The earnest sincerity of the grateful man shook Mr. Manners to the soul, and for once in his life his self-control slipped from him. He recovered himself quickly, but the impression produced by Mr. Parkinson's words remained.
"You speak," he said, "of a woman and her daughter who have laid you under an obligation--"
"A moment, if you please," interrupted Mr. Parkinson; "I spoke of a lady and her daughter. Mrs. Manners is a lady; we all know that, every one of us, and we've often wondered how she found her way among us, and how it is she is almost as poor as the poorest of us. I object to your calling her a woman in a tone that means, if it means anything, that she is no better than the rest of us. It's clear enough to me that you look down on us. Well, look down. It doesn't hurt us, any more than it's to your credit."
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Manners, gently; "I do not look down on you. I was once a working-man myself." He sighed as he made the admission, at the thought that in those early days when he was struggling and making his way up the ladder he was a happier man than he had ever been since.
"Were you?" exclaimed Mr. Parkinson, in wonder. "Let me think a bit. I remember when I was a boy hearing of a Mr. Manners, a great contractor, who was once no better than a bricklayer, and who had made himself a millionaire by his cleverness. It may be that you're the gentleman."
"I am he."
"I take off my hat to you. I'm not one of the envious ones. You made your money fairly, I've heard, and though you drove hard bargains, you didn't cut down wages."
"That is true. I shall be pleased if yon will reckon it to my credit now."
"I'll do that--it's no more than fair. And the lady I speak of may be a connection of yours, you say. That's interesting, though I never thought of linking you two together."
"She never gave you cause to suspect it?"
"Never. If she had it would have been known and talked of. These things get about, you see."
"What you say makes me think all the better of her. May I proceed with my questions?"
"You may."
Had Mr. Manners been inclined to reflect, in his usual spirit, under the peculiar nature of this conversation, he would have loftily resented Mr. Parkinson's occupation of the higher ground; but in truth there was that stirring within him which humbled him; and it is good to know that it humbled without mortifying him.
"Are Mrs. Manners and her daughter," he asked, "living alone? Is she a widow?"
"No," replied Mr. Parkinson. "She is married, and lives with her husband."
"Are you acquainted with his Christian name?"
"Yes. It is Kingsley."
A sigh of relief escaped Mr. Manners. He was not childless, then. It was still in his power to make reparation, or if not to make, to offer it. The latter alternative trod close upon the heels of the new-born impulse to atone for his harshness; the reflection intruded itself that his overtures towards a reconciliation might be declined. Many years had passed since there was peace between him and his son, and during all those years he had been, figuratively speaking, rolling in gold. So vast was his fortune that, living the life he did, he could not spend one half of it, and every day of his existence its colossal proportions grew. To Mark Inglefield he had made a most liberal allowance, and Inglefield, cunning and careful of the future, had occasionally drawn largely upon the great contractor's generosity. The requests he made were never refused, the reasons for them never inquired into. Mr. Manners had set store upon his wealth before he discarded his son; it meant then distinction, fame, political power, in which he would have a share. Kingsley's sense of right, no less than the ingenuousness and unselfishness of his nature, would have caused him to lay at his father's feet the honor and glory which he would assuredly have won had he been allowed to follow the career which, in his young manhood, had been mapped out for him. The rich man's heart was tortured as the image of Kingsley rose before him: the frank, laughing mouth, the bright eyes, the eager manner, smote him now with more than the force of actual blows. Those he could have parried or returned; not so the accusing voices from the past which proclaimed him tyrannical, ruthless, and unjust. The manner of Kingsley's life, as indicated by Mr. Parkinson's championship of his wife and daughter, was an added sting to the torture he was suffering. Kingsley and those with whom he had, without a murmur, thrown in his lot, had borne privation and poverty cheerfully, and had won a place in the esteem and affections of the poor people around them of which the highest in the land might have been proud. And all this time it had been in his, the father's, power to have lightened and brightened their lot without in the remotest degree feeling the loss; and all this time they had lived and labored without uttering one Word of reproach against him whose unreasoning, dictatorial conduct had made their life one of daily, hourly struggle; and all this time they had made no appeal to him upon whom they had a just claim, but trod, with courage and resignation, the thorny paths into which he had thrust them. Well might he hide his face in his hands with shame. He thought of Nansie, and of the surprise he felt when he first saw her--surprise at her modesty and gentleness of manner, surprise at the soft, pleading voice, surprise that she was a lady, fitted to grace any position to which wealth could raise her; to grace and adorn it, and to bring into it qualities of goodness which would have made her a shining example amid the follies and frivolities of fashionable life. What were the grounds of his anger against her and his son? That Kingsley, meeting her, had fallen in love with her, and had wooed her honorably, and that she, urged in some degree by youth and love, and in some degree by Kingsley's confident view of the future, had accepted him and become his wife. How, then, was Nansie to be blamed? How had she merited the lot to which he had condemned her? And wherein lay Kingsley's misconduct? In that having wooed and won a lady, he had held an opinion of his father which placed Mr. Manners above the sordid considerations of a sordid age. That surely was not a crime; but the father and judge had viewed it as such, and had meted out a cruel punishment. Kingsley might have acted differently; he might have acted towards Nansie as Mark Inglefield had acted towards the working-man, whose visit to Mr. Hollingworth had brought about disclosures which had led--and perhaps happily led--to the contemplations in which Mr. Manners indulged as he stood in the dark night with Mr. Parkinson. The conversation between them had been continued, and Mr. Manners, anxious to obtain as much information as it was in Mr. Parkinson's power to impart, had been told of Kingsley's connection with the Wilberforce Club, and of the project to make him president in the place of Mr. Bartholomew. This project Kingsley himself had relinquished, further experience of the violent views of his partisans having convinced him that their methods were not such as he could approve of. Mr. Parkinson, being led on by Mr. Manners, dilated at some length on working-men's politics in connection with Kingsley.
"Not so easily led as you would imagine, sir," observed Mr. Parkinson, referring to Kingsley's characteristics. "Sympathizing with all who suffer from unjust and unequal laws, but stanch in his belief that those wrongs can only be set right by temperate means. Mr. Kingsley Manners has a will of his own."
The father had already been compelled to acknowledge that. Strikingly different as he and his son were in their dispositions, they resembled each other in one respect; having resolved upon what they deemed right to do, they walked straight forward, regardless of consequences. Kingsley had done this in his relations with Nansie, and Mr. Manners had done this in his relations with his son. But Kingsley had sacrificed everything, his father nothing; and yet, of the two, Mr. Manners could not help confessing that the lot of the man who had cheerfully embraced poverty was the higher and nobler of the two.
"And now," said Mr. Parkinson, after further questions had been asked and answered, "I've told you all I know about Mr. and Mrs. Manners and their daughter, and I should like to know what good it is going to do me."
"I do not follow you," said Mr. Manners.
"You've been so much occupied," explained Mr. Parkinson, "in the object you've been driving at, getting all you can out of me, and telling me precious little to enlighten me, that maybe you've lost sight ofmystory."
"I acknowledge it," said Mr. Manners.
"I told you," proceeded Mr. Parkinson, "when we were in Mr. Hollingworth's house, that I believed you knew who the man is who has wronged my child. I say so again. Youdoknow him. Come, come, sir, I've played fair with you; play fair with me."
"If the portrait you showed Mr. Hollingworth," said Mr. Manners, "is that of the man who has done you this wrong, I do know him."
"Thank you for that much. I'll trouble you for his name. I don't want any one to take my quarrels on himself; I'm equal to them, and can carry them through. His name, sir, if you please."
"At present I must decline to give it to you," said Mr. Manners, and would have proceeded had he not been interrupted roughly by Mr. Parkinson, who exclaimed:
"That's the thanks I get! I might have known what to expect! But I'll find out where you live, and I'll dog you like your shadow till I come face to face with him."
"There is no cause for you to speak to me like that. I have told you who I am, and wished you to come with me to my house. Mr. Parkinson, you have done me a great service, and in return I would give you all the assistance in my power. But threats and violence will not help you here. For the present, leave your wrongs to me; it is not unlikely I may be able to render you an infinitely greater service than you dream of. I ask you to trust me."
"For how long?"
"For a few days."
"Have you influence with the scoundrel?"
"I have."
A queer smile played about Mr. Parkinson's lips. "An infinitely greater service than I dream of," he said, repeating Mr. Manners's words. "Of course there's but one way of setting this thing right, and then I should lose my daughter. That's what we have children for--to plague, or torment, or disgrace us."
Mr. Manners laid his hand gently on Mr. Parkinson's arm, and said, "We bring such punishment upon ourselves often. Perhaps it is the parents, not the children, who are chiefly to blame. Good-night, Mr. Parkinson. Here is my card; if you wish to see me you are welcome at any time. If you do not come to me I will come to you. There is one other favor I would ask of you."
"Name it, sir."
"Say nothing to Mr. and Mrs. Manners of what has passed between us to-night; regard our interview as private, for a time at least."
"All right, sir. It shall be so. Good-night."
Mr. Manners had not far to go before he reached his house, but he lingered somewhat on the road, wrapped in thought. Had what was passing within him been revealed to any person long familiar with him, it would have inspired feelings of wonder and surprise. In truth, a great change was taking place in this man's nature; he was no longer stern, self-willed, and arrogant; he was conscious of a certain humbleness of spirit, and he yielded to its influence. His thoughts were chiefly upon Kingsley and Nansie; what he had heard concerning them had touched him nearly; it had, as it were, opened a window in his soul which had been darkened all his life. But now and again his thoughts wandered to Mark Inglefield, and he dwelt upon the contrast between this man and his son. Kingsley so impetuous, open-minded, and frank, Inglefield so cool, methodical, and wary; the one wearing his heart upon his sleeve, the other keeping strict watch upon it, so that he might not be tempted to follow its impulses to his own disadvantage. The links which united Mr. Manners and Mark Inglefield were strong ones, and had been forged by Mr. Manners himself. When he discarded his son, and made up his mind to leave England, perhaps forever, he had made certain propositions to Mark Inglefield which had been eagerly accepted. Inglefield was to be his companion, his second son, and was to devote himself entirely to his patron, to be as it were at his beck and call, and subservient and obedient in all things. That the companionship had been productive of little pleasure was perhaps as much the fault of one as of the other. Disappointed in his dearest wishes, Mr. Manners's principal desire was to be left to himself, and Mark Inglefield humored him; careful ever to be ready when called upon to perform some duty, never contradicting his patron, never arguing with him; a willing, submissive slave, waiting for his reward in the future. This reward had been promised him; he was to be Mr. Manners's heir. The prospect was a glowing one, and he revelled in it, although there were occasions when a great wave of discontent swept over him. He was not a young man; how long would he have to wait? Mr. Manners was his senior by twenty-five years, but his health was perfect. It was his boast that he had never had a day's illness in his life, and his habits were such that there seemed little probability of his breaking down before he was a very old man. Luxuriousness of living had no temptations for him; plain fare sufficed for his needs. Mark Inglefield, on the contrary, was fond of rich food and rich wines, and he indulged in them; his tastes (in which may be included his vices) were the very reverse of Mr. Manners's, and if he chafed under the restraint in which he was held he was careful not to betray himself to his patron. He took his pleasures in secret, and was not sparing of them; and it was a proof that he was an able and astute man, cunning in device and richly capable in deceit, that not a whisper of those doings which would have been reckoned to his disadvantage had ever reached Mr. Manners's ear.
"Is Mr. Inglefield in his room?" asked Mr. Manners of the servant who opened the door.
"No, sir," was the reply.
Mr. Manners passed up to his own, in which the gas was lighted, and paced it slowly in deep thought, with his hands clasped behind him. The house was the same he had built during the time he was resolving upon Kingsley's future and the position he was to occupy in the world. He remembered that then he had in view a lady whom Kingsley was to wed, and through whom he was to obtain immediate entry and recognition into the highest circles of society. All the years that Mr. Manners had been abroad the magnificent house had been left in the charge of care-takers, the owner not caring to let or part with it. There was another motive. Despite the apparent irrevocableness of the break between him and Kingsley, there lurked in Mr. Manners's mind the latent hope that something--he knew not what, and had not the courage to mentally inquire--might occur which might bring them together again. He would do nothing to bring this about, but the possibility existed, and, for a while, was dimly recognized. Gradually it faded into mere nothingness and was lost sight of, but by that time Mr. Manners had become too indifferent to the making of money to turn his investment to account.
He had left this house with his wife and Mark Inglefield. He returned with Mark Inglefield, having buried his wife in a foreign country. Between her and him no mention had been made of their son from the day of the renouncement. On that day he had said to his wife, "I will not allow his name to be uttered in my presence." He was her master as well as her husband, and she had grown to fear him. Whether in the depths of her heart she had preserved some touch of that most sacred of human attributes, a mother's love for her only child, was never known to Mr. Manners. She obeyed him implicitly in this as in all other matters, and even on her deathbed Kingsley's name did not pass her lips. But now, in the solitude of his room, Mr. Manners recalled those last minutes on earth of the woman he had sworn to cherish, and it came to his gentler self to place a new meaning on the wistful look in her eyes as she turned them upon him for the last time. "She was thinking of Kingsley." He did not speak the words, but they could not have been plainer to his sense had he uttered them aloud.
He went up to his wife's room, the room in which he had deposited all the mementoes of her silent life which he had brought home with him. Her jewels were there, her desk, and an old trunk which from sentiment she had preserved from the days of her maidenhood. In her desk he found a bunch of keys, and one of these fitted the trunk, which now lay open before him. He had never before looked into this trunk, and he could not have told what he expected to find there; but what he saw now stood witness against him. From the grave in a foreign land came the accusation.
Nothing of his dead wife's was in the trunk, nothing that she had worn or that he had given her. Everything it contained had belonged to Kingsley. Portraits, school-books, articles of dress, and many items insignificant and worthless in themselves, but deeply precious in their spiritual significance. Here was the mother's heart portrayed, here the record of her inner life and sufferings, to which she had never given utterance. All the more potent now in their silent testimony. The proud man read in these trifles his condemnation. With a little quivering of his mouth, which he made no effort to control, he closed the trunk and locked it, and left the room, treading softly.
In the passage he lingered a few moments, wrestling with an inward urging to visit the room which Kingsley used to occupy, and which was situated on the floor above. With something of his old masterfulness he wheeled suddenly round, and returned to his own apartment. There, however, the desire manifested itself more strongly, and yielding to it he soon found himself in Kingsley's room, which he had not visited since the day on which he had conducted Nansie thither, with the endeavor to impress upon her the great sacrifice which she would force Kingsley to make if she did not herself take steps to separate from him. Here, again, Mr. Manners was confronted with accusing testimony, for, from surrounding evidence, he saw that his wife had been in the habit of sitting in this room, and frequently occupying it after their son's departure. These signs of suppressed suffering, of anguish borne in silence, could not fail to impress him; nor could he fail to be impressed by the once familiar objects in which Kingsley took pride. The books, the bed, the articles of taste and value, the pipes, even some bits of jewelry--it seemed as if nothing had been removed or disturbed. Mr. Manners was both surprised and touched; these things were Kingsley's own, and he might have taken them and converted them into money, which the father knew had been sadly needed. "Kingsley was never mercenary," thought Mr. Manners, with a pitiful smile of mingled pride and humiliation. "The soul of honor and generosity!"
He returned again to his room, and had not been in it a minute before he heard the sound of a step on the stairs. He threw open the door, and Mark Inglefield appeared.
"I hardly knew whether you would be home so early," said the expectant heir. "Did you leave Mr. Hollingworth well?"
The object of Mr. Manners's visit to that gentleman was, of course, known to Mark Inglefield, who looked upon this day as the red-letter day of his life. In the event of Mr. Manners arranging the marriage between him and Mr. Hollingworth's daughter, all anxiety for the future was at an end. Mr. Manners had promised to make at once a settlement upon him which would place him above all the chances and caprices of fickle fortune. For some time past he had found the ties which bound him to his patron irksome and disagreeable; he was hardly his own master; and to all the hints he had thrown out that he might fairly claim to be placed in a more independent position, Mr. Manners had replied:
"Wait till you are settled."
It was, indeed, this consideration that had impelled him to urge on the marriage. He had as little true love for Miss Hollingworth as the young lady had for him. She plays no part in this story, but it is necessary to say that she was a thoroughly worldly young person, with a full appreciation of the worldly advantage of marrying the heir of a millionaire. In their matrimonial views, therefore, she and Mark Inglefield were on an equality; the marriage into which they were willing to enter was a marriage of convenience, and they were content to leave the preliminaries in the hands of their elders.
Mark Inglefield put on an air of anxiety as he asked Mr. Manners if he had left Mr. Hollingworth well. He knew the exact value of his part in the projected alliance, but he had represented to Mr. Manners that his heart was deeply engaged, and he labored under the belief that he had succeeded in throwing dust into his patron's eyes. Mark Inglefield had a remarkable opinion of his own capacity and capabilities, and, during his long relations with Mr. Manners, had grown extremely confident of himself and his powers, and somewhat scornful of Mr. Manners's force of character. The reason for this was that the two men never came into collision; their opinions never clashed. This might have occurred in the early years of their association had not Mark Inglefield tutored himself into complete subservience to a will which he had reason to know was imperious; but as time wore on Mr. Manners's interest in the affairs of life grew weaker, and Mark Inglefield made the mistake of attributing this indifference to failing mental power. Hence the growing scorn of his patron's character, which, once respected and feared, he now held in small esteem.
"Mr. Hollingworth is well in health," said Mr. Manners. Mark Inglefield detected nothing significant in the tone, and was not in the least disturbed.
"I hope the interview was satisfactory," he said.
"Not entirely," replied Mr. Manners.
This did produce some slight discomfiture in the younger man.
"I thought," he remarked, "that everything was understood, and that it was a mere matter of arrangement of practical details."
"I thought so, too," said Mr. Manners. "Something else, however, has cropped up, which needs explanation."
"From me?" inquired Mr. Inglefield.
"From you," said Mr. Manners.
All Mark Inglefield's astuteness came instantly into play; no wariness was expressed in his face, for the reason that he had complete control over himself, and, on his mettle, was seldom, if ever, to be taken at a disadvantage.
"I am ready to give any explanation that may be required," he said, in a tone of modest assurance. "Perhaps it was hardly to be expected that an affair of such importance could be settled without some trifling hitch."
It was in his mind to say that the required explanation was nothing that affected his character, but he was prudent enough to arrest the words. No one knew better than himself that this was dangerous ground to approach. If anything was to be said upon the point, it must not come from him.
"I was not prepared for any hitch," said Mr. Manners. "When I visited Mr. Hollingworth this evening, I believed that everything would be arranged as you wished."
"And as you also wished," said Mark Inglefield, quickly.
"Yes; although my interest in the negotiation was naturally less than yours. Do not stand, Inglefield; what we have to say to each other will occupy a few minutes."
Mark Inglefield, with inward anxiety and a cheerful exterior, drew a chair to the table and sat down.
"Do you love the young lady?" inquired Mr. Manners.
"If I did not," replied Mark Inglefield, wondering at the strangeness of the question, "should I desire to marry her?"
"That is scarcely an answer," observed Mr. Manners.
And now Mark Inglefield suspected that a battle was impending, and that something serious was coming.
"Certainly I love her," he said. "Is there any doubt of it, and is that the difficulty?"
"That is not the difficulty, but it strikes me now as singular that love was never mentioned in the course of the interview."
For the life of him Mark Inglefield could not help remarking:
"I was not aware that you were given to sentiment."
"Nor am I," retorted Mr. Manners. "I have been all my life a practical man, until lately, when life seems to have been valueless to me."
"I am sorry to hear you say that," said Mark Inglefield, with well-simulated sympathy.
"The sentimental view of a question," continued Mr. Manners, "is a view I have always ignored. I set my own course, and, rightly or wrongly, have followed it. Whether it has brought me happiness or not affects myself only."
"Pardon me for venturing to differ from you," said Mark Inglefield, thinking he saw what might be turned to his advantage; "what you decide upon may affect others as well as yourself."
"I am corrected; it may, and has."
Mark Inglefield inwardly congratulated himself. Not a suspicion crossed his mind that he and Mr. Manners, in this contention, were mentally travelling different roads. He was thinking only of his own interests; Mr. Manners was thinking of Kingsley.
"May I ask," said Mark Inglefield, "whether Miss Hollingworth was present during your interview with her father?"
"She was present at no part of it," replied Mr. Manners.
"Then the difficulty you refer to did not spring from her."
"It did not."
"Nor from you, I hope, sir?"
"No, nor from me."
"Surely Mr. Hollingworth raised no objection?"
"He was not the originator of it."
Mark Inglefield took heart of grace. Whatever grievance had arisen--and he was too wary to demand its nature with any show of indignation; it might lead to the idea that he himself was conscious of something blamable in his conduct; it was by far the best to avoid anything that savored of heat, and to maintain the attitude he had always assumed with Mr. Manners--whatever grievance, then, had arisen must be purely imaginary, and could be easily explained away.
"I await your pleasure," he said, "and am ready, as I have already stated, to give you any explanation you require."
"The interview between Mr. Hollingworth and myself," said Mr. Manners, his eyes fixed upon Mark Inglefield's face, in which no trace of discomposure was visible, "was nearly at an end, when a visitor was announced. It is not my habit to beat about the bush, Inglefield. The name of this visitor was Parkinson."
Not a muscle in Mark Inglefield's features twitched, although he recognized at once the precipice upon which he was standing.
"Parkinson," he repeated, in a tone of unconcern.
"Do you know a man of that name?" asked Mr. Manners.
"Parkinson! Parkinson!" said Mark Inglefield, as though searching his memory. "No. I am not acquainted with any man bearing that name."
"Nor with any woman?"
"Nor with any woman," replied Mark Inglefield, coolly. "It is only fair that you should be told what this man revealed."
"If it affects me, certainly, though I am completely in the dark. The person was admitted, then?"
"He would not be denied. It appears that he has called repeatedly at Mr. Hollingworth's house, with the purpose of seeing that gentleman, and he refused to go away now without being satisfied."
"As you evidently suppose me to be implicated in the revelation--I adopt your own term, sir--he made, I am entitled to ask whether he is a gentleman."
"He is a working-man."
Mark Inglefield leaned back in his chair with an air of content, expressing in this action a consciousness of complete innocence.
"I was really beginning to fear," he said, "that a charge had been brought against me by one whose words would have some weight."
"Mr. Parkinson's words had considerable weight," said Mr. Manners, "and the tale he related was true."
"It is not for me to dispute with you, but I am all curiosity, sir."
"Before I recount the shameful story he related, of which you appear ignorant--"
"Of which Iamignorant," interposed Mark Inglefield.
"It is but right," continued Mr. Manners, ignoring the interruption, "that I should make reference to a certain understanding between ourselves. I refer to the promise I gave you to make you my heir." Mark Inglefield caught his breath, and his face grew a shade paler. "This promise, in effect, as we sit together here to-night, is already fulfilled. My will is made out to that end."
Mark Inglefield recovered himself. What need was there for anxiety? The blow was unexpected and crushing, but he would prove himself a clumsy bungler indeed if he were unable to parry it.
"I have never had any uneasiness on that score, sir," he said. "Your promised word was sufficient assurance. The trust, the confidence you reposed in me cannot be shaken by false statements."
"It is not for me to say," remarked Mr. Manners, "at the present juncture, whether the statements made by Mr. Parkinson are true or false; but as they stand they affect you vitally, so far as worldly circumstances go. I do not hold myself bound by my promise if I find I have been deceived in you. It was given to a man of honor. Prove yourself so, and you shall not be disappointed, although some small share of my wealth may be otherwise bestowed. But I tell you frankly that I intend, quite apart from what you may have to say, to sift this man's story to the bottom, and to come to the truth of it. You have not lived with me all these years, Inglefield, without knowing that when I announce an intention I shall carry it out to its end. Mr. Parkinson's story, and other disclosures of which it formed the groundwork, have deeply affected me, and may have a strong bearing upon the small span of life which is yet left to me. I am speaking to you openly, because the occasion demands it. Quite independent of the wrong of which Mr. Parkinson justly complains, there are matters of which I intend to speak to you. Shall we go into them to-night, or would you prefer to defer their consideration till the morning?"
"To-night, sir, to-night," exclaimed Mark Inglefield, with an exhibition of great indignation. "I could not sleep until I have removed from your mind the unjust suspicions which have been planted there by a man who is an utter stranger to me."
Mark Inglefield's assumption of virtuous indignation would have been supplanted by a feeling of veritable consternation had he been aware of what was passing through the mind of his patron. Mr. Manners owed it to himself, and was fully determined, to lay bare the naked truth of Mr. Parkinson's story; but, true or false, it was of small importance to him, in comparison with the feelings which had been aroused within him by the description which Mr. Parkinson had given of Kingsley and Nansie. He had promised to make Mark Inglefield his heir, and if this man succeeded in freeing himself from the charge which had been laid against him, the promise should be fulfilled. But he had not pledged himself to leave Inglefield the whole of his property. There was enough and to spare for ample provision for the son he had discarded, and to whom now, at the eleventh hour, his heart was turning. He had never entertained any strong affection for Inglefield. In the early days of their association he had endeavored to acquire a feeling of sentiment towards his nephew, in order that the alienation between himself and Kingsley should be complete and irrevocable; but Inglefield was not gifted with the qualities to win such an affection. Failing in this, he and Mr. Manners travelled together more as ordinary acquaintances than warm friends; and as time wore on the opportunity of drawing them closer together was lost.
"We will first," said Mr. Manners, "dispose, as far as we can, of the wrongs of which Mr. Parkinson complains. I say as far as we can, because I wish you to distinctly understand that I intend myself to investigate the matter."
"I understand so, sir," said Mark Inglefield, inwardly cursing Mr. Manners for his obstinacy.
"You should be glad that I have resolved upon this course. Declaring yourself innocent, as you do, the result should more completely exonerate you. In which case Mr. Hollingworth will doubtless adhere to the alliance which I went to his house to-night to complete."
"Otherwise he will not?"
"Otherwise he will not," said Mr. Manners. "Do you wish to hear the words he uttered with respect to you?"
"It will be best," said Mark Inglefield.
"Mr. Parkinson's story being told, he left the house, and Mr. Hollingworth and I remained in conference for a few minutes. It was then that Mr. Hollingworth said: 'It remains for your nephew, Mr. Inglefield, to clear himself from this foul charge. If he cannot do so, he has played the part of an infamous scoundrel.' Strong words, Inglefield."
"Yes, sir," said Mark Inglefield, "and that they should be used towards me fills me with indignation and amazement."
"Innocent, your feelings are justifiable, and you will find Mr. Hollingworth ready to make amends. In what he said I fully concurred. I will explain as briefly as possible the matter of which Mr. Parkinson complains. He is a working-man, living in the east of London. He has one child, a young woman named Mary." Mr. Manners paused; Mark Inglefield never winced. "This daughter, it appears," continued Mr. Manners, "has fallen a victim to the designs of a scoundrel. She fled from her home at this scoundrel's instigation, who, wearying of her, deserted her and left her, ruined and penniless, to die or pursue her life of shame."
"It is not at all an unusual story," said Mark Inglefield, apparently listening to the narrative with great interest, "but I fail to see its relation with me."
"Had it not been," continued Mr. Manners, "for the kindness of a lady who, according to Mr. Parkinson, is universally beloved for her goodness of heart, the unhappy girl, driven to despair, would probably have committed suicide; but this lady--"
"Lady, sir?" interrupted Mark Inglefield, noting with curiosity a certain emphasis of tenderness which, unconsciously to himself, Mr. Manners put upon the word.
"I said a lady, although she is as poor as those among whom she lived."
"Ah," sneered Mark Inglefield, "a piece of working-man's clap-trap, introduced for the purpose of imposing upon your benevolence."
"I am not noted for benevolence," said Mr. Manners, dryly; "it would not have been to my discredit had I been more charitable in my career."
Mark Inglefield stared at his patron. This was a new phase in the rich man's character, and, with his altered demeanor, for which Inglefield could discover no explicable reason, boded changes. Still he did not lose his self-possession.
"Of every twenty who beg of you," he said, "nineteen are rank impostors."
"Possibly; but that does not affect our present business. The lady I refer to stepped in at a critical moment, nursed the poor girl and brought her to reason, and finally succeeded in reconciling her father with her, who received her again in his home."
"Ah!" thought Mark Inglefield, "Mary is at home, then. I shall know where to find her." Aloud he said, "Why do you pause, sir?"
"I supposed you were about to speak," replied Mr. Manners.
"No. I was only thinking that this Mr. Parkinson was not a bad sort of fellow."
"Because of his reconcilement with his only child," asked Mr. Manners, "who not only offended but disgraced him!"
"Yes, because of that," said Mark Inglefield.
"It speaks well for him?"
"Yes." Almost upon the utterance of the word there came to Mark Inglefield the recollection of the estrangement between Mr. Manners and his only child; and now there occurred to him that behind this story of Mary Parkinson there lay something which might be of almost equal consequence to his prospects. All the cunning forces of his nature took array within him, and stood on the alert for the protection of their wily master. The affair was beginning to assume a more serious aspect. Well, he was prepared to battle with it.
"I am pleased to hear your opinion, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners; "it coincides with mine." ("I was right," thought Inglefield.) "The daughter, however," pursued Mr. Manners, "again in her home, was most unhappy, from a cause which her father had not suspected. He set a watch upon her, to discover the cause of her unhappiness, and soon found that he was threatened by another disgrace. Maddened by this discovery, he questioned his daughter, and pressed her to give him the name of her betrayer. She refused." ("Good girl!" thought Mark Inglefield; "stanch girl! I am safe.") "Mr. Parkinson was not the kind of man, with this additional disgrace hanging over him, to rest contented with the refusal, and he adopted the extreme measure of breaking open his daughter's box, in which he found the portrait of a man, a stranger to him. On the back of this portrait a name was written." (Mark Inglefield smiled placidly. "I never gave her a portrait of myself," he thought, "though she begged often for one. Nor has she a scrap of my writing to bring against me. You were ever prudent, Mark. You will get over this difficulty, have no fear.") Mr. Manners had observed the placid smile, but he made no comment on it. "It happened that the name written on the back of the picture has just been brought into prominence, and with this double clew in his possession, Mr. Parkinson sought, and after some difficulty obtained, an interview with Mr. Hollingworth, in which he told the story I have narrated to you. Are you curious to learn the reason of his desire to speak with Mr. Hollingworth?"
"It would be strange," said Mark Inglefield, "if I were not interested in anything concerning a family with which I hope to be soon connected by marriage."
"Mr. Parkinson accused Mr. Hollingworth's son, Richard, who has just won his election, of being Mary Parkinson's betrayer. Shocked at the charge, Mr. Hollingworth demanded some better proof than Mr. Parkinson's bare word, and the wronged father produced it. He handed the portrait he had found in his daughter's box to Mr. Hollingworth, and stated how it had come into his possession. The name written on the back of the photograph was Richard Hollingworth."
"In whose writing?" asked Mark Inglefield.
"In Mary Parkinson's. But the portrait was not that of Richard Hollingworth."
"Whose then, sir?"
"Yours."
Mark Inglefield started, and could have lashed himself for this exhibition of surprise.
"Surely," he said, "upon such evidence you do not accuse me?"
"I accuse no one. I must not forget to inform you that when Mr. Parkinson found the portrait he forced from his daughter the confession that it was that of her betrayer, who had the audacity and the infamy to present himself to her under the guise of a friend. Mr. Richard Hollingworth was your friend. Inglefield, I have purposely used these two strong words 'infamy' and 'audacity.' Do you agree with me that such conduct on the part of any man was audacious and infamous?"
"I agree with you entirely," replied Mark Inglefield, who, although he felt as if he were being caught in a trap, still spoke in a calm voice, and was busily casting about for ways and means to get out of it. "But I repeat, you would surely not accuse--nay, not only accuse, but convict me upon such evidence?"
"I have already told you that I accuse no one; still less would I convict without absolute proof. Very little more remains to be told of this shameful story. Mr. Hollingworth, upon seeing the portrait, indignantly defended his son, whose prospects of a public, honorable career would have been blasted had he been dragged into the courts, charged with a crime so vile, and he made the promise to Mr. Parkinson that if it should be proved that Richard Hollingworth was the betrayer, the young gentleman should make the girl the only reparation in the power of an honorable man."
"Marry her?"
"That was his undoubted meaning."
"It was a convenient promise," said Mark Inglefield, with easy assurance. "Had the portrait been that of his son he would not have made it. Mr. Hollingworth is a man of the world."
"There is no need for us to discuss that point. Your remark does you no credit, Inglefield."
"It was founded, sir," said Mark Inglefield, in a tone of respectful deference, "upon a knowledge of Mr. Hollingworth's character."
"Mr. Hollingworth would not thank you for that."
"Possibly not. Still I speak as a man of the world, as you know me to be, and as you are yourself. A man's experience must count in such matters. Is your story ended, sir?"
"Very nearly. When I left Mr. Hollingworth he expressed the intention of writing to you to-night, to the effect that your visits to his house must cease until you have cleared yourself. You will receive his letter in the morning. Mr. Parkinson also said something with which you should be made acquainted. He said you had ruined his daughter's life, and he made the solemn declaration that he would ruin yours if it cost him the last drop of his blood."
"He knows my name, then?"
"He does not. Neither Mr. Hollingworth nor I enlightened him."
"That was only fair to me, sir. My good reputation is as dear to me as any man's. All the time you have known me there has been nothing dishonorable laid to my charge."
"I know of nothing, Inglefield; but then our courses have lain somewhat apart. There should certainly, in our relations, have been a closer confidence. However, all that is past, and it is not given to us to recall our actions. Now that we are speaking together, openly and frankly, there must be no reservations. I have plainly indicated to you the course I have resolved upon with respect to the story of Mary Parkinson. I have pledged myself to assist him in obtaining justice, and you know that I shall keep my word. Let me tell you that there appears to be something strange in your attitude on this question."
"What do you expect of me? I can afford to treat with quiet scorn the accusation which you seem to favor against me."
"You are still on the wrong tack--a surprise to me in a man of so much intelligence. I expected from you something more than general statements."
"If you would put direct questions to me," said Mark Inglefield, who all this time was in serious mental debate with himself, "I should cease from unconsciously offending you. I owe you much, sir, and all my future prospects depend upon you. Recognizing and acknowledging this, it would be the height of folly in me to disappoint you in any way; but, I repeat, I am in the dark as to what you expect from me."
"You would prefer that I should ask straight questions?"
"It is my wish."
"I will do so. You are now acquainted with the disgraceful story which has caused both Mr. Hollingworth and myself to assume an attitude towards you for which we shall fully atone if we are satisfied there are no grounds for it. You do not know any person, male or female, bearing the name of Parkinson?"
"I do not."
"Do you deny that you are, directly or indirectly, connected with the wrong of which Mr. Parkinson complains?"
"I deny it emphatically." Mark Inglefield said it boldly, and met Mr. Manners's gaze unflinchingly.
"That is plain speaking," said Mr. Manners. "You must pardon me if I widen the matter a little. It is far from my wish to pry into your private concerns, but to some extent they affect me."
"You have every right to inquire into them," said Mark Inglefield; and now that he was launched on a full tide of deceit and treachery, determined to override every obstacle and to overcome every danger, there was nothing in his voice or manner to which the most suspicious person could take exception. "Every action in my life is open for your inspection."
"The man who has wronged Mr. Parkinson's daughter presented himself to her under a false name. She may have done the same to him."
"I understand what you mean, sir," said Mark Inglefield, not giving Mr. Manners time to finish, "and I declare, upon my honor as a gentleman, that there lives not a woman in the world who can complain of wrong at my hands. Is that sufficiently comprehensive, sir?"
"So far as Mary Parkinson is concerned," replied Mr. Manners, "it covers the whole ground, although it does not clear up the mystery."
"What is it that remains to be cleared? Is not my word of honor as a gentleman of more weight than the false statements of a shallow, ignorant woman?"
"You are speaking with unnecessary heat," said Mr. Manners, calmly. "In a few hours, by a very simple process, the matter can be settled. To-morrow morning you will accompany me to Mr. Parkinson's home--I have the address--and there, face to face with him and his daughter, you will be able in a moment to convince them how you have been maligned."
"Surely, sir," remonstrated Mark Inglefield, to whom this proposal brought a feeling of consternation, "you do not really mean to drag both yourself and me personally into this disgraceful affair?"
"What can you find to object to in it?" asked Mr. Manners. "I have pledged myself to sift the matter to the bottom, and I am not the man to depart from my word. The course I propose is an honorable course, and the result must be your complete vindication. At the present moment you are under suspicion; you cannot wish to remain so. Of course, Inglefield, I cannot compel you to accompany me. If you refuse--"
Mr. Manners paused, but the uncompleted sentence was sufficiently comprehensive. Thus driven, there was no alternative before Mark Inglefield than to cry, with great warmth,
"I do not refuse."
"You will accompany me?"
"Yes, sir, willingly, as you attach so much importance to it."
"I attach the most serious importance to it. We will start at eleven o'clock in the morning, and will go by train. To drive there would attract notice, which it is my desire, for more reasons than one, to avoid. It is agreed, then?"
"Yes, sir, it is agreed."
"There is an aspect of this unfortunate affair," said Mr. Manners, "which seems not to have occurred to you."
"What is it, sir?" asked Mr. Inglefield, whose inward perturbation was not lessened by the continuance of the conversation.
"Think, Inglefield. I would prefer that it should come from you instead of from me."
"I can think of nothing," said Mark Inglefield, speaking now with sincere ingenuousness. "So far as I can see, we have threshed it completely out."
"Take a moment or two to consider. I am really anxious that it should occur to you."
Mark Inglefield pondered, but so entirely engrossed was he by the main issue--which now, indeed, he recognized was vital to his prospects--that there was no room in his mind for small side issues. He found himself incapable of wresting his thoughts from the one grand point--how was he to avoid this personal meeting with Mary Parkinson in the presence of her father and Mr. Manners?
"I can think of nothing," he said, presently.
"Then I must remind you," said Mr. Manners, coldly, "that Mary Parkinson has your portrait in her possession."
"True, sir, true," exclaimed Mark Inglefield. "How could it have escaped me? And, now that you have reminded me, I believe you said that the girl herself unblushingly proclaimed that the portrait was that of her betrayer." He said this glibly; a plan was forming in his mind by which he could avert the threatened danger.
"She proclaimed it," responded Mr. Manners, "so Mr. Parkinson informed me, but I do not think I said she proclaimed it unblushingly; I had no warranty for saying so."
"The expression is mine, and fits the case; she has trumped up the story, very likely at the instigation of her accomplice."
"If that is so he proves himself a clumsy scoundrel. Your statements established, Inglefield, you must bring this man to justice. It is a conspiracy to ruin you, therefore a criminal offence."
"You may depend," said Mark Inglefield, vivaciously--his plan was formed, and he was confident of success--"that I shall not allow this scoundrel to escape me."
"We will dismiss the matter for to-night," said Mr. Manners; "be sure that you are ready at eleven in the morning. And now I wish to speak to you upon another matter."
"Very well, sir," said Inglefield, and thought: "What is the old fool going to bring forward now?"