Some three months after this night a gentleman was sitting with a
friend in a well-appointed house in Harley Street. The host was
a man in the prime of life, his name Hollingworth; the guest was his
elder in years, his name Manners--none other than the once great
contractor--Mr. Valentine Manners, Kingsley's father. They had dined,
and were sitting over their claret.
Mr. Valentine Manners had long since retired from business. For many
years he had travelled the world in search of something--he knew not
what--which he had lost, and had returned home without finding it.
Part of the time his nephew, Mark Inglefield, who was to be his heir,
had travelled with him; but the younger man had made periodical visits
to England upon his uncle's private affairs, of which he had the
practical management. A fortune so vast as Mr. Valentine Manners had
amassed was in itself a business, the care of which occupied a great
deal of time.
Mr. Hollingworth and his guest had discussed many matters, the most
important of which was a proposed marriage between Mr. Hollingworth's
only daughter, Beatrice, and Mark Inglefield, the rich contractor's
heir. The girl was barely twenty, Mark Inglefield nearly fifty; but
these disparities are not uncommon in matrimonial unions in which
money and not love is the principal factor. Mr. Hollingworth had only
one other child, a son of twenty-six, who had just been elected a
member of the House of Commons. The conversation of the two gentlemen
was interrupted by the announcement of a servant that a man wished to
see Mr. Hollingworth.
The tone of the servant when he uttered the words "a man" was a
sufficient indication of his opinion of the visitor's standing. Mr.
Hollingworth accepted his servant's opinion.
"Did you say I was busy?"
"I told him so, sir, and that you could not be disturbed."
"Well?"
"He said he must see you, sir, and that he would come every day and
night till he did." Mr. Hollingworth groaned. "Did he give you his
name?"
"Yes, sir, and said you would know it. Mr. Parkinson--a stone-mason,
he said he was."
"Parkinson--Parkinson! I do not know the man, and I have not been
engaged in building. More in your way, Mr. Manners."
His guest nodded, but made no remark; there was nothing in the
incident to interest him.
"He has been here several times this week, sir," said the servant.
"I remember now hearing of it, and I left instructions that he was to
put his business with me in writing."
"He paid no attention to that, sir, but kept on calling."
"Well, we must get rid of him somehow. A stone-mason, eh?
Parkinson--the very name for a stone-mason. My boy Dick carried his
election on the working-man's interests. A popular cry; we are
becoming very radical. Show Mr. Parkinson up. You have no objection,
Mr. Manners?"
"None at all."
The servant retired, and returned, ushering in Mr. Parkinson. Mr.
Hollingworth cast a keen glance at his visitor, and saw that he was to
all appearance a respectable working-man.
"You wish to see me?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson in a respectful tone, and yet with
something of defiance. He had repaid Mr. Hollingworth's keen glance
with interest. He was calmer now than when he had recounted his wrongs
at the meeting of the Wilberforce Club; but although he was holding
himself in check, he was quite as much in earnest.
"It seems that a personal interview was imperative."
"It was, sir."
"Well, I am not disinclined to listen to you. Anything respecting
politics? My son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth, has lately been returned
to Parliament in the interests of the working-man, as I dare say you
know."
"Yes, sir, I know it. That is how I found you out, though I expected
to see an older gentleman than you."
Mr. Hollingworth smiled. "You may do that in the course of years if I
live. Your expectation is an inexplicable one, however, and as strange
as your expression that you have found me out. Almost a crime," he
continued, still with a smile on his face, "to be found out in these
days. You have come, then, upon political business?"
"No, sir; I have come upon private business."
"Upon private business! A singular time to introduce it. As singular
as the question. What private business can there be between you and
me, who are perfect strangers to each other?"
"There _is_ private business between us, sir, of a vital nature. You
will understand if you will listen to me, as you said you would."
"Will you be long?"
"I will try not to be, but there's a tale to tell."
"Tell it, my friend, as briefly as you can. Will you wait?" he asked,
turning to his guest, "or shall we resume our conversation to-morrow?"
"I will wait," replied Mr. Manners, "unless you wish to hear this
person in private."
"I have no such wish."
"I think it will be better, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that we shall
speak without witnesses."
"Let me be the judge of that," said Mr. Hollingworth, warmly. "You
have chosen to intrude upon me at an untimely hour, and if you have
anything to say of which you are ashamed, you have only yourself to
blame for the publicity."
"The shame's on your side, not on mine," retorted Mr. Parkinson,
speaking as warmly as Mr. Hollingworth had done, "and the blame rests
with you and yours."
Mr. Hollingworth's hand, at this retort, was extended towards the
bell, and but for the last two words uttered by his visitor he would
have ordered him to the door. He sank back in his chair, and with some
sternness desired Mr. Parkinson to proceed.
"I am, as you may see, sir, a working-man, and have been so all my
life. I live Whitechapel way, and this is my full name and address."
He placed an envelope on the table. "I am a widower with one child, a
daughter, just eighteen years of age. My wife died eight years ago,
and I brought up my girl as well as I could. She is good-looking,
worse luck! and can read and write. There has never been anything
against me; I owe no man a penny, and my character in my line is as
good as yours or any gentleman's in his."
"I don't see how all this affects me," said Mr. Hollingworth, with an
assumption of weariness. "Cannot you spare me further details?"
"I must tell my story my own way, sir, and you will soon see how it
affects you."
"Go on, then, if it must be so."
"If we had been let alone, my girl and me, there would have been no
occasion for me to be here now; but we were not let alone, to live our
lives our own way. We were interfered with by a gentleman."
"Come, come, my friend," said Mr. Hollingworth, "this is mere
clap-trap."
"Not a bit of clap-trap about it, sir. Hard, bitter truth; that's what
it is. According to the order of things, my girl would have married
one of my sort, one of her own--there were plenty after her, but she
wouldn't look at 'em--and would have had her regular ups and downs,
and gone through life respectable."
"Oh," remarked Mr. Hollingworth, flippantly, "she has spoiled her
chance for that!"
"It's been spoiled for her, sir. When and where she met this gentleman
of hers I've no means of saying; she's as close as wax; and it is only
by a trick--a just trick that a father has a right to use--that I've
come to some knowledge of things. But I'll tell my story straight, and
won't run ahead more than I can help. It's months ago now since my
girl run away from me, and left never a word behind her that I could
find her by."
"In the name of all that's reasonable," exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth,
"you have not come to me to find her for you?"
"No, sir; that's not my business here. My girl was found and saved by
an angel."
"A veritable angel?" asked Mr. Hollingworth. He was nettled by the
tone and attitude of the man, and was disposed to resent these signs
by a lightness of manner in his reception of the uninvited confidence
that was being reposed in him.
"What do you mean by veritable?" demanded Mr. Parkinson; and quickly
himself answered his own question. "Oh! I know; a kind of mockery of
me! The angel I mean is a woman with a name which I'll give you if you
like."
"It's a matter of perfect indifference to me, my good man."
"I'll give it to you, then. There are not many like her, and as I come
here alone, unsupported by evidences or witnesses, you might, when
I've done, like to find out for yourself whether I'm speaking the
truth. That would be only fair. The good angel who found and saved my
Mary is Mrs. Manners, who is something more than loved--she's
worshipped by every one who knows her."
When Mr. Parkinson uttered the name of Manners, Mr. Hollingworth
started, and glanced at his visitor; but the great contractor made no
movement.
"Your daughter being found and saved," said Mr. Hollingworth, "there
is a pleasant ending of your story."
"Not at all, sir. There's been a wrong done that must be righted; and
before we come to the way of that, there's more to say. When my girl
ran away from her home I was for a long time fairly mad, and was ready
to strike both him and her dead at my feet if I had the chance. I was
as bitter against her as against him; and if I'd known what I know
now, there would have been a case in the papers, and the boys in the
streets screaming out the news. But I couldn't discover who the man
was; all that reached me was through hearsay from one of her girl
companions, who had happened to see her in the company of a man they
called a gentleman. They didn't know who he was any more than I did;
and when I made up my mind that my girl had been brought to shame, I
swore that she should never darken my doors again. A good many weeks
passed by, and my feelings against my girl got harder instead of
softer; and then, sir, the usual thing happened."
"I understand," said Mr. Hollingworth, "as little of what you mean by
'the usual thing happened,' as I do of how the story you are telling
can possibly affect me."
"A little more patience, sir, and it will be clear to you. The usual
thing is, that the man who wronged my child deserted her."
"Ah!"
"She was left pretty well shipwrecked in this big city of cruelty.
Where should she turn to? Where do they all turn to in their thoughts?
To the home they have brought disgrace upon; to the father and mother
whose hearts they have broken. But my girl was afraid to come to me.
She had somehow heard that I had sworn she should never cross my
threshold again; that I had sworn to strike her down dead if she ever
came before me again. So she hid herself and her shame, and fell into
a fever, and was close to the death I had sworn against her. I knew
nothing of it; the news didn't reach my ears, but it reached the ears
of the angel woman I spoke of, Mrs. Manners. The way of it was that,
thinking she hadn't many hours to live, my girl wrote a letter to one
whom she loved and honored, a girl of her own age, sweet, and loving,
and good, Miss Hester Manners. 'Dear Hester,' my girl wrote, 'come to
me, if only for a minute, and give me one kind look before I die.
Heaven will reward you for it.' There was more in the letter that I
won't trouble you with. Miss Hester, as was right and proper, showed
her mother the letter, and her mother, as was right and proper, said,
'My dear, _I_ will go and see the poor girl.' Heaven bless her for her
merciful act all the days of her life! She is poorer than I am by a
long way, and has had such a battle to fight as few women have, and
has fought it in a way that no other woman could. I have been pretty
much of a careless, selfish man, I can see that now; not through her
telling me of it; no, sir; but through her ways, somehow, that I've
seen so much of lately. I've been neglectful of my duty, though I've
led an honest life, which is about the best that can be said about me,
but I'm a different man now through her, a different and a better man,
I hope, than I've ever been; and if I could serve her by suffering any
pain that a man can suffer, I'd do it gladly, and thank the chance. It
was late at night when Miss Hester gave her the letter from my poor
girl, and her husband wasn't at home, but she went straight on her
errand of mercy, and remained with my child, nursing and attending to
her till daylight came; and when she went away she promised to go
again, and she did, day after day, night after night, taking her
sewing with her, for the minutes were precious, and bread for her
family had to be earned. This went on, sir, for some time in secret
without me ever knowing it, until my Mary was snatched from death's
door by this bright angel. Then, sir, Mrs. Manners began to speak to
me of my child; how she did it I can't remember, try my hardest; there
was nothing sudden, no news all at once that my Mary had been almost
dying, and nursed back to life by her; she softened my heart gradually
in a cunning and beautiful way, bringing Miss Hester with her to my
rooms, and making me feel, as the dear young lady moved about, doing
this and that for me, how happy I might be once more if I could see my
child doing as she was doing. Mrs. Manners's heart is not only a heart
of love and mercy, it is a heart of wisdom, and when she had well
prepared me, and had led up to it so that I couldn't have refused to
do the hardest task she set me, then, sir, it was that she told me all
that had happened to my Mary, and told me, in her loving, gentle
voice, that it was my duty to open my arms to the child who had been
led into wrong through her own innocence and helplessness, and perhaps
through my own neglect. She didn't put this last thought into my mind;
it came there out of my own sorrow and self-reproach, but it was Mrs.
Manners who planted the seed. I took my girl home, hoping and
believing that everything would be right, and resolved, too, to do all
I could to make 'em right. But the contrary has happened, and another
disgrace, that none of us but my Mary knew, is threatening me now. The
companions she used to associate with won't have anything to say to
her. The poor can be hard, sir, as well as the rich--I've found that
out; can be hard, and unjust, and merciless. Perhaps it was my Mary's
own fault. She went away a merry, chattering magpie, singing and
laughing, and chirruping like a cricket. She came back quiet and
melancholy, and she moves about as though she wanted to die. The only
women friends she has are Miss Hester and her mother; she's faithful
and loving to them, but often when they are gone I find her crying fit
to break her heart. Now, sir, as was natural, I tried to get out of
her the name of the man who has brought this ruin and shame upon us,
but never a word would she let slip, even to them who proved
themselves better friends to her than I was. Seeing she was so quiet
and shy, I looked out for letters; none came, and if she wrote any she
has kept it secret from me. Now, sir, with the new disgrace
threatening us that only a few days ago came, to my knowledge, I was
more determined than ever to find out the man who must do her justice.
I had never pried into the little box of clothes she brought home with
her, and that she kept always locked in her bedroom, but I thought
myself justified now in opening it unknown to her. It wasn't
difficult; it is a cheap, common box, and almost any key the size of
the lock would open it. I found no letters there, but a portrait, with
a name at the back in my girl's writing. I went to her straight, and
told her what I had done. 'Is this the man?' I asked her. She said,
'Yes,' in a whisper. 'Did he give it to you himself?' I asked. 'No,'
she answered, 'I took it without his knowing, and he doesn't know now
that I've got it.' That shows the wickedness and artfulness of the
villain--I beg your pardon, sir, for letting the right word slip."
"Why beg my pardon?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, coldly.
"Can't you guess what I'm coming to, sir?"
"Indeed, I cannot; and I may add that up to this point, although I
sympathize with you in your trouble, and wish it were in my power to
relieve you, I have not the remotest idea why you have inflicted your
story upon me."
"Is that true?"
"As this is the last time you will have the opportunity of speaking to
me, I forgive the impertinence. It is quite true."
"But you sympathize with me, you say?"
"I have said so. You are yourself aware that your unhappy story is one
which many poor fathers can relate; but that does not render it less
detestable. You seem to be mistaken in me, my friend. You present
yourself here to me, and plainly, although not in the exact words, you
say, 'I am a working-man, and therefore an honest man. You are a
gentleman, and therefore a scoundrel. I credit myself with virtue; I
credit you with vice. I am a worthy member of society; you are an
infamous one.'" And now Mr. Hollingworth spoke with real dignity: "You
are absolutely and fatally in error. The pernicious views you have in
effect expressed are, I am well aware, shared by many of your class.
They are erroneous views. Among the class I may be supposed to
represent are a number of very worthy and honest persons who are
really earnest in their desire and endeavors to set right what is
wrong in society. I believe myself to be one of these persons; I
believe my son to be another; and it is you and such as you who throw
obstacles in our way. There is something too much of this parade of
exceptional virtues on the part of such demagogues as yourself. Have I
made myself clear to you?"
"Quite clear, sir," replied Mr. Parkinson, frankly and respectfully.
He had listened with eager attention and interest to Mr. Hollingworth,
from whose speech he seemed to derive satisfaction. "And I am free to
admit that there is some truth in what you have said."
"Really!" exclaimed Mr. Hollingworth, letting his earnest mood slip
from him. "Perhaps you are as free to admit that even among the
humbler classes such wrongs are done as you have come here to descant
upon."
"I admit it, sir; but each wrong must be treated on its own special
ground. Had a poor man betrayed my child, I should have gone to him as
I now come to you."
"This is beyond endurance--"
"No, sir," interposed Mr. Parkinson, "do not summon your servants
until you hear what name is written on the back of the portrait I
found in my poor girl's box."
"Let me hear it, then, without any further beating about the bush."
"It is that of your son, Mr. Richard Hollingworth!"