Mr. Manners had not far to go before he reached his house, but he
lingered somewhat on the road, wrapped in thought. Had what was
passing within him been revealed to any person long familiar with him,
it would have inspired feelings of wonder and surprise. In truth, a
great change was taking place in this man's nature; he was no longer
stern, self-willed, and arrogant; he was conscious of a certain
humbleness of spirit, and he yielded to its influence. His thoughts
were chiefly upon Kingsley and Nansie; what he had heard concerning
them had touched him nearly; it had, as it were, opened a window in
his soul which had been darkened all his life. But now and again his
thoughts wandered to Mark Inglefield, and he dwelt upon the contrast
between this man and his son. Kingsley so impetuous, open-minded, and
frank, Inglefield so cool, methodical, and wary; the one wearing his
heart upon his sleeve, the other keeping strict watch upon it, so that
he might not be tempted to follow its impulses to his own
disadvantage. The links which united Mr. Manners and Mark Inglefield
were strong ones, and had been forged by Mr. Manners himself. When he
discarded his son, and made up his mind to leave England, perhaps
forever, he had made certain propositions to Mark Inglefield which had
been eagerly accepted. Inglefield was to be his companion, his second
son, and was to devote himself entirely to his patron, to be as it
were at his beck and call, and subservient and obedient in all things.
That the companionship had been productive of little pleasure was
perhaps as much the fault of one as of the other. Disappointed in his
dearest wishes, Mr. Manners's principal desire was to be left to
himself, and Mark Inglefield humored him; careful ever to be ready
when called upon to perform some duty, never contradicting his patron,
never arguing with him; a willing, submissive slave, waiting for his
reward in the future. This reward had been promised him; he was to be
Mr. Manners's heir. The prospect was a glowing one, and he revelled in
it, although there were occasions when a great wave of discontent
swept over him. He was not a young man; how long would he have to
wait? Mr. Manners was his senior by twenty-five years, but his health
was perfect. It was his boast that he had never had a day's illness in
his life, and his habits were such that there seemed little
probability of his breaking down before he was a very old man.
Luxuriousness of living had no temptations for him; plain fare
sufficed for his needs. Mark Inglefield, on the contrary, was fond of
rich food and rich wines, and he indulged in them; his tastes (in
which may be included his vices) were the very reverse of Mr.
Manners's, and if he chafed under the restraint in which he was held
he was careful not to betray himself to his patron. He took his
pleasures in secret, and was not sparing of them; and it was a proof
that he was an able and astute man, cunning in device and richly
capable in deceit, that not a whisper of those doings which would have
been reckoned to his disadvantage had ever reached Mr. Manners's ear.
"Is Mr. Inglefield in his room?" asked Mr. Manners of the servant who
opened the door.
"No, sir," was the reply.
Mr. Manners passed up to his own, in which the gas was lighted, and
paced it slowly in deep thought, with his hands clasped behind him.
The house was the same he had built during the time he was resolving
upon Kingsley's future and the position he was to occupy in the world.
He remembered that then he had in view a lady whom Kingsley was to
wed, and through whom he was to obtain immediate entry and recognition
into the highest circles of society. All the years that Mr. Manners
had been abroad the magnificent house had been left in the charge of
care-takers, the owner not caring to let or part with it. There was
another motive. Despite the apparent irrevocableness of the break
between him and Kingsley, there lurked in Mr. Manners's mind the
latent hope that something--he knew not what, and had not the courage
to mentally inquire--might occur which might bring them together
again. He would do nothing to bring this about, but the possibility
existed, and, for a while, was dimly recognized. Gradually it faded
into mere nothingness and was lost sight of, but by that time Mr.
Manners had become too indifferent to the making of money to turn his
investment to account.
He had left this house with his wife and Mark Inglefield. He returned
with Mark Inglefield, having buried his wife in a foreign country.
Between her and him no mention had been made of their son from the day
of the renouncement. On that day he had said to his wife, "I will not
allow his name to be uttered in my presence." He was her master as
well as her husband, and she had grown to fear him. Whether in the
depths of her heart she had preserved some touch of that most sacred
of human attributes, a mother's love for her only child, was never
known to Mr. Manners. She obeyed him implicitly in this as in all
other matters, and even on her deathbed Kingsley's name did not pass
her lips. But now, in the solitude of his room, Mr. Manners recalled
those last minutes on earth of the woman he had sworn to cherish, and
it came to his gentler self to place a new meaning on the wistful look
in her eyes as she turned them upon him for the last time. "She was
thinking of Kingsley." He did not speak the words, but they could not
have been plainer to his sense had he uttered them aloud.
He went up to his wife's room, the room in which he had deposited all
the mementoes of her silent life which he had brought home with him.
Her jewels were there, her desk, and an old trunk which from sentiment
she had preserved from the days of her maidenhood. In her desk he
found a bunch of keys, and one of these fitted the trunk, which now
lay open before him. He had never before looked into this trunk, and
he could not have told what he expected to find there; but what he saw
now stood witness against him. From the grave in a foreign land came
the accusation.
Nothing of his dead wife's was in the trunk, nothing that she had worn
or that he had given her. Everything it contained had belonged to
Kingsley. Portraits, school-books, articles of dress, and many items
insignificant and worthless in themselves, but deeply precious in
their spiritual significance. Here was the mother's heart portrayed,
here the record of her inner life and sufferings, to which she had
never given utterance. All the more potent now in their silent
testimony. The proud man read in these trifles his condemnation. With
a little quivering of his mouth, which he made no effort to control,
he closed the trunk and locked it, and left the room, treading softly.
In the passage he lingered a few moments, wrestling with an inward
urging to visit the room which Kingsley used to occupy, and which was
situated on the floor above. With something of his old masterfulness
he wheeled suddenly round, and returned to his own apartment. There,
however, the desire manifested itself more strongly, and yielding to
it he soon found himself in Kingsley's room, which he had not visited
since the day on which he had conducted Nansie thither, with the
endeavor to impress upon her the great sacrifice which she would force
Kingsley to make if she did not herself take steps to separate from
him. Here, again, Mr. Manners was confronted with accusing testimony,
for, from surrounding evidence, he saw that his wife had been in the
habit of sitting in this room, and frequently occupying it after their
son's departure. These signs of suppressed suffering, of anguish borne
in silence, could not fail to impress him; nor could he fail to be
impressed by the once familiar objects in which Kingsley took pride.
The books, the bed, the articles of taste and value, the pipes, even
some bits of jewelry--it seemed as if nothing had been removed or
disturbed. Mr. Manners was both surprised and touched; these things
were Kingsley's own, and he might have taken them and converted them
into money, which the father knew had been sadly needed. "Kingsley was
never mercenary," thought Mr. Manners, with a pitiful smile of mingled
pride and humiliation. "The soul of honor and generosity!"
He returned again to his room, and had not been in it a minute before
he heard the sound of a step on the stairs. He threw open the door,
and Mark Inglefield appeared.
"I hardly knew whether you would be home so early," said the expectant
heir. "Did you leave Mr. Hollingworth well?"
The object of Mr. Manners's visit to that gentleman was, of course,
known to Mark Inglefield, who looked upon this day as the red-letter
day of his life. In the event of Mr. Manners arranging the marriage
between him and Mr. Hollingworth's daughter, all anxiety for the
future was at an end. Mr. Manners had promised to make at once a
settlement upon him which would place him above all the chances and
caprices of fickle fortune. For some time past he had found the ties
which bound him to his patron irksome and disagreeable; he was hardly
his own master; and to all the hints he had thrown out that he might
fairly claim to be placed in a more independent position, Mr. Manners
had replied:
"Wait till you are settled."
It was, indeed, this consideration that had impelled him to urge on
the marriage. He had as little true love for Miss Hollingworth as the
young lady had for him. She plays no part in this story, but it is
necessary to say that she was a thoroughly worldly young person, with
a full appreciation of the worldly advantage of marrying the heir of a
millionaire. In their matrimonial views, therefore, she and Mark
Inglefield were on an equality; the marriage into which they were
willing to enter was a marriage of convenience, and they were content
to leave the preliminaries in the hands of their elders.
Mark Inglefield put on an air of anxiety as he asked Mr. Manners if he
had left Mr. Hollingworth well. He knew the exact value of his part in
the projected alliance, but he had represented to Mr. Manners that his
heart was deeply engaged, and he labored under the belief that he had
succeeded in throwing dust into his patron's eyes. Mark Inglefield had
a remarkable opinion of his own capacity and capabilities, and, during
his long relations with Mr. Manners, had grown extremely confident of
himself and his powers, and somewhat scornful of Mr. Manners's force
of character. The reason for this was that the two men never came into
collision; their opinions never clashed. This might have occurred in
the early years of their association had not Mark Inglefield tutored
himself into complete subservience to a will which he had reason to
know was imperious; but as time wore on Mr. Manners's interest in the
affairs of life grew weaker, and Mark Inglefield made the mistake of
attributing this indifference to failing mental power. Hence the
growing scorn of his patron's character, which, once respected and
feared, he now held in small esteem.
"Mr. Hollingworth is well in health," said Mr. Manners. Mark
Inglefield detected nothing significant in the tone, and was not in
the least disturbed.
"I hope the interview was satisfactory," he said.
"Not entirely," replied Mr. Manners.
This did produce some slight discomfiture in the younger man.
"I thought," he remarked, "that everything was understood, and that it
was a mere matter of arrangement of practical details."
"I thought so, too," said Mr. Manners. "Something else, however, has
cropped up, which needs explanation."
"From me?" inquired Mr. Inglefield.
"From you," said Mr. Manners.
All Mark Inglefield's astuteness came instantly into play; no wariness
was expressed in his face, for the reason that he had complete control
over himself, and, on his mettle, was seldom, if ever, to be taken at
a disadvantage.
"I am ready to give any explanation that may be required," he said, in
a tone of modest assurance. "Perhaps it was hardly to be expected that
an affair of such importance could be settled without some trifling
hitch."
It was in his mind to say that the required explanation was nothing
that affected his character, but he was prudent enough to arrest the
words. No one knew better than himself that this was dangerous ground
to approach. If anything was to be said upon the point, it must not
come from him.
"I was not prepared for any hitch," said Mr. Manners. "When I visited
Mr. Hollingworth this evening, I believed that everything would be
arranged as you wished."
"And as you also wished," said Mark Inglefield, quickly.
"Yes; although my interest in the negotiation was naturally less than
yours. Do not stand, Inglefield; what we have to say to each other
will occupy a few minutes."
Mark Inglefield, with inward anxiety and a cheerful exterior, drew a
chair to the table and sat down.
"Do you love the young lady?" inquired Mr. Manners.
"If I did not," replied Mark Inglefield, wondering at the strangeness
of the question, "should I desire to marry her?"
"That is scarcely an answer," observed Mr. Manners.
And now Mark Inglefield suspected that a battle was impending, and
that something serious was coming.
"Certainly I love her," he said. "Is there any doubt of it, and is
that the difficulty?"
"That is not the difficulty, but it strikes me now as singular that
love was never mentioned in the course of the interview."
For the life of him Mark Inglefield could not help remarking:
"I was not aware that you were given to sentiment."
"Nor am I," retorted Mr. Manners. "I have been all my life a practical
man, until lately, when life seems to have been valueless to me."
"I am sorry to hear you say that," said Mark Inglefield, with
well-simulated sympathy.
"The sentimental view of a question," continued Mr. Manners, "is a
view I have always ignored. I set my own course, and, rightly or
wrongly, have followed it. Whether it has brought me happiness or not
affects myself only."
"Pardon me for venturing to differ from you," said Mark Inglefield,
thinking he saw what might be turned to his advantage; "what you
decide upon may affect others as well as yourself."
"I am corrected; it may, and has."
Mark Inglefield inwardly congratulated himself. Not a suspicion
crossed his mind that he and Mr. Manners, in this contention, were
mentally travelling different roads. He was thinking only of his own
interests; Mr. Manners was thinking of Kingsley.
"May I ask," said Mark Inglefield, "whether Miss Hollingworth was
present during your interview with her father?"
"She was present at no part of it," replied Mr. Manners.
"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."