"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 I am ignorant," 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."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
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?"