The turn which this conversation had taken and the unexpected nature
of the disclosures which Mr. Manners had made were, indeed, surprises
for which Mark Inglefield could not possibly have been prepared. He
had entered the house in a condition of mind which may be designated
beatific. All his plans had prospered, and he had expected to hear
from Mr. Manners a thoroughly satisfactory account of the interview
between his patron and Mr. Hollingworth. The celebration of the
contemplated union with Miss Hollingworth would have been the crowning
triumph of all his scheming. From the day when he first instilled into
Mr. Manners's ears the poisoned insinuations which were to effect the
separation of father and son, success had attended him. Wary, cunning,
and most painstaking in the early years of his association with Mr.
Manners, he believed that he had so firmly established his position
that there was no possibility of his being shaken from it. Gradually
he had allowed himself to be lulled into a state of perfect
security--to such an extent, indeed, that he no longer took pains to
make himself more than ordinarily agreeable to the man upon whose word
his future prospects depended. But now, in this startling manner, and
at this unexpected time, the storm he had not foreseen burst upon him.
He did not pause to consider that the Nemesis which threatened him
was the outcome of his own evil, and that it sometimes happens that
wrong-doers themselves forge bolts which destroy them. The idea of
anything like justice or Providence did not occur to him. He was
angry, but his conscience was not disturbed. His inherent and perfect
selfishness led him straight to one incontrovertible view of the
difficulty in which he found himself. He had enemies who, nettled and
wroth at his approaching triumph, had suddenly banded themselves
together for the purpose of trampling him in the dust. It was,
therefore, a battle to the death between him and them, and,
recognizing that this was the supreme moment in his career, he
determined to stop at nothing which would avert defeat. In the heart
of this determination there lurked a ruthlessness of spirit which
would lead him to any extreme of crime and duplicity. For the unhappy
girl whom he had brought to shame and ruin he felt not one spark of
compassion; his own safety was his only consideration. As for Kingsley
and Nansie, if a wish of his could have destroyed them it would have
been breathed without compunction.
Between Mr. Manners's last words and his response there was not a
moment's pause. Swift as lightning's flash his resolution was formed.
"I scarcely know, sir," he said, "how to convince you that I have no
other desire than to satisfy you. I can only repeat what I have
endeavored already to make clear, that you shall have plain and honest
answers to everything you ask of me. But for all that, you must make
some allowance for my natural feelings of surprise and indignation,
that, after all these years, I find my integrity and honor doubted,
and matters suddenly and strangely revived which I thought were
settled long ago."
"I will make every reasonable allowance," said Mr. Manners. "At
present, so far as you are concerned, I am animated by no other spirit
than that of being strictly just towards you--even though finding that
through some mischance I have drifted into error, I shall be compelled
to deprive him who is nearest to my blood of the chief portion of his
patrimony. I am ready to take upon myself the whole of the blame; but
I must be satisfied that I have not been wilfully deceived."
"Deceived by whom, sir? By me?"
"By you," replied Mr. Manners, calmly. "You were the first to impart
to me information concerning the lady my son Kingsley married. Your
reports aggravated the feelings I entertained towards her because of
the disappointment I experienced by my son marrying without my consent
and approval. No other person spoke to me of her but yourself, nor did
I seek information elsewhere. You cannot fail to remember the nature
of the charges you brought against her."
"That is asking me a great deal," said Inglefield. "Do you expect me
to remember faithfully every trifling detail of circumstances which I
have not thought of for a long number of years?"
"I do not," said Mr. Manners, observing with displeasure that Mark
Inglefield continued to fence with the most important issues of the
conversation; "but the principal of them cannot have escaped your
memory."
"Being, as it seems to me, upon my trial--" said Inglefield, and
paused, for the purpose of ascertaining whether this statement was in
consonance with Mr. Manners's intention.
Mr. Manners nodded, and said:
"Yes, Inglefield. You may consider that to some extent you are upon
your trial."
"That being the case, sir, it strikes me that you have already formed
a judgment, without hearing what I may have to say."
"I should be sorry to think so. Tell me in what way you suppose I have
done this."
"You speak of the person your son married as a lady."
"Well?"
"That is not how I should describe her."
"Your remark tallies with what you said against her many years ago.
But I shall continue to speak of her and to regard her as a lady until
I have evidence to the contrary."
"Have you seen her, then, lately," asked Inglefield, "as well as the
scoundrel who has brought these monstrous charges against me?"
"You are overtaxing my patience, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "You
assert that you are anxious to satisfy me upon certain points which I
consider vital, and yet you take advantage of any slight word or
remark which offers the opportunity of evasion. If this opinion is
unpalatable to you, thank yourself for it. I have seen the lady of
whom we are speaking but once in my life, and on the occasion she
visited me I was surprised at the impression she produced upon me. I
expected to see a woman whose appearance would have justified the
opinion I had formed of her through your statements. I saw, on the
contrary, a lady of gentle manners, a lady of culture and refinement,
who received with dignity and respect the reproachful words I
addressed to her. She needed to be accomplished, indeed, in duplicity
and artfulness to have so successfully simulated the air of modesty
and gentleness which distinguished her."
"You are not versed in the ways of such women, sir," said Inglefield.
"They can deceive the cleverest of men."
"Possibly. I am waiting to ascertain whether I have been so deceived.
At present, everything is in her favor. You informed me that she was a
vulgar, showy person whose appearance in good society would bring
ridicule upon my son."
"That is the opinion I formed of her, sir, from more complete evidence
than you are supplied with."
"I understood that you were very well acquainted with her; intimately,
I think, you said."
"I knew her very well, sir."
"Intimately? You told me so at the time."
"Yes, sir, intimately," replied Inglefield, inwardly cursing his
patron's faithful memory.
"I am glad to be corroborated; it shows that you are speaking frankly.
You related to me a story of the arts she used to entangle you, of
your seeing through them, and escaping. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"As she could not ensnare you, she turned to Kingsley, and got him
into her toils. Correct me if I am wrong in my memory of these
matters."
"I cannot say you are wrong, sir, but I will not pledge myself to the
precise words you are using."
"I do not ask you to do so. So long as we are agreed upon the general
view I shall be satisfied. For my own part, I may say, Inglefield,
that I am quite certain I am putting it fairly. Most distinctly did
you call her an adventuress."
"Was she not one, sir, in entangling your son because he had a wealthy
father?"
"If that was her motive, yes, she was an adventuress; but it scarcely
accords with the character of an adventuress that she should be
content with making but one appeal to the man upon whose money she had
designs."
"You have a very positive and decided manner, sir, from which she
might naturally infer that further attempts would be useless."
"I cannot agree with you. Such a woman as you described would not so
easily relinquish her designs. It was all she had to depend upon.
Failing success, a life of poverty was before her. She certainly would
have tried again."
"Surely you would not make me accountable for her actions, sir?"
"No; I am simply arguing the question logically--not as regards you,
but as regards her. At the time she made her modest appeal my judgment
was clouded with passion; it is now clear, and the course I took does
not commend itself to me. Her uncle also made an appeal to me--only
one. He had fallen into sudden misfortune; on the day before he came
to me he had been burned out, and was not insured."
"A trumped-up story, I have no doubt, sir."
"Not so. A true story, as I saw in the papers afterwards. Neither in
his manners was there anything vulgar or objectionable. Although a
poor man, he was well educated, and spoke with discretion and
intelligence. Had he appealed to me for a large sum of money I might
have had reasonable grounds for suspicion; but all he asked for was
either five or ten pounds, and that was to send to my son, who was in
a state of poverty abroad. I declare," said Mr. Manners, rising, and
pacing the room in agitation, "now that I am opening my mind upon these
matters, now that I hear myself speaking of them, I cannot justify my
conduct. It was monstrous, monstrous. Had I given them a thousand
times as much as they asked for I should not have missed it. My heart
must have been made of stone!"
"Do not distress yourself, sir," said Inglefield, with a fawning
attempt at sympathy. "You could not have acted otherwise."
"I could. I could have acted both justly and mercifully, and so have
lightened their lot. I drove the uncle away from the house, and he,
too, never made another appeal to me. Their conduct from first to last
was dignified and independent; mine was dastardly. You see how little
disposed I am to spare myself. Let us put an end to this conversation;
I am afraid to trust myself further."
Mark Inglefield was too discreet to offer any opposition, and too glad
to escape to put into operation the plans he had formed. With a gentle
"Good-night, sir," he was about to leave the room, when Mr. Manners
said:
"Do not forget that we have to inquire into the treacherous story
related to me by Mr. Parkinson. You will be ready to accompany me at
eleven o'clock in the morning."
"I shall be quite ready," said Mark Inglefield. And thus the interview
terminated.