"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.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
Being alone in his room Mark Inglefield set to work at once. The first thing he did was to write a letter, which he addressed to Mary Parkinson. The purport of this letter was that difficulties which had stood in his way were fortunately removed, and that he was now in a position, or would be in a very short time, to fulfil the promise he had made to her. This promise was that he would marry her. Appearances, he said, had been against him, but he would explain all to her personally. The past had been sad, the future should be bright. She could trust him implicitly, and it was a proof of his anxiety to do what was right that he asked her to leave her father's house the moment she received this letter. He was waiting for her, and would take her away at once to commence a new and better life. She must leave the house quietly and secretly, and no one must know of her movements. "In a little while," he wrote, "when you are my wife, we will either send for your father, or you shall go to him and bring him to the home I shall prepare for you. Do not delay; there is not a moment to lose. I have much to tell you, and I cannot rest till I see you." Having reached this point in his letter, he was about to add an instruction to bring this letter with her from her father's house; but he did not write the words. "It might arouse her suspicions," he thought. "She is sure to bring the letter." He signed himself, "Your faithful lover and husband," and then paused again, doubting whether this would be sufficient without a name. He could not put his own, for the reason that she was not acquainted with it. With the boldness of desperation he wrote the name he had assumed when he first introduced himself to her, "Richard Hollingworth," and thought as he did so what a fool he had been not to have assumed a name which was entirely false. But he had not then reckoned with the future, and had not dreamed that an exposure could ever occur. It was too late now to repent; with all these chances against him he had little doubt that he would ultimately triumph.
If he could succeed in conveying this letter to her to-night all would be well. Mary Parkinson would only be too glad to obey him, would only be too glad to fly into his arms. She had no one else in the world to depend upon but herself; her honor, her good name, her future happiness, were in his hands.
The letter finished, and placed in an envelope, at the head of which he wrote, "Read this immediately. R. H.," he looked through his wardrobe, and selected a suit of clothes which would in some measure disguise him. These he put on, and then enveloped himself in an ulster which would render the disguise more complete. Carrying the letter in his hand, he stole stealthily out of the house, locking the door of his bedroom, and taking the key with him. He had provided himself with a latchkey, so that he could leave and enter the house without attracting attention.