"I withdrew the imputation, father."
"The suspicion was in itself an offence. I have allowed you to go your way, Kingsley, in the belief and hope that your way and mine were one, and that you would do nothing to disgrace me."
"I have done nothing to disgrace you."
"We may take different views. As a young man you have had what is called your 'fling.' I made you a most liberal allowance--"
"For which I have always been deeply grateful, father," said Kingsley, hoping to turn the current of his father's wrath. It smote him with keen apprehension, for Nansie's sake and his own, that the anger his father displayed when he first mentioned the name of Loveday should be no longer apparent, and that Mr. Manners spoke in his usual calm and masterful voice.
"I made you a most liberal allowance," repeated Mr. Manners, "which you freely spent. I did not demur to that; it pleased me that you should be liberal and extravagant, and prove yourself the equal in fortune, as you are in education and manners, of those with whom you mixed. You committed some follies, which I overlooked--and paid for."
"It is the truth, father. I got into debt and you cleared me."
"Did I reproach you?"
"No, sir."
"If I am not mistaken--and in figures I seldom am--I paid your debts for you on three occasions."
"It is true, sir."
"And always cheerfully."
"Always, sir."
"I am not wishful to take undue credit to myself by reminding you of this; it is only that I would have you bear in mind that I have endeavored to make your life easy and pleasurable, and to do my duty by you. Nor will I make any comparison between your career as a young man and mine at the same age. I am satisfied, and I suppose you are the same."
"I think, father," said Kingsley, "that I should have been content to work as you did."
"Not as I did, because we started from different standpoints. Pounds, shillings, and pence were of great importance to me, and I used to count them very jealously. I value money now perhaps as little as you do, but I know its value better than you, and what it can buy in a large way--in the way I have already explained to you. For that reason, and for no other, it is precious to me. There are men who have risen to wealth by discreditable means; that is not my case; what I possess has been fairly worked for and fairly earned. All through my life I have acted honorably and straightforwardly."
"All through my life, father," said Kingsley, with spirit, "I shall do the same."
"Well and good. I have a special reason, Kingsley, in speaking of myself in the way I have done."
"Will you favor me with your reason, father?"
"Yes. It is to put a strong emphasis upon what you will lose if you cut yourself away from me."
"Is there any fear of that, father?" asked Kingsley, with a sinking heart.
"It will be for you, not for me, to answer that question; and it will be answered, I presume, more in acts than in words. I return to the Mr. Loveday, who is described to me as a person of no character, and whom you describe as a gentleman."
"He is one, father, believe me," said Kingsley, earnestly.
"Do gentlemen travel about the country in caravans, sleeping in them by the roadsides?"
Kingsley could not help smiling. "Not generally, father, but some men are whimsical."
"Let us keep to the point, Kingsley. According to your account we are speaking of a gentleman."
"We are," said Kingsley, somewhat nettled at this pinning down.
"Then you mean that some gentlemen are whimsical?"
"I mean that."
"In what respect is this Mr. Loveday a gentleman? Does he come of an old family?"
"I do not know."
"Do you know anything of his family?"
"Nothing."
"Is he a man of means?"
"No."
"A poor man, then?"
"Yes."
"Very poor?"
"Very poor."
"And travels about in a broken-down caravan, and you wish me to believe he is a gentleman. I would prefer to take your word, Kingsley, against that of my informant, but in this instance I cannot do so. It would be stretching the limits too far."
"We will not argue it out, father."
"Very well. But Mr. Loveday does not travel alone in this caravan; he has a person he calls his daughter with him."
"It is coming," thought Kingsley, and he set his teeth fast, and said': "His daughter, a lady, travels with him."
"So far, then, my facts are indisputable. This young woman is described to me as an artful, designing person who has used all her arts to entangle you--because you have a rich father."
"Who dares say that?" cried Kingsley, starting up with flashing eyes.
"My informant. I understand, also, that some months since she contracted secretly a disreputable marriage, and that her husband--do not interrupt me for a moment, Kingsley--has conveniently disappeared in order to give her time to bleed you, through your rich father. To go through the ceremony again would be a light matter with her."
"It is a horrible calumny," cried Kingsley, in great excitement.
"Although," pursued Mr. Manners, exhibiting no agitation in his voice or manner, "the circumstances of my own private life have not made me personally familiar with the tricks of adventuresses, I have in the course of my experiences learned sufficient of them to make me abhor them. How much deeper must be my abhorrence now when such a woman steps in between me and my son to destroy a cherished design which can only be carried out in his person! I will listen to no vindication, Kingsley. Before you arrived home to-night I had a strong hope that some mistake had been made in the information which has reached me concerning your proceedings. I was wrong; it is unhappily too true."
"You received the information from an enemy of mine."
"No, Kingsley, from a friend."
"Ah!" There was here, even in the utterance of the simple word, a singular resemblance between father and son. Kingsley's voice no longer betrayed excitement, and his manner became outwardly calm. "There is only one so-called friend who could have supplied you with the information--my cousin, Mark Inglefield."
Mr. Manners was silent.
"Was it he, sir?" asked Kingsley.
Still Mr. Manners was silent.
"I judge from your silence, sir, that Mark Inglefield is the man I have to thank."
During his silence Mr. Manners had been considering.
"I must say something here, Kingsley. I have no right to betray another man's confidence, and you no right to betray mine."
"It would be the last of my wishes, father."
"If I tell you who is my informant, will you hold it as a sacred confidence?"
It was Kingsley's turn now to consider. He was convinced that Mark Inglefield was his enemy, and by giving his father the desired promise of a sacred confidence, he would be shutting himself off from all chance of reprisal. On the other hand, he might be mistaken; and his father might also refuse to continue the interview, which Kingsley felt could not be broken at this point; and after all, how could he hope to help himself or Nansie by a personal encounter with his cousin or by further angering his father, who, he knew only too well, was now in a dangerous mood?
"Do