security--to such an extent, indeed, that he no longer took pains to make himself more than ordinarily agreeable to the man upon whose word his future prospects depended. But now, in this startling manner, and at this unexpected time, the storm he had not foreseen burst upon him. He did not pause to consider that the Nemesis which threatened him was the outcome of his own evil, and that it sometimes happens that wrong-doers themselves forge bolts which destroy them. The idea of anything like justice or Providence did not occur to him. He was angry, but his conscience was not disturbed. His inherent and perfect selfishness led him straight to one incontrovertible view of the difficulty in which he found himself. He had enemies who, nettled and wroth at his approaching triumph, had suddenly banded themselves together for the purpose of trampling him in the dust. It was, therefore, a battle to the death between him and them, and, recognizing that this was the supreme moment in his career, he determined to stop at nothing which would avert defeat. In the heart of this determination there lurked a ruthlessness of spirit which would lead him to any extreme of crime and duplicity. For the unhappy girl whom he had brought to shame and ruin he felt not one spark of compassion; his own safety was his only consideration. As for Kingsley and Nansie, if a wish of his could have destroyed them it would have been breathed without compunction.
Between Mr. Manners's last words and his response there was not a moment's pause. Swift as lightning's flash his resolution was formed.
"I scarcely know, sir," he said, "how to convince you that I have no other desire than to satisfy you. I can only repeat what I have endeavored already to make clear, that you shall have plain and honest answers to everything you ask of me. But for all that, you must make some allowance for my natural feelings of surprise and indignation, that, after all these years, I find my integrity and honor doubted, and matters suddenly and strangely revived which I thought were settled long ago."
"I will make every reasonable allowance," said Mr. Manners. "At present, so far as you are concerned, I am animated by no other spirit than that of being strictly just towards you--even though finding that through some mischance I have drifted into error, I shall be compelled to deprive him who is nearest to my blood of the chief portion of his patrimony. I am ready to take upon myself the whole of the blame; but I must be satisfied that I have not been wilfully deceived."
"Deceived by whom, sir? By me?"
"By you," replied Mr. Manners, calmly. "You were the first to impart to me information concerning the lady my son Kingsley married. Your reports aggravated the feelings I entertained towards her because of the disappointment I experienced by my son marrying without my consent and approval. No other person spoke to me of her but yourself, nor did I seek information elsewhere. You cannot fail to remember the nature of the charges you brought against her."
"That is asking me a great deal," said Inglefield. "Do you expect me to remember faithfully every trifling detail of circumstances which I have not thought of for a long number of years?"
"I do not," said Mr. Manners, observing with displeasure that Mark Inglefield continued to fence with the most important issues of the conversation; "but the principal of them cannot have escaped your memory."
"Being, as it seems to me, upon my trial--" said Inglefield, and paused, for the purpose of ascertaining whether this statement was in consonance with Mr. Manners's intention.
Mr. Manners nodded, and said:
"Yes, Inglefield. You may consider that to some extent you are upon your trial."
"That being the case, sir, it strikes me that you have already formed a judgment, without hearing what I may have to say."
"I should be sorry to think so. Tell me in what way you suppose I have done this."
"You speak of the person your son married as a lady."
"Well?"
"That is not how I should describe her."
"Your remark tallies with what you said against her many years ago. But I shall continue to speak of her and to regard her as a lady until I have evidence to the contrary."
"Have you seen her, then, lately," asked Inglefield, "as well as the scoundrel who has brought these monstrous charges against me?"
"You are overtaxing my patience, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "You assert that you are anxious to satisfy me upon certain points which I consider vital, and yet you take advantage of any slight word or remark which offers the opportunity of evasion. If this opinion is unpalatable to you, thank yourself for it. I have seen the lady of whom we are speaking but once in my life, and on the occasion she visited me I was surprised at the impression she produced upon me. I expected to see a woman whose appearance would have justified the opinion I had formed of her through your statements. I saw, on the contrary, a lady of gentle manners, a lady of culture and refinement, who received with dignity and respect the reproachful words I addressed to her. She needed to be accomplished, indeed, in duplicity and artfulness to have so successfully simulated the air of modesty and gentleness which distinguished her."
"You are not versed in the ways of such women, sir," said Inglefield. "They can deceive the cleverest of men."
"Possibly. I am waiting to ascertain whether I have been so deceived. At present, everything is in her favor. You informed me that she was a vulgar, showy person whose appearance in good society would bring ridicule upon my son."
"That is the opinion I formed of her, sir, from more complete evidence than you are supplied with."
"I understood that you were very well acquainted with her; intimately, I think, you said."
"I knew her very well, sir."
"Intimately? You told me so at the time."
"Yes, sir, intimately," replied Inglefield, inwardly cursing his patron's faithful memory.
"I am glad to be corroborated; it shows that you are speaking frankly. You related to me a story of the arts she used to entangle you, of your seeing through them, and escaping. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"As she could not ensnare you, she turned to Kingsley, and got him into her toils. Correct me if I am wrong in my memory of these matters."
"I cannot say you are wrong, sir, but I will not pledge myself to the precise words you are using."
"I do not ask you to do so. So long as we are agreed upon the general view I shall be satisfied. For my own part, I may say, Inglefield, that I am quite certain I am putting it fairly. Most distinctly did you call her an adventuress."
"Was she not one, sir, in entangling your son because he had a wealthy father?"
"If that was her motive, yes, she was an adventuress; but it scarcely accords with the character of an adventuress that she should be content with making but one appeal to the man upon whose money she had designs."
"You have a very positive and decided manner, sir, from which she might naturally infer that further attempts would be useless."
"I cannot agree with you. Such a woman as you described would not so easily relinquish her designs. It was all she had to depend upon. Failing success, a life of poverty was before her. She certainly would have tried again."
"Surely you would not make me accountable for her actions, sir?"
"No; I am simply arguing the question logically--not as regards you, but as regards her. At the time she made her modest appeal my judgment was clouded with passion; it is now clear, and the course I took does not commend itself to me. Her uncle also made an appeal to me--only one. He had fallen into sudden misfortune; on the day before he came to me he had been burned out, and was not insured."
"A trumped-up story, I have no doubt, sir."
"Not so. A true story, as I saw in the papers afterwards. Neither in his manners was there anything vulgar or objectionable. Although a poor man, he was well educated, and spoke with discretion and intelligence. Had he appealed to me for a large sum of money I might have had reasonable grounds for suspicion; but all he asked for was either five or ten pounds, and that was to send to my son, who was in a state of poverty abroad. I declare," said Mr. Manners, rising, and pacing the room in agitation, "now that I am opening my mind upon these matters, now that I hear myself speaking of them, I cannot justify my conduct. It was monstrous, monstrous. Had I given them a thousand times as much as they asked for I should not have missed it. My heart must have been made of stone!"
"Do not distress yourself, sir," said Inglefield, with a fawning attempt at sympathy. "You could not have acted otherwise."
"I could. I could have acted both justly and mercifully, and so have lightened their lot. I drove the uncle away from the house, and he, too, never made another appeal to me. Their conduct from first to last was dignified and independent; mine was dastardly. You see how little disposed I am to spare myself. Let us put an end to this conversation; I am afraid to trust myself further."
Mark Inglefield was too discreet to offer any opposition, and too glad to escape to put into operation the plans he had formed. With a gentle "Good-night, sir," he was about to leave the room, when Mr. Manners said:
"Do not forget that we have to inquire into the treacherous story related to me by Mr. Parkinson. You will be ready to accompany me at eleven o'clock in the morning."
"I shall be quite ready," said Mark Inglefield. And thus the interview terminated.
Being alone in his room Mark Inglefield set to work at once. The first thing he did was to write a letter, which he addressed to Mary Parkinson. The purport of this letter was that difficulties which had stood in his way were fortunately removed, and that he was now in a position, or would be in a very short time, to fulfil the promise he had made to her. This promise was that he would marry her. Appearances, he said, had been against him, but he would explain all to her personally. The past had been sad, the future should be bright. She could trust him implicitly, and it was a proof of his anxiety to do what was right that he asked her to leave her father's house the moment she received this letter. He was waiting for her, and would take her away at once to commence a new and better life. She must leave the house quietly and secretly, and no one must know of her movements. "In a little while," he wrote, "when you are my wife, we will either send for your father, or you shall go to him and bring him to the home I shall prepare for you. Do not delay; there is not a moment to lose. I have much to tell you, and I cannot rest till I see you." Having reached this point in his letter, he was about to add an instruction to bring this letter with her from her father's house; but he did not write the words. "It might arouse her suspicions," he thought. "She is sure to bring the letter." He signed himself, "Your faithful lover and husband," and then paused again, doubting whether this would be sufficient without a name. He could not put his own, for the reason that she was not acquainted with it. With the boldness of desperation he wrote the name he had assumed when he first introduced himself to her, "Richard Hollingworth," and thought as he did so what a fool he had been not to have assumed a name which was entirely false. But he had not then reckoned with the future, and had not dreamed that an exposure could ever occur. It was too late now to repent; with all these chances against him he had little doubt that he would ultimately triumph.
If he could succeed in conveying this letter to her to-night all would be well. Mary Parkinson would only be too glad to obey him, would only be too glad to fly into his arms. She had no one else in the world to depend upon but herself; her honor, her good name, her future happiness, were in his hands.
The letter finished, and placed in an envelope, at the head of which he wrote, "Read this immediately. R. H.," he looked through his wardrobe, and selected a suit of clothes which would in some measure disguise him. These he put on, and then enveloped himself in an ulster which would render the disguise more complete. Carrying the letter in his hand, he stole stealthily out of the house, locking the door of his bedroom, and taking the key with him. He had provided himself with a latchkey, so that he could leave and enter the house without attracting attention.
"Safe so far," he muttered, when he found himself in the dark street. When he was at a safe distance he hailed a cab, and was driven to the east of the City, within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's house. He was too cunning to drive nearer. Paying the cabman liberally, he strolled away with apparent carelessness. The next thing to be done was to convey the letter to Mary Parkinson without any one but themselves being the wiser. A difficult undertaking at such an hour; he was not even sure of the house in which Mary lived. It was necessary, therefore, he decided regretfully, to obtain the assistance of a stranger. He arrived at the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived, and he looked about him. A policeman passed him, but he dared not seek the aid of a public officer. The policeman being out of sight, fortune favored him. Wretched wayfarers who had no roof to cover them, and no money to pay for a bed, are not uncommon in these poor thoroughfares, and one approached him now and looked into his face. She was, alas! a young woman, scarcely twenty years of age. He accosted her without hesitation.
"Do you want to earn half a crown?" he asked.
She laughed hysterically, and held out her hand. He put sixpence into it, saying:
"The other two shillings if you can tell me what I want to know."
"Right you are," she said, recklessly; "fire away."
"Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?" he said.
"What game are you up to?" she cried.
"Never mind my game," he said, "but answer my questions. Do you know these streets?"
"Do I know 'em? Why, I was born in 'em!"
"In which one?"
"In this; and wish I hadn't been."
"Never mind that. You know the people who live in these houses, then?"
"Know 'em? By heart! And they know me--rather! Ask any of 'em what they think of Blooming Bess."
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Make it worth my while."
"Will a crown be worth your while?"
"Depends."
"You shall have a crown, and if you hold your tongue, in a fortnight I'll come and find you and give you another crown. I suppose you'll be hereabouts."
"Unless I'm in jail, or dead! I don't much care which."
"It isn't much of a secret, only don't talk about it to any one. You know this street, you say, and everybody in it. Just walk along with me, and tell me who lives in the houses."
"That's a lot to make a fuss about," said the wretched girl, and walked past the houses in his company, and said, here lives such and such a one, here lives so-and-so, here's a dozen of 'em living together, and so on, and so on. Now and again, to put her off the scent, Mark Inglefield asked questions concerning strangers, as to their trade, families, and other particulars. At length she came to Mr. Parkinson's house, and said,
"Here lives old Parkinson."
"And who is he?"
"Oh, one of us," replied the girl.
"One of us!
"Leastways, no better than the others. No more is his gal. I'm as good as she is, any day."
"His daughter, do you mean?"
"Yes. Stuck up, she used to be. Not stuck up now, not a bit of it. That's her room on the first floor, with a light in it. Afraid to go to bed in the dark. A nice lot she is!"
Mark Inglefield, having ascertained what he wanted, marked the number of the house, and congratulated himself on the lighted candle. Then he walked to the end of the street, listening to the account the girl gave of the residents, and when he came to the end of it he handed her four-and-sixpence, and said that was all he wanted to know.
"You're a rum un," said the girl. She had enough to pay for a bit of supper and a miserable bed. Late as it was, she knew where to obtain them.
All was silent and dark as Mark Inglefield wended his way back to Mr. Parkinson's house. Making sure that he was alone, he stepped back and threw a small stone at the window. Mary Parkinson was awake, for he had but to throw another before the sash of the window was raised, and the girl looked out.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"Hush!" said Mark Inglefield. "Read this."
He had the letter ready, with a stone attached to it, and he threw it skilfully almost into her hand. The girl retreated into her room, and Mark Inglefield waited. He had purposely disguised his voice, fearing that, in the excitement of recognizing it, Mary might have screamed out and alarmed the house. He had not long to wait. He heard the key being softly turned in the street door, and the next moment Mary Parkinson was by his side.
"Oh, Richard!" she cried; "is it you--is it you?"
"Yes," he said, hurriedly. "Don't make a fool of yourself. No, no, I don't mean that; I mean, speak low. You're a good girl; you've got your hat on; now, let us get out of this. You thought I was going to leave you in the lurch. See, now, how you were mistaken in me. I will explain all as we go. I couldn't help acting as I did. My whole future and yours, Mary, depended on it. But everything is right now, and you will not have any reason to complain of me again. It did look bad, I admit; but all your trouble is over now."
He was hurrying her away as he spoke, and already they were at some distance from her father's house.
"Oh, Richard, Richard, it is all so sudden!" sighed the girl. "I have been so unhappy--so unhappy!"
"Yes, yes," he said, interrupting her, having no desire to encourage her to talk, but you are happy now, and everything will be well. "You read my letter, didn't you? All that I wrote in it is true. Ah, here's a cab. Get in."
"Shall we never part again, Richard?" asked Mary, trembling so in the sudden happiness of this adventure that he had to support her into the cab.
"Never again, Mary, never again. Never mistrust me again."
"I won't, I won't!" said the girl, and burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
Mark Inglefield gave an instruction to the driver, and they rattled along at a great pace through the City.
At eleven o'clock punctually the next morning Mark Inglefield knocked at the door of Mr. Manners's study. They were not in the habit of taking their meals together; this was the reason of their not meeting at the breakfast-table.
"Good-morning, sir," said Inglefield.
"Good-morning," said Mr. Manners.
Mark Inglefield was cheerful and composed, and Mr. Manners, gazing at him, could not help thinking that he must be mistaken in suspecting him of wrong-doing.
"Shall we start at once, sir?"
"At once."
"I have been thinking," said Mark Inglefield, "of what took place last night, and I almost fear that I laid myself open to misconstruction."
"In what way?"
"By my manner. I was nervous and agitated, and I am afraid I expressed myself badly. It was not quite unnatural. The shock of finding myself charged with a crime so vile was great. Stronger men than I would have been unnerved. Indeed, sir, I could bear anything except the loss of your esteem."
"It will soon be put to the proof, Inglefield."
"Yes, sir, and I am truly glad that I shall be brought face to face with my accusers. When the poor girl who has been wronged sees me you will be immediately undeceived. Let us go, sir."
"This," thought Mr. Manners, "is innocence; I have done Inglefield an injustice." His manner insensibly softened towards the schemer who up till now had so successfully plotted; but this more lenient mood was attributable only to his stern sense of justice. It was this which induced him to say aloud, "Inglefield, you gathered from what I said last night that it is not unlikely I may take steps to reconcile myself with my son and his wife?"
If Mark Inglefield had dared he would have denied that he had gathered any such impression, but so much now depended upon his keeping his patron in a good-humor with him that he merely said, "Yes, sir," and waited for further developments.
"Should this take place," continued Mr. Manners, "we shall both have to confess ourselves in the wrong. Your mistake may have been only an error of judgment; mine was much more serious; but that is a matter with which you have nothing to do. If Kingsley is willing, I should wish you and he to be friends."
"I am ready to do anything," said Inglefield, "to please you. But may I venture to say something?"
"Say whatever is in your mind, Inglefield."
"Nothing, believe me, sir, could be farther from my desire than that you should find yourself unable to carry out your wishes. No effort shall be wanting on my part to bring happiness to you, quite independent of any reflection that may be cast upon my truthfulness and single-mindedness in what I unhappily was compelled to take part in many years ago. I waive all selfish considerations. I feel that I am expressing myself lamely, but perhaps you understand me."
"Yes, and I appreciate your delicate position. Go on."
"Having, then, made this clear to you, having as it were consented to have a false light thrown upon my actions, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that you have my warmest wishes towards the success of what you desire. But this is what I wish to say, and I beg you will not misconstrue me. The new impressions you received were gained from this Mr. Parkinson, whom you so unexpectedly met at Mr. Hollingworth's house last night."
"Yes."
"Heaven forbid that I should step between father and son! The duty that I once felt devolved upon me was a most painful one, but I did it fearlessly, in the hope that the disclosures it was unhappily in my power to make might have been the means of assisting you to the accomplishment of your wishes with respect to your son. As I did my duty then, fearless of consequences, so must I do it now."
"Well, Inglefield?"
"I repeat, sir, that the new impressions you gained were gained from statements made by Mr. Parkinson. I have no hesitation--you must pardon me for being so frank--in declaring him to be a slanderer. I have no key to the mystery of the plot which, in the hands of a man less just than yourself, would almost surely have been my ruin, and I should be wanting in respect to myself were I not indignant at the monstrous charge of which it seems I stand accused, and of which I am now going with you to clear myself. That will be a simple matter, and I will pass it by. But, sir, if it is proved that Mr. Parkinson is wrong in my case, if it is proved that for some purpose of his own, and perhaps of others, he has invented an abominable story, and committed himself to abominable statements, may he not also be wrong in the statements he has made respecting persons whom, out of consideration for you, I will not name?"
"You refer to my son and his wife," said Mr. Manners. Inglefield was silent. "I can cast no blame upon you, Inglefield. I can only repeat that everything shall be put to the proof."
With this remark Inglefield was fain to be satisfied; but he inwardly congratulated himself that he had done something to throw doubt upon Mr. Parkinson's eulogies of Kingsley and Nansie.
They did not walk all the way to the east of London, but, as Mark Inglefield had done but a few short hours ago, they rode to within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's residence, to which they then proceeded on foot. As they drew near they became aware that the neighborhood was abnormally excited. It was past twelve o'clock when they reached the street in which Mr. Parkinson resided, and this was the dinner-hour of a great many of the working men and women roundabout. The majority of these were standing in groups, talking excitedly of an event in which it was evident they were hugely interested. Mark Inglefield guessed what it was, but Mr. Manners had no clew to it. He inquired his way to Mr. Parkinson's house, and, at the moment he reached it, was confronted by Mr. Parkinson himself.
The man was in a violent state of agitation. His limbs were trembling, his features were convulsed with passion, and he gazed upon Mr. Manners without recognizing him.
"I have come," said Mr. Manners, "in accordance with my promise--"
"What promise?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "I want my daughter--my daughter!"
"It is about her I have come," said Mr. Manners, in great wonder.
"What of her?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "You have come about her? Well, where is she--where is she? But let her be careful, or I may be tempted to lay her dead at my feet!"
"I do not understand you. Do you not remember what you and I said to each other last night? I said I would see you righted. I said I would bring the man whom you accused."
"I remember, I remember," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, in a voice harsh with passion. "You made fair promises, as others have made before you! But what does it matter now? My daughter is gone--gone! Run away in the night, like a thief! She may be in the river. Better for her, a great deal better for her! Stop! Who are you?" He advanced to Mark Inglefield, and, laying his trembling hands upon him, peered into his face. "I know you, you black-hearted scoundrel! You are the man whose picture I found in my daughter's box. Give me my daughter--give me my Mary!"
Mark Inglefield shook him off, but with difficulty, and the man stood glaring at him. Already a crowd had gathered around them; the words, "black-hearted scoundrel," caused them to cast angry glances at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners looked in astonishment at one and another, utterly unable to comprehend the situation.
"The man is mad," said Mark Inglefield.
"Yes, I am mad," cried Mr. Parkinson, striving to escape from those who held him back from springing upon Mark Inglefield, "and therefore dangerous. What! Is a man's home to be broken up, is he to be robbed of his only child and disgraced, and is he to stand idly by when the scoundrel is before him who has worked this ruin upon him? As Heaven is my judge, I will have my revenge!"
"Come, come," said a working-man, "this violence will do no good, Parkinson. Be reasonable."
"If violence will do no good," retorted Mr. Parkinson, "still struggling, what will?"
"The truth," replied the working-man who had interposed.
"Ah, yes, the truth," said Mr. Parkinson; "and when that is told, let us have justice!"
"Spoken like a man," murmured some in the crowd.
"But what kind of justice?" demanded Mr. Parkinson. "A cold-blooded law court, with cold-blooded lawyers arguing this way and that, while those who have been brought to ruin and shame sit down with their wasted lives before them? No--not that kind of justice for me! I will have the life of the man who has cast this upon me! And that"--pointing with furious hand towards Mark Inglefield--"that is the monster I will have my justice upon, without appeal to lawyers!"
"I give you my word of honor," said Mark Inglefield, appealing to those by whom he was surrounded, and who hemmed him and Mr. Manners in, determined that they should not escape--"I give you my word of honor that I have not the least idea what this man means. I do not know him, nor any person belonging to him."
"You lie!" cried Mr. Parkinson.
"I speak the truth," said Mark Inglefield, perfectly calm. "This gentleman who has accompanied me here will testify to it. If I did not suspect that this man is not accountable for his words, I would not remain here another moment."
"But you must," said a friend of Mr. Parkinson; and, "Yes, you must, you must!" proceeded from others in the throng.
"I will," said Mark Inglefield, "because I have come here for the express purpose of unmasking a foul plot--"
"Rightly put," shouted Mr. Parkinson. "A foul plot--a foul plot! And it shall be unmasked, and the guilty shall suffer--not the innocent! For, after all, mates"--and now he, in his turn, appealed to the crowd--"what blame lies at the door of a weak, foolish girl who is led to her ruin by the lying, plausible words of gentlemen like these?"
But here the unreasoning torrent of his wrath was stemmed by many of his comrades, who said:
"None of that, Parkinson. It won't help you, and it won't help us. The gentleman speaks fair. He says he has come here to unmask a foul plot."
"That is my intention, and the intention of my friend here," said Mark Inglefield, "and, as you say, it will not help him nor any of us to be violent and abusive. Why, does it not stand to reason that we could have kept away if we had chosen? Does it not prove, coming here of our own accord as we have done, that we are of the same mind as yourselves?"
"Yes," replied one, struck, as others were, with this plain reasoning, "let us hear what this gentleman has to say."
"It is not for me," said Mark Inglefield, who, although he had won the suffrages of his audience, was not disposed to be too communicative, "to pry into any man's family affairs, but when he makes them public property and brings false accusations against the innocent, he is not justified in grumbling if he is hauled over the coals. My friend here was compelled last night to listen to charges which seemed to him to implicate me in some trouble into which Mr. Parkinson has fallen."
"How do you come to know his name?" inquired a man.
"He gave it last night to this gentleman, who communicated it to me. Besides, it has been mentioned half a dozen times by yourselves. The charges I referred to coming to my ears, it was arranged between my friend and myself that we should present ourselves here this morning for the purpose of confuting them. I suppose you don't expect anything fairer than that?"
"Nothing could be fairer."
"I am sorry to learn," continued Mark Inglefield, "that this man has been wronged, and sorry to learn that trouble has come to him through his daughter. They are both entire strangers to me. What I ask is that he bring his daughter forward now to corroborate my statement that she and I never saw each other in all our lives."
"But that," said one of Mr. Parkinson's friends, "is just what he can't do. His daughter has strangely disappeared in the night."
Mark Inglefield turned towards Mr. Manners, with a smile of incredulity on his lips.
"Our errand here seems to be wasted. Let me speak to you a moment out of hearing of these people."
The working-men moved aside to allow the two gentlemen to pass, and when they were a little apart Mark Inglefield said:
"I hope you are satisfied, sir."
"So far as you are concerned," replied Mr. Manners, "I cannot help being. But there is something still at the bottom of this that I would give much to get at the truth of."
"Why, sir," said Mark Inglefield, scornfully, "can you not see that the whole affair is trumped up?"
"No, I cannot see that. These men were not aware that we were coming here this morning, and even if they were it is not likely that they would have got up this excitement for our especial benefit."
Mark Inglefield bit his lip.
"I am not quite right, perhaps, in saying that the whole affair is trumped up, but undoubtedly it is much exaggerated, and more importance is being attached to it than it deserves. You must not mind my saying that I cannot form the same opinion of Mr. Parkinson as yourself. It seems to me that he is desirous of making capital out of his calamity. I have done all I could, have I not, to clear myself of the charge?"
"I do not see that you could have done more."
"There is nothing more to stop for, then. Shall we go?"
"Not yet. You may, if you wish, but I shall remain to make inquiries."
"I will remain with you, sir, of course. It would not be safe to leave you alone in such a neighborhood as this."
"It would be quite safe. You forget that it was in just such neighborhoods I passed my young days. I know them better than you appear to do, Inglefield. The people we see about us are respectable members of society--quite as respectable as ourselves. As to remaining, please yourself. I do not feel at all out of place in such society."
"Nor do I, sir," said Mark Inglefield, with a frank smile. "It is only my anxiety for you that made me say what I did."
"There is another matter which you seem to have forgotten. It is in this neighborhood that my son and his wife and daughter live, If I am not mistaken, Mr. Parkinson wishes to say something to us."
During this colloquy Mr. Parkinson had calmed himself greatly, and now, followed by his friends, approached the gentlemen.
"I should like to ask you a question or two," he said, addressing himself to Mark Inglefield, "if you have no objection."
"Of course I have no objection," said Mark Inglefield. "I will do whatever I can to help you; only come to the point."
"I'll do so, sir. Your visit here, on the face of it, seems fair and above-board. What I want to know first is, how it happens that my daughter had a portrait of yours in her possession?"
"My dear sir," replied Mark Inglefield, blandly, "you are putting a conundrum to me."
"You don't know how she got hold of it, sir?"
"I haven't the remotest notion."
"How comes it that, when I taxed her with it, she confessed that it was the portrait of the scoundrel who had brought her shame upon her?"
At this question all eyes were directed towards Mark Inglefield. Nothing daunted, he said:
"That is a question it is impossible for me to answer. She must, of course, have had some motive in giving utterance to so direct a falsehood. My only regret is that she is not here to tell you herself that we are complete strangers to each other. Has your daughter always told you the truth? Has she never deceived you?" Mr. Parkinson winced; these questions struck home. "Why, then," continued Mark Inglefield, perceiving his advantage, "should she not have deceived you in this instance? Perhaps she wishes to screen the man against whom you are justly angered; perhaps she still has a sneaking fondness for him, and protects him by throwing the blame upon a stranger."
"I don't dispute," said Mr. Parkinson, "that you may be right. But are you public property?"
"I fail to understand you."
"Are you a public man, sir?"
"Thank Heaven, no. I am a private gentleman."
"Your portraits are not put up in the shop windows for sale?"
"No."
"Then what I want to know is," said Mr. Parkinson, doggedly sticking to his point, "how your portrait fell into her hands."
"And that, I repeat," said Mark Inglefield, impatiently, "is exactly what I am unable to tell you."
"She couldn't have bought it. She must have had it given to her by some one."
"Well?"
"Whoever gave it to her must know you, and you must know him."
A murmur of approval ran through the throng. Nothing better pleases such an audience, as was now assembled, than an argument logically worked out.
"That does not follow," disputed Mark Inglefield, annoyed at Mr. Parkinson's pertinacity, but seeing no way to avoid it without incurring the risk of reviving Mr. Manners's suspicions.
"That's where the chances are, at all events," said Mr. Parkinson. "You see, sir, that you can't help being dragged into this bad business."
"And if I decline to be dragged into it?"
"It is what very few men would do, sir. I should say--and I think most of those round us will agree with me--that you are bound to do all you can to assist me in discovering the scoundrel who would ruin you as well as me."
Mr. Manners looked straight at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Parkinson's view tallied with that which he had expressed to Inglefield in their interview.
"I will do what I can," he said, "but I really am at a loss how to take even the first step."
"Thank you for saying so much, sir. We are all at a loss, but I don't intend to rest till I discover the scoundrel. You'll not object to giving me your name and address."
"What for?" demanded Mark Inglefield, wishing that the earth would open and swallow his tormentor.
"Give it to him," said Mr. Manners, quietly.
Thus forced to comply, Mark Inglefield, with a show of alacrity, handed Mr. Parkinson his card.
"I am obliged to you, sir," said Mr. Parkinson.
A possible road of escape presented itself to Mark Inglefield.
"Who saw this portrait?" he asked.
"No one in this neighborhood," replied Mr. Parkinson, "that I know of, except me and my daughter."
"It may not be my portrait, after all," suggested Mark Inglefield.
"There isn't a shadow of doubt, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that itisa picture of you. I'm ready to swear to it."
It was at this precise moment that there occurred to Mark Inglefield a contingency which filled him with apprehension. From what Mr. Manners had told him, Kingsley's wife had befriended Mary Parkinson, and was doubtless in the confidence of the poor girl. Suppose Mary had shown his portrait to Nansie, would she have recognized it? It was long since he and Nansie had met, and time had altered his appearance somewhat, but not sufficiently to disguise his identity. He did not betray his uneasiness, but a new feature was now introduced that caused him to turn hot and cold. This was the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Blooming Bess upon the scene.