Mr. Hollingworth fell back in his chair, shocked and horrified, and a
panorama of years of deceit crossed his mind. If what this man said
was true, he had undoubted justice on his side. If what this man said
was true, the son in whose honor and rectitude the father had
implicitly believed had lived a life of treachery, had secretly lived
the infamous life, and had successfully concealed the knowledge from
those who held him dear.
"When I read the name on the picture," said Mr. Parkinson, "it did not
enlighten me, and as my daughter, after her first admission,
obstinately refused to give me further particulars of her betrayer, I
should have remained in the dark but for one circumstance. I belong to
a working-man's club, the Wilberforce, which is in some sense a
political club, as all such clubs are more or less. For weeks before
my discovery of the portrait, I had not visited the club, having no
heart to mix in its affairs; but it happened that I strolled into the
club-room on the night the portrait fell into my hands. Political
matters are freely discussed there, and the effect of every fresh
election is commented upon. The evening papers contained the result of
the election which has made your son a member of Parliament, and then
it was that I saw his name in print. I took counsel with certain
friends upon whose judgment I can rely, and their advice was that I
should come direct to you. I have done so, and you will now know
whether I was justified in seeking this interview."
He paused, and it was only after a long silence that Mr. Hollingworth
said:
"Quite justified." Mr. Parkinson bent his head and waited. When Mr.
Hollingworth spoke again it was in a constrained voice. "I should have
preferred that your disclosure should have been made to me privately."
"I wished it, sir," interrupted Mr. Parkinson.
"Yes; I forgot. The fault was mine." He looked at Mr. Manners, but the
contractor's eyes were averted. Not by word or motion had he denoted
that he had been an interested listener to what had passed. "Nothing
can be decided in the absence of my son, and you must not suppose that
I shall condemn him unheard. What reparation can be made--" He could
not finish the sentence; his agitation was so great that he scarcely
knew what he was saying.
"You would not think of offering us money," said Mr. Parkinson, in a
tone of deep sternness.
"No, no, of course not. And yet--but I can say no more at present.
Have you the portrait with you?"
"Yes, I brought it, expecting you to ask to see it."
He handed it to Mr. Hollingworth, who, the moment he saw it, gave
utterance to a cry of joyful surprise. It was the cry of a man who had
been suddenly and unexpectedly released from unendurable torture.
"You are not mistaken?" he exclaimed. "This is the picture you found
in your daughter's box?"
"It is," replied Mr. Parkinson, gazing suspiciously at Mr.
Hollingworth. "Your son's name is written on the back."
"I see it, in your daughter's handwriting." Mr. Parkinson could not
understand the meaning of another strange expression in Mr.
Hollingworth's face as that gentleman raised his eyes from the picture
and partly turned to the contractor. "You are satisfied that this is
the portrait of the--the gentleman who has wronged your daughter?"
"She told me it was, and I am satisfied."
"You lift a weight from my heart. Mr. Parkinson, this is not the
portrait of my son, nor of any member of my family."
"I'll not take your word for it," cried Mr. Parkinson, taking, with
some roughness, the picture from Mr. Hollingworth. "Tell me, sir,
you," he said, addressing Mr. Manners, "whether he speaks the truth."
Before Mr. Hollingworth could prevent him he thrust the picture into
Mr. Manners's hand, who, gazing upon it, recognized the likeness of
his nephew, Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners and Mr. Hollingworth
exchanged meaning glances.
"My friend speaks truly," said Mr. Manners, "and you might have
believed him without appealing to me. This is not his son."
"What infamous plot is here?" cried Mr. Parkinson.
"None of our making, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth. "With all
my heart I sympathize with you."
"I want none of your sympathy," said Mr. Parkinson, "I want justice,
and I will have it. Whoever this man is, I will drag him into the
light." In his passion he turned from one to the other with furious
looks.
"You cannot blame the innocent," said Mr. Hollingworth, pointing to a
picture on the wall. "That is my son, Mr. Parkinson. You can trace no
resemblance between the portraits."
"No, they are not the same men. What is the meaning of this mystery?
It shall not remain a mystery long--I swear it!"
"Is there any reason why this interview should be prolonged?" said Mr.
Hollingworth. "If you doubt my word, and that of my friend, you can
set your doubt at rest by looking at the illustrated papers this week,
in which the portrait of my son, a newly elected member of Parliament,
will appear. It would be the height of folly on my part to attempt to
deceive you. I make this promise to you, Mr. Parkinson. If you prove
the portrait to be that of my son--who is as dear to me as your
daughter is to you--and if he has done your child wrong, he shall make
her the only reparation in the power of an honorable man."
"I hold you to your word, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "and if I have been
mistaken, I ask your pardon. There is, however, something more for me
to say. I am not blind; I have watched the faces of you gentlemen, and
I believe you know who this person is. I may be mistaken in this
belief, as I am in the other, according to you. Will you tell me if I
am right or wrong?"
Mr. Hollingworth made a deprecatory motion with his hand which the
injured father construed into a refusal. Mr. Manners was motionless.
"Very well, gentlemen," said Mr. Parkinson, with a gesture, half
despairing, half scornful, "I will take your silence for what it is
worth. But listen to me. There appears to be a double villainy in this
affair, and it shall be brought to light. In my daughter's belief, the
name of the man who betrayed her is Richard Hollingworth; and if your
son's name has been so used it has been used for a vile purpose, and
your honor is concerned as well as my own--if you will excuse a common
working-man for speaking of his honor."
"Nay, nay, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, gently, "surely you
will not do me a further injustice!"
"It is far from my wish, sir; but it is natural--perhaps you will
admit it--that words should escape me for which I ought not to be held
strictly accountable. Again I ask your pardon. You have met me fairly,
and I thank you for it. That is all, I think."
"Good-night, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth, holding out his
hand. "There are reasons why I should say nothing further at present.
I will make a point of calling upon you and your daughter, with my
son, if you will permit me. And if I can in any way befriend you--"
"You can in one way," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, "and in one way only;
by helping me unmask this villain and bringing him to justice. He
has ruined my daughter's life, and I will ruin his if it is in my
power--ay, I will, though it cost me the last drop of my blood.
Good-night, sir."
He turned to go, but stopped at the instance of Mr. Manners.
"One moment," said that gentleman; "your visit here is at an end, and
mine is nearly so. Would you have any objection to waiting for me
below for two or three minutes? I wish to speak privately with you."
"Will it serve any good purpose?" demanded Mr. Parkinson.
"It may," replied Mr. Manners. "There are other wrongs than yours."
"I don't dispute it. But I am concerned only in my own. Excuse me for
speaking roughly."
"I excuse you readily, and may perhaps have cause to be grateful to
you. Other persons whom you honor may also have cause to be grateful
that what you had to say to this gentleman was said in my presence.
Let this assurance content you, and give me the favor of your company
when you leave this house."
"I'll do so, sir. I seem to be struggling in a net. A little mystery
more or less won't matter much."
With a rough bow--in which there was some native grace of manner which
well became him in his grief and perplexity--he left the room. The two
gentlemen, being alone, waited each for the other to speak; but the
silence was soon broken.
"The man's tale is true," said Mr. Hollingworth; "of that there can be
no doubt. But I will not rashly commit myself to what may be an act of
injustice. It remains for your nephew, Mr. Inglefield, to clear
himself from the foul charge. If he cannot do so, he has played the
part of an infamous scoundrel in the use he has made of my son's name;
it is conduct which cannot be forgiven. Why, he might have ruined my
lad at the very outset of his public career! If you were in my place,
with an only son, upon whom all your hopes were set--for, although he
has a sister, a girl counts for very little--would you overlook an act
so base?"
"No," replied Mr. Manners. A sharp pang had passed through him at Mr.
Hollingworth's reference to an only son. He thought of Kingsley, with
his bright, ingenuous face, with his eager voice, and simple, loving
ways, with his clear ideas of duty and honor. Yes, even duty, which,
in the years that were gone, he had accused Kingsley of forgetting and
neglecting, crept into his mind side by side with honor. A rash act to
marry without a father's consent, against a father's wishes; but
Kingsley was ever rash and impulsive, but never in a dishonorable
direction--never! And the step being taken, he did not flinch from its
consequences. He had thrown in his hard fortune with the woman to whom
he had pledged his faith, and had not for one instant wavered in the
course he had believed it was right to follow. Would his nephew, Mark
Inglefield, have stood so unflinchingly firm; would he have withstood
temptation as Kingsley had done? Mentally he surveyed the two men, and
a sound like a groan escaped his lips.
"Have I pained you by my decision V asked Mr. Hollingworth, in a
solicitous tone.
"No; it is just. My thoughts were upon another matter."
The sadness of his voice impressed Mr. Hollingworth, and he remembered
that Mr. Manners had an only son, whom he had cast off for
disobedience. This remembrance came to him now with strange
significance. Mr. Parkinson had mentioned the name of Mrs. Manners,
and had described her as an angel of goodness. Was it possible that
some close relation existed between these two who bore the same name?
"You had a son," he ventured to say.
"Yes, I had a son," said Mr. Manners, "who disappointed and disobeyed
me."
"Children have no appreciation of the sacrifices parents make for
them. I am sorry for you. I should not have spoken of him but for a
reference made by the man who has just left us.
"Yes; he spoke of a Mrs. Manners. The name is not a common one, and it
may be--" He broke off here. "Mr. Hollingworth, it is not correct for
me to say that my son disobeyed me, and you must not suppose that he
was guilty of a dishonorable action. He was incapable of it."
"Is he living still?" asked Mr. Hollingworth, laying his hand
sympathizingly on his guest's shoulder.
"I do not know. I have heard nothing of him for years. We will not
pursue the subject; it is too painful, and I am waited for below. With
respect to Mr. Inglefield, your best course will be to see or write to
him. There need be no disguise. I myself shall speak to him, and shall
mention names plainly."
"I will write to him to-night; he must know at once that his visits
here are at an end, unless he has been maligned."
Mr. Manners found Mr. Parkinson waiting for him in the street.
"I could not stop in the house," he said, "there is something about it
that suffocates me."
"I intended to ask you to walk with me to mine," said Mr. Manners.
"I will walk with you, but I refuse to enter it," rejoined Mr.
Parkinson, roughly. "You are, of course, a rich man."
"Yes, I am rich."
"I am poor, and I will keep my place. It would be better for all of us
if every man did the same. We can talk in the streets. It will serve
some good purpose, you said. I ask nothing for myself, mind, nothing
but justice."
"In the sad story you have told," said Mr. Manners, "you spoke of a
woman who was kind to your daughter."
"I did, and what I said of her is true. She is an angel of goodness,
and she saved my daughter, body and soul. See here, sir. I am not a
church-going man, and I hate sanctimonious people, but I am not a
heathen either. There's some kind of a power that made the world and
sent us into it for some purpose. I often wonder what, when I think of
things. And there's a hereafter, and I'm glad to know it. I'll tell
you why I'm glad. Because, if that scoundrel who ruined my daughter
escapes his punishment here--and I'll do my best that he sha'n't--but
if he _does_ escape it here, he'll meet it there! That's a
satisfaction to me, and the thought of it will make me religious. I'll
go to church next Sunday."
"My object in speaking to you now," said Mr. Manners, "is to obtain
information of Mrs. Manners. I gathered from what you said that she is
poor."
"Very poor," said Mr. Parkinson, "and that stands to her credit here,
and 'll stand to her credit in the next world--if there's any justice
there."
"In what way does it stand to her credit?"
Mr. Parkinson stopped suddenly to look at Mr. Manners's face, upon
which the light of a street lamp was shining.
"You are asking close questions," he said, "and I'm getting suspicious
of people."
"You are suspicious of me?"
"Put it as you like. You don't know me, and never heard of me before
to-night, and I don't suppose you care a brass farthing whether you
ever hear of me again. I never saw you before to-night, and I don't
know your name even; so you have the advantage of me. You're in the
light, you see, and I'm in the dark, and here we are talking together
confidentially, with the difference that you know what you're talking
about, and I don't. Stop a bit. I see you want to speak; but I must
work off my reel first. I don't care for interruptions. You've heard
me tell my story; you've got in your mind my name, and my girl's name
and shame, likewise the name of the man I'd take by the throat if he
stood before me now and I knew it. Likewise the name of the angel
woman who saved her, and who'd stand by her--I'll take my oath on
it--if all the rest of the world was hounding her and throwing mud at
her. Likely as not you're a friend of the scoundrel that's brought
this upon us. I saw something in your face that makes me sure now he's
not a stranger to you. He was a gentleman, so-called; you're another.
I've only got your word for it that the talk you're having with me is
for a good purpose. It may be for a bad one. I've no call to trust you
that I can see. Give me a reason."
"I find no fault with you for your suspicion of me. My name is
Manners."
"Oh! And is the woman I'd die to serve a connection of yours?"
"She may be. It is to ascertain whether she is that I am questioning
you now."
"For a good purpose, you said?"
"What I said I mean."
"Let me have another look at you."
Again they stopped, and again Mr. Parkinson's eyes fixed themselves on
Mr. Manners's face. He was to some extent apparently satisfied.
"Go ahead," he said.
"You said," resumed Mr. Manners, steadily, "that her being poor, very
poor, stands to her credit here, and will stand to her credit in
another world, and I asked in what way."
"All right. You've got a clear head on you. In this way. She's
got nothing to gain by it. What she does is done out of pure
goodness--not only what she's done for me and my girl, but what she does
for every one who's in trouble. There isn't a face that don't light up
when she comes by; there isn't a lodging, the commonest you can think
of, that isn't brightened when she opens the door. If she was to die
to-morrow--the good Lord forbid that she should! but I'm putting it
that way to make it plain to you--if she was to die to-morrow, there'd
be hundreds of us, men, women, and children, who'd follow her to the
grave, and know that they'd lost a friend that could never be
replaced. There would be no money to pay for a stone, but she'd have
one in our hearts. God Almighty bless her and hers!"