CHAPTER XXXIX
"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."
CHAPTER XL
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.
CHAPTER XLI
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.