Mark Inglefield's assumption of virtuous indignation would have been
supplanted by a feeling of veritable consternation had he been aware
of what was passing through the mind of his patron. Mr. Manners owed
it to himself, and was fully determined, to lay bare the naked truth
of Mr. Parkinson's story; but, true or false, it was of small
importance to him, in comparison with the feelings which had been
aroused within him by the description which Mr. Parkinson had given of
Kingsley and Nansie. He had promised to make Mark Inglefield his heir,
and if this man succeeded in freeing himself from the charge which had
been laid against him, the promise should be fulfilled. But he had not
pledged himself to leave Inglefield the whole of his property. There
was enough and to spare for ample provision for the son he had
discarded, and to whom now, at the eleventh hour, his heart was
turning. He had never entertained any strong affection for Inglefield.
In the early days of their association he had endeavored to acquire a
feeling of sentiment towards his nephew, in order that the alienation
between himself and Kingsley should be complete and irrevocable; but
Inglefield was not gifted with the qualities to win such an affection.
Failing in this, he and Mr. Manners travelled together more as
ordinary acquaintances than warm friends; and as time wore on the
opportunity of drawing them closer together was lost.
"We will first," said Mr. Manners, "dispose, as far as we can, of the
wrongs of which Mr. Parkinson complains. I say as far as we can,
because I wish you to distinctly understand that I intend myself to
investigate the matter."
"I understand so, sir," said Mark Inglefield, inwardly cursing Mr.
Manners for his obstinacy.
"You should be glad that I have resolved upon this course. Declaring
yourself innocent, as you do, the result should more completely
exonerate you. In which case Mr. Hollingworth will doubtless adhere to
the alliance which I went to his house to-night to complete."
"Otherwise he will not?"
"Otherwise he will not," said Mr. Manners. "Do you wish to hear the
words he uttered with respect to you?"
"It will be best," said Mark Inglefield.
"Mr. Parkinson's story being told, he left the house, and Mr.
Hollingworth and I remained in conference for a few minutes. It was
then that Mr. Hollingworth said: 'It remains for your nephew, Mr.
Inglefield, to clear himself from this foul charge. If he cannot do
so, he has played the part of an infamous scoundrel.' Strong words,
Inglefield."
"Yes, sir," said Mark Inglefield, "and that they should be used
towards me fills me with indignation and amazement."
"Innocent, your feelings are justifiable, and you will find Mr.
Hollingworth ready to make amends. In what he said I fully concurred.
I will explain as briefly as possible the matter of which Mr.
Parkinson complains. He is a working-man, living in the east of
London. He has one child, a young woman named Mary." Mr. Manners
paused; Mark Inglefield never winced. "This daughter, it appears,"
continued Mr. Manners, "has fallen a victim to the designs of a
scoundrel. She fled from her home at this scoundrel's instigation,
who, wearying of her, deserted her and left her, ruined and penniless,
to die or pursue her life of shame."
"It is not at all an unusual story," said Mark Inglefield, apparently
listening to the narrative with great interest, "but I fail to see its
relation with me."
"Had it not been," continued Mr. Manners, "for the kindness of a lady
who, according to Mr. Parkinson, is universally beloved for her
goodness of heart, the unhappy girl, driven to despair, would probably
have committed suicide; but this lady--"
"Lady, sir?" interrupted Mark Inglefield, noting with curiosity a
certain emphasis of tenderness which, unconsciously to himself, Mr.
Manners put upon the word.
"I said a lady, although she is as poor as those among whom she
lived."
"Ah," sneered Mark Inglefield, "a piece of working-man's clap-trap,
introduced for the purpose of imposing upon your benevolence."
"I am not noted for benevolence," said Mr. Manners, dryly; "it would
not have been to my discredit had I been more charitable in my
career."
Mark Inglefield stared at his patron. This was a new phase in the rich
man's character, and, with his altered demeanor, for which Inglefield
could discover no explicable reason, boded changes. Still he did not
lose his self-possession.
"Of every twenty who beg of you," he said, "nineteen are rank
impostors."
"Possibly; but that does not affect our present business. The lady I
refer to stepped in at a critical moment, nursed the poor girl and
brought her to reason, and finally succeeded in reconciling her father
with her, who received her again in his home."
"Ah!" thought Mark Inglefield, "Mary is at home, then. I shall know
where to find her." Aloud he said, "Why do you pause, sir?"
"I supposed you were about to speak," replied Mr. Manners.
"No. I was only thinking that this Mr. Parkinson was not a bad sort of
fellow."
"Because of his reconcilement with his only child," asked Mr. Manners,
"who not only offended but disgraced him!"
"Yes, because of that," said Mark Inglefield.
"It speaks well for him?"
"Yes." Almost upon the utterance of the word there came to Mark
Inglefield the recollection of the estrangement between Mr. Manners
and his only child; and now there occurred to him that behind this
story of Mary Parkinson there lay something which might be of almost
equal consequence to his prospects. All the cunning forces of his
nature took array within him, and stood on the alert for the
protection of their wily master. The affair was beginning to assume a
more serious aspect. Well, he was prepared to battle with it.
"I am pleased to hear your opinion, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners; "it
coincides with mine." ("I was right," thought Inglefield.) "The
daughter, however," pursued Mr. Manners, "again in her home, was most
unhappy, from a cause which her father had not suspected. He set a
watch upon her, to discover the cause of her unhappiness, and soon
found that he was threatened by another disgrace. Maddened by this
discovery, he questioned his daughter, and pressed her to give him the
name of her betrayer. She refused." ("Good girl!" thought Mark
Inglefield; "stanch girl! I am safe.") "Mr. Parkinson was not the kind
of man, with this additional disgrace hanging over him, to rest
contented with the refusal, and he adopted the extreme measure of
breaking open his daughter's box, in which he found the portrait of a
man, a stranger to him. On the back of this portrait a name was
written." (Mark Inglefield smiled placidly. "I never gave her a
portrait of myself," he thought, "though she begged often for one. Nor
has she a scrap of my writing to bring against me. You were ever
prudent, Mark. You will get over this difficulty, have no fear.") Mr.
Manners had observed the placid smile, but he made no comment on it.
"It happened that the name written on the back of the picture has just
been brought into prominence, and with this double clew in his
possession, Mr. Parkinson sought, and after some difficulty obtained,
an interview with Mr. Hollingworth, in which he told the story I have
narrated to you. Are you curious to learn the reason of his desire to
speak with Mr. Hollingworth?"
"It would be strange," said Mark Inglefield, "if I were not interested
in anything concerning a family with which I hope to be soon connected
by marriage."
"Mr. Parkinson accused Mr. Hollingworth's son, Richard, who has just
won his election, of being Mary Parkinson's betrayer. Shocked at the
charge, Mr. Hollingworth demanded some better proof than Mr.
Parkinson's bare word, and the wronged father produced it. He handed
the portrait he had found in his daughter's box to Mr. Hollingworth,
and stated how it had come into his possession. The name written on
the back of the photograph was Richard Hollingworth."
"In whose writing?" asked Mark Inglefield.
"In Mary Parkinson's. But the portrait was not that of Richard
Hollingworth."
"Whose then, sir?"
"Yours."
Mark Inglefield started, and could have lashed himself for this
exhibition of surprise.
"Surely," he said, "upon such evidence you do not accuse me?"
"I accuse no one. I must not forget to inform you that when Mr.
Parkinson found the portrait he forced from his daughter the
confession that it was that of her betrayer, who had the audacity and
the infamy to present himself to her under the guise of a friend. Mr.
Richard Hollingworth was your friend. Inglefield, I have purposely
used these two strong words 'infamy' and 'audacity.' Do you agree with
me that such conduct on the part of any man was audacious and
infamous?"
"I agree with you entirely," replied Mark Inglefield, who, although he
felt as if he were being caught in a trap, still spoke in a calm
voice, and was busily casting about for ways and means to get out of
it. "But I repeat, you would surely not accuse--nay, not only accuse,
but convict me upon such evidence?"
"I have already told you that I accuse no one; still less would I
convict without absolute proof. Very little more remains to be told of
this shameful story. Mr. Hollingworth, upon seeing the portrait,
indignantly defended his son, whose prospects of a public, honorable
career would have been blasted had he been dragged into the courts,
charged with a crime so vile, and he made the promise to Mr. Parkinson
that if it should be proved that Richard Hollingworth was the
betrayer, the young gentleman should make the girl the only reparation
in the power of an honorable man."
"Marry her?"
"That was his undoubted meaning."
"It was a convenient promise," said Mark Inglefield, with easy
assurance. "Had the portrait been that of his son he would not have
made it. Mr. Hollingworth is a man of the world."
"There is no need for us to discuss that point. Your remark does you
no credit, Inglefield."
"It was founded, sir," said Mark Inglefield, in a tone of respectful
deference, "upon a knowledge of Mr. Hollingworth's character."
"Mr. Hollingworth would not thank you for that."
"Possibly not. Still I speak as a man of the world, as you know me to
be, and as you are yourself. A man's experience must count in such
matters. Is your story ended, sir?"
"Very nearly. When I left Mr. Hollingworth he expressed the intention
of writing to you to-night, to the effect that your visits to his
house must cease until you have cleared yourself. You will receive his
letter in the morning. Mr. Parkinson also said something with which
you should be made acquainted. He said you had ruined his daughter's
life, and he made the solemn declaration that he would ruin yours if
it cost him the last drop of his blood."
"He knows my name, then?"
"He does not. Neither Mr. Hollingworth nor I enlightened him."
"That was only fair to me, sir. My good reputation is as dear to me as
any man's. All the time you have known me there has been nothing
dishonorable laid to my charge."
"I know of nothing, Inglefield; but then our courses have lain
somewhat apart. There should certainly, in our relations, have been a
closer confidence. However, all that is past, and it is not given to
us to recall our actions. Now that we are speaking together, openly
and frankly, there must be no reservations. I have plainly indicated
to you the course I have resolved upon with respect to the story of
Mary Parkinson. I have pledged myself to assist him in obtaining
justice, and you know that I shall keep my word. Let me tell you that
there appears to be something strange in your attitude on this
question."
"What do you expect of me? I can afford to treat with quiet scorn the
accusation which you seem to favor against me."
"You are still on the wrong tack--a surprise to me in a man of so much
intelligence. I expected from you something more than general
statements."
"If you would put direct questions to me," said Mark Inglefield, who
all this time was in serious mental debate with himself, "I should
cease from unconsciously offending you. I owe you much, sir, and all
my future prospects depend upon you. Recognizing and acknowledging
this, it would be the height of folly in me to disappoint you in any
way; but, I repeat, I am in the dark as to what you expect from me."
"You would prefer that I should ask straight questions?"
"It is my wish."
"I will do so. You are now acquainted with the disgraceful story which
has caused both Mr. Hollingworth and myself to assume an attitude
towards you for which we shall fully atone if we are satisfied there
are no grounds for it. You do not know any person, male or female,
bearing the name of Parkinson?"
"I do not."
"Do you deny that you are, directly or indirectly, connected with the
wrong of which Mr. Parkinson complains?"
"I deny it emphatically." Mark Inglefield said it boldly, and met Mr.
Manners's gaze unflinchingly.
"That is plain speaking," said Mr. Manners. "You must pardon me if I
widen the matter a little. It is far from my wish to pry into your
private concerns, but to some extent they affect me."
"You have every right to inquire into them," said Mark Inglefield; and
now that he was launched on a full tide of deceit and treachery,
determined to override every obstacle and to overcome every danger,
there was nothing in his voice or manner to which the most suspicious
person could take exception. "Every action in my life is open for your
inspection."
"The man who has wronged Mr. Parkinson's daughter presented himself to
her under a false name. She may have done the same to him."
"I understand what you mean, sir," said Mark Inglefield, not giving
Mr. Manners time to finish, "and I declare, upon my honor as a
gentleman, that there lives not a woman in the world who can complain
of wrong at my hands. Is that sufficiently comprehensive, sir?"
"So far as Mary Parkinson is concerned," replied Mr. Manners, "it
covers the whole ground, although it does not clear up the mystery."
"What is it that remains to be cleared? Is not my word of honor as a
gentleman of more weight than the false statements of a shallow,
ignorant woman?"
"You are speaking with unnecessary heat," said Mr. Manners, calmly.
"In a few hours, by a very simple process, the matter can be settled.
To-morrow morning you will accompany me to Mr. Parkinson's home--I
have the address--and there, face to face with him and his daughter,
you will be able in a moment to convince them how you have been
maligned."
"Surely, sir," remonstrated Mark Inglefield, to whom this proposal
brought a feeling of consternation, "you do not really mean to drag
both yourself and me personally into this disgraceful affair?"
"What can you find to object to in it?" asked Mr. Manners. "I have
pledged myself to sift the matter to the bottom, and I am not the man
to depart from my word. The course I propose is an honorable course,
and the result must be your complete vindication. At the present
moment you are under suspicion; you cannot wish to remain so. Of
course, Inglefield, I cannot compel you to accompany me. If you
refuse--"
Mr. Manners paused, but the uncompleted sentence was sufficiently
comprehensive. Thus driven, there was no alternative before Mark
Inglefield than to cry, with great warmth,
"I do not refuse."
"You will accompany me?"
"Yes, sir, willingly, as you attach so much importance to it."
"I attach the most serious importance to it. We will start at eleven
o'clock in the morning, and will go by train. To drive there would
attract notice, which it is my desire, for more reasons than one, to
avoid. It is agreed, then?"
"Yes, sir, it is agreed."
"There is an aspect of this unfortunate affair," said Mr. Manners,
"which seems not to have occurred to you."
"What is it, sir?" asked Mr. Inglefield, whose inward perturbation was
not lessened by the continuance of the conversation.
"Think, Inglefield. I would prefer that it should come from you
instead of from me."
"I can think of nothing," said Mark Inglefield, speaking now with
sincere ingenuousness. "So far as I can see, we have threshed it
completely out."
"Take a moment or two to consider. I am really anxious that it should
occur to you."
Mark Inglefield pondered, but so entirely engrossed was he by
the main issue--which now, indeed, he recognized was vital to his
prospects--that there was no room in his mind for small side issues.
He found himself incapable of wresting his thoughts from the one grand
point--how was he to avoid this personal meeting with Mary Parkinson
in the presence of her father and Mr. Manners?
"I can think of nothing," he said, presently.
"Then I must remind you," said Mr. Manners, coldly, "that Mary
Parkinson has your portrait in her possession."
"True, sir, true," exclaimed Mark Inglefield. "How could it have
escaped me? And, now that you have reminded me, I believe you said
that the girl herself unblushingly proclaimed that the portrait was
that of her betrayer." He said this glibly; a plan was forming in his
mind by which he could avert the threatened danger.
"She proclaimed it," responded Mr. Manners, "so Mr. Parkinson informed
me, but I do not think I said she proclaimed it unblushingly; I had no
warranty for saying so."
"The expression is mine, and fits the case; she has trumped up the
story, very likely at the instigation of her accomplice."
"If that is so he proves himself a clumsy scoundrel. Your statements
established, Inglefield, you must bring this man to justice. It is a
conspiracy to ruin you, therefore a criminal offence."
"You may depend," said Mark Inglefield, vivaciously--his plan was
formed, and he was confident of success--"that I shall not allow this
scoundrel to escape me."
"We will dismiss the matter for to-night," said Mr. Manners; "be sure
that you are ready at eleven in the morning. And now I wish to speak
to you upon another matter."
"Very well, sir," said Inglefield, and thought: "What is the old fool
going to bring forward now?"