There occurred here a pause. Kingsley did not know what to say. His
father was waiting for him to speak.
"No man should think of marrying," said Kingsley, presently, "unless
there is love on both sides."
"There is no occasion to discuss that point," said Mr. Manners. "As
you will win your way to the young lady's heart, so will she win her
way to yours. Wait till you see her, and meanwhile give me your
promise that you will do your best to further my wishes. I do not
expect a blind compliance; you shall go to her with your eyes open,
and if you do not say she is very beautiful you must be a poor judge
of beauty."
"But," murmured Kingsley, "to have an affair like this cut and dried
beforehand for the man who is most deeply concerned--well, father,
there is something sordid and mercenary in it."
"There might be," said Mr. Manners, calmly, "if the young lady knew
anything of it; but she knows nothing."
"Yet you said you spoke with authority."
"Quite so. The young lady's mother has been indirectly sounded, and I
spoke the truth. Listen, Kingsley," and Mr. Manners's more serious
tone increased Kingsley's discomfort. "I said I have set my heart upon
the projects I have unfolded concerning your future. I have set
something more than my heart upon them--I have set all my hopes upon
them. You are my only child, and will be my heir if everything is
right between us. You will come into an enormous fortune, greater than
you have any idea of, and by its means and a suitable marriage you
will rise to power. There are few men who would not jump at the
proposition I have made, which, plainly explained, means your coming
into everything that can make life desirable. If I were asking you to
marry a lady who was ugly or had some deformity I could understand
your hesitation. Do you still refuse to give me the promise I ask?"
"I cannot give it to you, father."
"Why?" demanded Mr. Manners, in a stern voice; but he did not give
Kingsley time to reply. "Listen further to me before you speak." He
took a pocket-book from his pocket, and drew from it a paper which he
consulted. "I can make excuses for slight faults of conduct, but will
not pardon an opposition which threatens to destroy the most earnest
wish of my life. You are acquainted with a person of the name of
Loveday."
"I have the honor of his acquaintance," said Kingsley, nerving himself
for the contest which he saw impending, and considerably surprised at
his father's acquaintance with the name.
"He is a person of no character," said Mr. Manners.
"He is a gentleman," interrupted Kingsley.
"That is news to me," said Mr. Manners, "and is not in accordance with
the information I have received."
"Have you been playing the spy upon me?" asked Kingsley, with some
warmth.
"I should require to be in two places at once to have done that. This
time last week I was in Russia."
"Then you have been paying some one to watch me. By what right,
father?"
"You jump too hastily at conclusions. You make a statement which is
not true, and you proceed to question me upon it."
"I beg your pardon; but you must have obtained your information from
some source."
"Quite so."
"Will you tell me from whom?
"I may or I may not before we part to-night. You refused to give me a
promise; I refuse to give you one. I might well take offence at the
imputation that I have paid a spy to watch you."
"I withdrew the imputation, father."
"The suspicion was in itself an offence. I have allowed you to go your
way, Kingsley, in the belief and hope that your way and mine were one,
and that you would do nothing to disgrace me."
"I have done nothing to disgrace you."
"We may take different views. As a young man you have had what is
called your 'fling.' I made you a most liberal allowance--"
"For which I have always been deeply grateful, father," said Kingsley,
hoping to turn the current of his father's wrath. It smote him with
keen apprehension, for Nansie's sake and his own, that the anger his
father displayed when he first mentioned the name of Loveday should be
no longer apparent, and that Mr. Manners spoke in his usual calm and
masterful voice.
"I made you a most liberal allowance," repeated Mr. Manners, "which you
freely spent. I did not demur to that; it pleased me that you should
be liberal and extravagant, and prove yourself the equal in fortune,
as you are in education and manners, of those with whom you mixed. You
committed some follies, which I overlooked--and paid for."
"It is the truth, father. I got into debt and you cleared me."
"Did I reproach you?"
"No, sir."
"If I am not mistaken--and in figures I seldom am--I paid your debts
for you on three occasions."
"It is true, sir."
"And always cheerfully."
"Always, sir."
"I am not wishful to take undue credit to myself by reminding you of
this; it is only that I would have you bear in mind that I have
endeavored to make your life easy and pleasurable, and to do my duty
by you. Nor will I make any comparison between your career as a young
man and mine at the same age. I am satisfied, and I suppose you are
the same."
"I think, father," said Kingsley, "that I should have been content to
work as you did."
"Not as I did, because we started from different standpoints. Pounds,
shillings, and pence were of great importance to me, and I used to
count them very jealously. I value money now perhaps as little as you
do, but I know its value better than you, and what it can buy in a
large way--in the way I have already explained to you. For that
reason, and for no other, it is precious to me. There are men who have
risen to wealth by discreditable means; that is not my case; what I
possess has been fairly worked for and fairly earned. All through my
life I have acted honorably and straightforwardly."
"All through my life, father," said Kingsley, with spirit, "I shall do
the same."
"Well and good. I have a special reason, Kingsley, in speaking of
myself in the way I have done."
"Will you favor me with your reason, father?"
"Yes. It is to put a strong emphasis upon what you will lose if you
cut yourself away from me."
"Is there any fear of that, father?" asked Kingsley, with a sinking
heart.
"It will be for you, not for me, to answer that question; and it will
be answered, I presume, more in acts than in words. I return to the
Mr. Loveday, who is described to me as a person of no character, and
whom you describe as a gentleman."
"He is one, father, believe me," said Kingsley, earnestly.
"Do gentlemen travel about the country in caravans, sleeping in them
by the roadsides?"
Kingsley could not help smiling. "Not generally, father, but some men
are whimsical."
"Let us keep to the point, Kingsley. According to your account we are
speaking of a gentleman."
"We are," said Kingsley, somewhat nettled at this pinning down.
"Then you mean that some gentlemen are whimsical?"
"I mean that."
"In what respect is this Mr. Loveday a gentleman? Does he come of an
old family?"
"I do not know."
"Do you know anything of his family?"
"Nothing."
"Is he a man of means?"
"No."
"A poor man, then?"
"Yes."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
"And travels about in a broken-down caravan, and you wish me to
believe he is a gentleman. I would prefer to take your word, Kingsley,
against that of my informant, but in this instance I cannot do so. It
would be stretching the limits too far."
"We will not argue it out, father."
"Very well. But Mr. Loveday does not travel alone in this caravan; he
has a person he calls his daughter with him."
"It is coming," thought Kingsley, and he set his teeth fast, and
said': "His daughter, a lady, travels with him."
"So far, then, my facts are indisputable. This young woman is
described to me as an artful, designing person who has used all her
arts to entangle you--because you have a rich father."
"Who dares say that?" cried Kingsley, starting up with flashing eyes.
"My informant. I understand, also, that some months since she
contracted secretly a disreputable marriage, and that her husband--do
not interrupt me for a moment, Kingsley--has conveniently disappeared
in order to give her time to bleed you, through your rich father. To
go through the ceremony again would be a light matter with her."
"It is a horrible calumny," cried Kingsley, in great excitement.
"Although," pursued Mr. Manners, exhibiting no agitation in his voice
or manner, "the circumstances of my own private life have not made me
personally familiar with the tricks of adventuresses, I have in the
course of my experiences learned sufficient of them to make me abhor
them. How much deeper must be my abhorrence now when such a woman
steps in between me and my son to destroy a cherished design which can
only be carried out in his person! I will listen to no vindication,
Kingsley. Before you arrived home to-night I had a strong hope that
some mistake had been made in the information which has reached me
concerning your proceedings. I was wrong; it is unhappily too true."
"You received the information from an enemy of mine."
"No, Kingsley, from a friend."
"Ah!" There was here, even in the utterance of the simple word, a
singular resemblance between father and son. Kingsley's voice no
longer betrayed excitement, and his manner became outwardly calm.
"There is only one so-called friend who could have supplied you with
the information--my cousin, Mark Inglefield."
Mr. Manners was silent.
"Was it he, sir?" asked Kingsley.
Still Mr. Manners was silent.
"I judge from your silence, sir, that Mark Inglefield is the man I
have to thank."
During his silence Mr. Manners had been considering.
"I must say something here, Kingsley. I have no right to betray
another man's confidence, and you no right to betray mine."
"It would be the last of my wishes, father."
"If I tell you who is my informant, will you hold it as a sacred
confidence?"
It was Kingsley's turn now to consider. He was convinced that Mark
Inglefield was his enemy, and by giving his father the desired promise
of a sacred confidence, he would be shutting himself off from all
chance of reprisal. On the other hand, he might be mistaken; and his
father might also refuse to continue the interview, which Kingsley
felt could not be broken at this point; and after all, how could he
hope to help himself or Nansie by a personal encounter with his cousin
or by further angering his father, who, he knew only too well, was now
in a dangerous mood?
"Do you insist upon my holding it as a sacred confidence, father?"
"I insist upon it," said Mr. Manners, coldly.
"I will hold it so."
"On your honor as a man? Not as a gentleman, for our views differ
there."
"On my honor as a man."
"You were right," said Mr. Manners. "I received the information from
your cousin, Mark Inglefield."
"As I expected. I must now relate to you, father, the circumstances of
my acquaintance with Mr. Loveday and his daughter, and the manner in
which my cousin Mark comes into connection with it."
"I will listen to you, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners. "Our conversation
has assumed a complexion which may be productive of the most serious
results to you and myself. I do not hold this out as a threat; I state
a fact. I am, in my convictions, inflexible. Once I am resolved, no
power on earth can move me. And do not lose sight of another thing.
Mark Inglefield is your mother's nephew, and therefore your cousin.
That I have given him the advantage of a university education, and
that I sent you both to college at the same time, is my affair. I
should have done the same by you had you been my nephew and he my son.
It was always my intention to advance him in life, and it is my
intention still. He is worthy of it. He is your equal in birth and
attainments. Therefore speak of him with becoming respect. I shall
know the exact value to place upon intemperate language in a case like
this, where the passions are involved."
"I will do my best to obey you, father," said Kingsley, "but a pure
reputation is at stake, and I may fail in my endeavor. It was my
cousin, Mark Inglefield, who first introduced me to Miss Loveday. He
spoke to me of her, as he spoke to others, in a light tone, and I do
not know what it was that induced me to give ear to his boastings,
although I entertained a contempt for him and a doubt of his truth.
One day, while we were walking together and he was indulging with
greater freedom and boisterousness than usual--though his ordinary
habit was bad enough--of his acquaintanceship with Miss Loveday, it
happened that we met her. He could do no less than introduce me, and I
had not been in her company five minutes before I suspected that his
vaporings about her were those of a base man, of one who was dead to
honor. A true man is respectful and modest when he makes reference to
a lady for whom he entertains an affection, and the doubts I had
previously entertained of my cousin when he indulged in the
outpourings of his coarse vanity were now confirmed. I followed up the
introduction by courting Miss Loveday's intimacy, and she grew to
respect me, to rely upon me. The more I saw of her the more I esteemed
her. Never had I met a lady so pure and gentle, and it was a proud
moment in my life when she asked me to protect her from my cousin's
insolent advances. I spoke to him, in a manner not too gentle, I own,
for my indignation was aroused, and from that time he and I were
enemies. I know it now; I did not know it then. He was far too subtle
for me, and I, perhaps too much in the habit of wearing my heart upon
my sleeve, was, as I now discover, sadly at a disadvantage with him.
He showed no anger at my supplanting him, and this should have warned
me; your cold-blooded man is a dangerous animal when he becomes your
enemy; but I suppose I was too deeply in love and too happy to harbor
suspicion against one who had no real cause for enmity against me. Nor
did I consider the consequences--not to myself but to the lady I
loved--of my frequent visits and meetings with her. There is no doubt
that she was compromised by them, but she was as guileless and
innocent as myself, and it was not till it was forced upon me that her
reputation was in my hands that I prevailed upon her to take the step
which gave the lie to malicious rumor."
"And that step, Kingsley?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I married her. She is my wife."
"You think so?"
"Think so, father! What do you mean? Am I a man with reason, gifted
with some standard of intelligence, that I should think--which implies
a doubt--where I am sure?"
"You are a man deluded, Kingsley, as other men have been by other
women. This woman has deceived you."
"No, sir, truly as I live."
"The farce would not be complete unless you protested. It is the least
you can do. All that you have said confirms your cousin's story. He
has not erred in one particular, except in what is excusable in him,
and perhaps in you. Mischief is done, but it can be remedied. An
impulsive man like yourself is no match for an artful woman."
"I will not hear the lady I love and esteem so spoken of," said
Kingsley, with warmth.
To this remark Mr. Manners was about to reply with equal warmth, but
he checked himself, and did not speak for a few moments. When he
resumed the conversation he spoke in his usual calm tone, a tone which
never failed in impressing upon his hearers a conviction of the
speaker's absolute sincerity and indomitable will.
"It has happened--fortunately for others--but rarely in my life,
Kingsley, that such a crisis as this has occurred; and I regret this
difference in our ideas all the more because its consequences may be
fatal to you and may shatter hopes upon which I have set great store.
When you say to me that you will not hear me speak in such or such a
manner, because it displeases you, you behave in a manner to which I
am not accustomed. When you place yourself in opposition to my wishes
you treat me to a new experience which I do not welcome. Were I
holding this interview with any other than yourself I should have put
an end to it some time since; after that there would be nothing more
to be said on either side. I am not used to disappointments, but I
should be able to bear them; I am rather fond of difficulties because
it is a pleasure to overcome them. I am inclined to regard this
difference of opinion between us as a difficulty which may be overcome
without much trouble, if you are reasonable."
"It is not a difference of opinion, father," said Kingsley, moderating
his tone; the interests at stake were too serious to allow him to give
his indignation free play, "it is a difference as to facts, of which
I, and not you, am cognizant."
"I hold to what I say, Kingsley," replied Mr. Manners. "I have
received a certain statement of particulars which I choose to accept
as true; you have imparted to me certain information which I do not
choose to accept in the manner you wish. Setting aside for a moment
all question of the young woman of whose character we have formed
different estimates, I ask you, supposing you to be legally married,
what is the kind of respect you have shown me, a father who has never
crossed your wishes, by contracting a lifelong obligation without
consulting me?"
"It was wrong, father," said Kingsley, with contrition. "I have only
the excuse to make that I loved her and was eager to defend her
reputation."
"It is an excuse I cannot accept. And the deliberate committal of a
fault so fatally grave as this, with a full knowledge of the
consequences, cannot be condoned by the weak confession, when it is
too late to repair the fault, that you were wrong. There is a
repentance which comes too late, Kingsley. But even that I might have
forgiven had I reason to approve of your choice."
"You have but to see her, father," said Kingsley, eagerly. "Let me
bring her to you! You will be as proud of her as I am; you will know
then that I have not chosen unworthily."
"No," said Mr. Manners, "if I see her at all I must see her alone."
"Give me a minute or two to consider, father."
"Certainly, Kingsley."
The young man turned aside, and allowed his thoughts to travel to
Nansie, and to dwell upon the beauty of her character. He knew her to
be patient and long-suffering, and that she would not shrink from
making a sacrifice for one she loved as she loved him; he knew also
that these qualities were allied to a spirit of independence which,
while it would enable her to bear up outwardly under the pressure of a
great wrong, would rather intensify than abate the anguish which would
wring her soul were such a wrong forced upon her. It would be a
lifelong anguish, and would rack her till her dying day. His father,
with his iron will, was just the man to force the sacrifice upon her,
was just the man to so prevail upon her that she might, at his
persuasion, remove herself forever not only from the presence but from
the knowledge of the man she loved and had vowed to love while life
remained. Poor, helpless, dependent, and alone in the world--for
Kingsley had an inward conviction that her father's days were
numbered--to what a future would he, the man who had sworn to love and
cherish her, be condemning her if he permitted his father to have his
way in this matter! The crime would be his, not his father's; upon his
soul would rest the sin. And then the image of Nansie rose before him,
not at first sad and despondent, but bright and sweet, and full of
innocent, joyous life; and in that image he saw a sunshine of
happiness which he and Nansie would enjoy together if he played a true
man's part in this contention. He saw also with his mind's eye the
other side of the picture in the figure of a heart-broken woman
brooding over the misery and the torture of life, and praying for
death. This sad figure vanished, and he and Nansie were sitting
together hand in hand, their hearts beating with the sacred love which
sweetens and makes life holy, and she was whispering to him that her
greatest joy lay in the knowledge that he was true to her.
He had shaded his eyes with his hand during this contemplation. He now
removed it, and raised his eyes to his father's face.
"I cannot consent, father," he said, in a low, firm tone, "to your
seeing her alone."
"You have come deliberately to that determination?" asked Mr. Manners.
"I have, father."
"It is irrevocable?"
"It is irrevocable."
"I will still not hold you to it," said Mr. Manners. "It would grieve
me in the future to think that the matter was too hastily decided. You
owe me some kind of obedience, some kind of duty."
"I acknowledge it, father. In all that becomes me to yield you shall
have no cause of complaint against me."
"Very well. Let there be some slight pause before the final word is
pronounced. Remain here a week, and give the matter a calmer and
longer deliberation. Its issues are sufficiently important to make my
request reasonable."
"I will do as you wish, father," said Kingsley, after a slight
hesitation, "on two conditions."
"Name them."
"First, that you do not invite my cousin, Mark Inglefield, here during
the time."
"I agree."
"Second, that you do not seek my wife for the purpose of relating what
has passed between us."
"I agree to that also. I will not seek your--the young woman for that
or for any purpose. Are you content, Kingsley?"
"Yes, father, I am content."
"As you admit that you owe me some small measure of duty and
obedience, you will not object to my request that you hold no
correspondence with her until the week is past."
"It is a hard request, father, but I will obey you."
"There remains, then, in this connection, but one thing in respect of
your future which I think it necessary to impress upon you. As I have
made my fortune by my own efforts it is mine to dispose of as I
please. Comply with my wishes, and the bulk of it is yours. Oppose
them, and not one shilling of it will be yours to enjoy. To this I
pledge myself. And now, Kingsley, we will drop the conversation."
Kingsley had a reason for consenting to the week's delay. He had a
hope that within that period his father would relent. It was a faint
hope, but it seemed to him that it would be criminal to let it slip.