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."