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THE
LOUDWATER TRAGEDY
BY
T. W. SPEIGHT
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE," "HOODWINKED,"
"BACK TO LIFE," ETC.
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1893
CONTENTS
CHAP.
PROLOGUE.
I. ON THE EDGE OF A SECRET.
II. WHO IS MRS. WINSLADE?
III. THE SECRET TOLD.
IV. IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW SPEAKS HER MIND.
V. A FAMILY CONFERENCE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
VI. IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW HAS HER WAY.
VII. PERSONAL TO PHIL.
VIII. PHIL TAKES UP THE TRAIL AFRESH.
IX. A DEADLOCK.
X. UNCHRISTIAN CHARITY.
XI. FANNY AT LOUDWATER HOUSE.
XII. MRS. MELRAY THE YOUNGER IN A NEW LIGHT.
XIII. MRS. MELRAY'S STATEMENT.
XIV. THE STATEMENT CONCLUDED.
XV. A SCRAP OF PAPER.
XVI. A FRESH LINE OF INQUIRY.
XVII. "A MAN I AM, CROSS'D WITH ADVERSITY."
XVIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR DEVELOPMENT.
XIX. AN UNAVOIDABLE NECESSITY.
XX. "WE MUST SPEAK BY THE CARD."
XXI. THE TRUTH AT LAST.
XXII. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
THE
LOUDWATER TRAGEDY.
PROLOGUE.
THE STORY OF THE CRIME.
12 Leighton Place, Worthing.
_Thursday_.
"My Dear Phil.--By this post I send you a copy of a certain penny
weekly journal entitled _The Family Cornucopia_, which, for lack of
something better to read, I picked up the other day at a bookstall
while on my way to the beach.
"Naturally, you will at once say to yourself (for you cannot deny,
dear, that you occasionally express yourself with somewhat unnecessary
emphasis over trifles), 'What the dickens does the girl mean by
bothering me with her trumpery penny rubbish?' Well, that is just the
point about which 'the girl' is going to enlighten you.
"Of course you have not forgotten 'The Loudwater Tragedy,' as most of
the newspapers called it at the time (although some there were who
wrote of it as the 'Merehampton Mystery'). Neither, perhaps, has it
escaped your memory how, with the object of helping to interest and
carry out of herself for a little while, a young woman who, just then,
was staying at a dull Devonshire village with the captious, but
much-to-be-pitied, invalid in whose service she was, you wrote her a
number of letters, dated from the very roof under which the tragedy in
question had been enacted, in which you recapitulated for her
information all the details of the crime as gathered by you on the
spot; nor how you sketched for her the old mansion and its inmates,
with the view from its windows, and all the quaint features of the
sleepy little seaport, so that, after a time, she could almost have
persuaded herself that what you had written formed a part of her
personal experiences. If you have forgotten those letters, I have not.
Yesterday I refreshed my memory by reading them again, and the reason
I did so is this.
"In the periodical I am sending you there is an article extending over
five pages, entitled, 'How, and Why' which, strange to say, not merely
seems to be based on the Loudwater Tragedy, but, under the guise of
fiction, tells the story of the crime down to its minutest details;
and not only does that, but, with almost photographic fidelity, limns
for its readers the portraits of the various persons who were in any
way mixed up with that mysterious affair.
"But the writer of 'How, and Why'--he or she, as the case may be--does
more, much more, than merely retell the story of the crime and
describe the people who had to do with it. The article in question
purports to be the confession of the murderer of Mr. Melray, written
on the eve of his suicide, and professes to trace, step by step, how
he was led on to the commission of the crime, and, in point of fact,
sets the whole affair in an entirely fresh and startling light. To
prove to you that this is so, it will only be necessary to say that
the writer of the confession describes himself as having been a lover,
before her marriage, of the old merchant's 'girl-wife,' and that it
was owing to his inadvertently interrupting an assignation between the
young people that 'Mr. Melville' came by his death. High words passed
between the elder man and the younger; there was a scuffle; a blow was
given in the heat of passion, and in a moment the irrevocable deed was
done. I have omitted to say that, according to the story, after the
police have given up the case as hopeless, suspicion unexpectedly
attaches itself to the head-clerk, (who figures as 'Mr. Day'), and
that, in the result, circumstantial evidence is brought to bear
against him sufficiently strong to ensure his conviction on the
capital charge. It is after 'Mr. Day' is left for execution that the
writer of the confession--who, although he acknowledges to the crime
of which he has been guilty, is careful to impress upon his readers
that he is not without his fine qualities--overcome by remorse,
determines to avow the truth and thereby save the life of an innocent
man, albeit at the expense of his own. He pens a farewell message to
the 'Ernestine' of the story--that is to say, to the murdered man's
widow--and then gives his readers to understand that the moment after
the last word of his confession shall have been written he will
swallow the poison which he has procured in readiness for that
purpose.
"Now, all this seems to me sufficiently remarkable. Of course, the
question is, how much truth and how much fiction underlies the
supposititious confession? That the whole of the latter part of it is
purely fictitious we know already. We know, for instance, that not an
iota of suspicion ever attached itself to Mr. Melray's managing clerk.
Consequently that he has never been arrested, tried, or condemned.
Further than that, we know that the crime remains an unexplained
mystery to this day.
"In view, then, of the fact that the latter half of the self-styled
confession is proved to be a sheer invention, might it not reasonably
be assumed that the first half pertains to the same class of
narrative? Such would seem to be a common-sense way of looking at the
affair, were it not that there is so much of actual fact as regards
the commission of the crime itself mixed up with the narrative, and so
many real persons under assumed names introduced therein, as to create
a suspicion (in my mind, at least) that there may be some substratum
of truth in that part of it which attributes the death of Mr. Melray
to a quarrel with a former lover of his young and attractive wife.
"That you will read 'How, and Why,' after what I have here said about
it, I do not doubt; after which I think you will agree with me that
the story refers to 'The Loudwater Tragedy' and to no other crime, and
that the writer of it, whoever he may be, displays a singularly minute
and intimate acquaintance with all the details of that still unsolved
mystery.
"You will say to yourself that this is a strange letter for a young
woman to write to her lover, and so it is, but then the circumstances
of the case are peculiar. However, I promise you that my next letter
shall be a very different kind of composition.
"Miss Mawby's bell has just rung, so I will conclude without a word
more, except that, now and always, I am yours and yours only,
"Fanny Sudlow."
Such was the letter which Philip Winslade found one morning on his
breakfast-table. But before introducing either the writer or the
recipient of it to the reader's notice, it may be as well to give a
brief _résumé_ of the main facts in connection with the affair known
as "The Loudwater Tragedy," so far as they had hitherto been brought
to light, as also of certain of the events which led up to it.
Those who are acquainted with the once thriving port of Merehampton
know what a pleasant, but withal dull, little town it is. No business
firm in it is, or rather was a few years ago, more widely known or
highly respected than that of Melray Brothers, ship-brokers and
general merchants. Of the two brothers who made up the firm, James,
the elder, was, to all intents and purposes, the sole representative.
Robert, the younger brother, had been delicate from boyhood, and found
it to the advantage of his health to winter abroad. Indeed, whenever
he happened to be in England his visits to Merehampton were few and
perfunctory, and while retaining a monetary interest in the business,
he never concerned himself with the details, but willingly left the
entire management to James, who, on his part, being a masterful kind
of man and one who would have felt it irksome to have to put up with a
partner who might chance to hold independent views--was quite content
that matters should remain as they were. At this time James Melray was
fifty years old, Robert being his junior by some ten or eleven years.
The house in which James dwelt, and under the roof of which both the
brothers had been born, was known as Loudwater House, through having,
once on a time, been the domicile of an old county family of that
name. It was a handsome and substantial red-brick structure of the
early Georgian period, with a good deal of ornamental stonework about
it, and stood fronting the river Laming (for Merehampton is between
three and four miles up stream from the sea) on what in these latter
days was known as the Quay-side, but which at the time the house was
built had doubtless been either green fields or private grounds
pertaining to it. So long ago, however, was it since that part of the
river had been banked in and the Quay-side called into existence, and
since its row of ugly warehouses had been erected, each with its crane
protruding from its second or third storey, and each with its suite of
gloomy offices on the ground floor, that not even the oldest
inhabitant of Merehampton could remember the place as being other than
it was now. It was only a matter of course that, having become the
home of a commercial family, the Georgian mansion should, to some
extent, be put to commercial uses. Thus it had come to pass that the
groundfloor rooms had been turned in part into offices and in part
into a warehouse, with an additional room in which were stored
cordage, blocks, sails, spars, chains and tools of various kinds,
together with a miscellaneous assortment of maritime gear and
appliances.
There could be but little doubt that Merehampton had passed the zenith
of its prosperity as a seaport. With the opening of the railway a
vital blow had been struck at the shipping interests of the little
town. The coasting trade had dwindled by degrees to less than half of
what it had been a few years before; some of the merchants and
shippers had become bankrupt; others had taken themselves and their
capital elsewhere; others, on the principle of half a loaf being
better than none, had made the best of what could not be helped; half
the warehouses on the Quay-side were untenanted; but through it all
the firm of Melray Brothers had held manfully on its way, although in
the face of a sorely diminished trade.
James Melray's household was a small one, comprising, as it did, only
himself, his mother--a venerable lady between seventy and eighty years
of age--who had her own suite of rooms and her own maid and companion,
and, lastly, the merchant's girl-wife, who at the time the tragedy
took place had been married to him some two and a half years.
Mr. Melray was a widower of some years' standing, but without family,
when he first met Denia Lidington, who was the orphan niece and ward
of one of his oldest friends. This friend dying, left Denia and her
small fortune to his charge till the girl should come of age--a charge
which Mr. Melray willingly undertook. How and by what degrees the
kindly semi-paternal feeling with which he at first regarded the
lonely girl changed to a sentiment of a far different texture is not
within the scope of this narrative to describe. It is enough to say
that about a year after his friend's death James Melray proposed to
Denia Lidington, and, somewhat to his own surprise, was accepted
without the slightest demur.
The marriage took place at Solchester, an inland town about a dozen
miles from Merehampton, where, after her uncle's death, Denia had
found a home in the house of a widowed lady of good family, but
limited means, in whom Mr. Melray had implicit confidence. A month
later the bride entered upon her new duties as the mistress of
Loudwater House.
That she was an exceedingly pretty and attractive-looking young woman
everybody was agreed; indeed, there were not wanting some who went so
far as to call her beautiful. Her figure was slight, but full of
grace, and was rather under the medium height of her sex. She had eyes
of the clearest April blue, shaded by heavy lashes, finely-arched
eyebrows, and a mass of silky maize-coloured hair. Her complexion was
a pure creamy white, with only the very faintest flush of colour
showing through it. There was nothing striking or pronounced about her
features; indeed, considered in detail, they might have been termed
insignificant, but, regarded as a whole, their effect was undeniably
charming.
It was a matter of course, in view of the disparity in the ages of
bride and bridegroom, that there should be no lack of croakers and
prophets of the pessimistic school, who, one and all, took upon
themselves to predict that such an union could be productive of
nothing but discord and unhappiness, if not of evils still more dire.
Time went on, however, and these and all, such vaticinations remained
unfulfilled. Nowhere, to all seeming, could there have been found a
more contented or cosily happy wedded pair. Mrs. Melray fell in with
her husband's tastes and mode of life with an easy adaptability which
was as delightful as was surprising in one so many years his junior.
She made his friends her friends, and never seemed to long or care for
any other society than that to which he chose to introduce her. She
dressed soberly, but in excellent taste, and after a fashion which
caused her to look half-a-dozen years older than her age. James
Melray's first marriage had not been a happy one. His wife, a woman of
an intractable temper, had been addicted to secret dram-drinking, and
had thereby hastened her end. All the greater seemed the contrast
between his life as it was now and as it had been then. In all
Merehampton there was no happier man than he.
We now come to the fatal evening of Friday, September 18.
Twice every week, on the evenings of Tuesday and Friday, it had for
years been Mr. Melray's custom to leave home as the clock was striking
eight and make his way to the house of his friend Mr. Arbour, for the
purpose of forming one at a sober rubber of whist. It was a custom
which he had seen no reason for pretermitting after his second
marriage, more especially in view of the fact that Mrs. Melray number
two had never expressed the slightest desire that he should do so, and
although she was thereby left alone for two or three hours on the
evenings in question, she never failed to part from him with a kiss
and a smile, nor greet him after the same fashion on his return.
On the aforesaid 18th of September Mr. Melray set out for his friend's
house as usual. His wife accompanied him downstairs as far as the
entrance hall and helped him to induct himself into his overcoat, and
then, before she let him go, and because the evening was chilly, she
insisted on tying a white silk muffler round his throat as a further
protection against the weather. Then came the customary parting kiss,
after which Mrs. Melray stood in the open doorway for a half a minute,
watching her husband's retreating form. Then she shut the door and
hurried back upstairs to the cosy drawing-room.
That evening Mr. Arbour and his friends waited in vain for the coming
of James Melray. He never reached No. 5 Presbury Crescent.
Her husband had been gone a little over an hour when Mrs. Melray rang
the bell for Charlotte, the housemaid, and on the latter's appearance
asked her to take a lighted candle and go down to her master's private
office and bring thence an envelope out of the stationery case, which
she would find on his table. Mrs. Melray had been writing to one of
her friends, and finding that she was out of envelopes of her own, was
under the necessity of using one of her husband's.
Charlotte went her way, leaving her young mistress seated at the
davenport with the letter in front of her. A few moments later a
piercing shriek rang through Loudwater House. The girl, holding the
lighted candle aloft in one hand, had suddenly come upon the dead body
of her master lying prone along the office floor between the fireplace
and the table.
As already stated, Mr. Melray's business premises were on the
groundfloor of Loudwater House. Although such was the case, the main
entrance to the old mansion had in no way been interfered with. There,
as for generations past, was the massive oaken door with its heavy
lion's-head knocker and its overhanging porch--also of oak, and
elaborately carved. This door gave admittance to a spacious flagged
hall, whence a wide staircase led to the rooms on the upper floors.
From the entrance hall a door opened directly into Mr. Melray's
private office, in which room there were also two other doors, the
first giving access to the outer office where sat Mr. Cray, the head
clerk, and his three subordinates, while the second door opened on a
narrow side alley leading from the back premises to the Quay-side, so
that the merchant, when so inclined, could go in and out without
having to pass through the general office.
The girl Charlotte's shrieks at the discovery of her master's body
were heard not merely by the inmates of Loudwater House, but by a
constable who happened at the time to be standing at the entrance to
the side alley, as also by a couple of passing strangers. The three
men in question were on the scene of the crime within a few seconds
after Charlotte had given the alarm; for the outer door, on being
tried, was found to be unfastened. Of what thereupon ensued it is not
needful that we should dwell.
At the inquest it was shown that Mr. Melray's death had resulted from
a blow from some blunt instrument just above the left ear. The only
hypothesis which could be deduced from the scanty evidence elicited at
the inquiry was to the effect that while on his way to Mr. Arbour's
house, Mr. Melray had unexpectedly encountered some person, or persons
with whom he was in some way connected by transactions of either a
business or a private nature, and that, in company with the same, he
had gone back to his office, admittance to which he would obtain by
means of his pass-key, after which he had lighted the gas and opened
the safe. What had happened after that, beyond the fact that Mr.
Melray had come by his death by foul play, there was not the slightest
evidence to show. The body had not been robbed; neither, as the
head-clerk's after investigation proved, had the contents of the safe
been tampered with. As far as was known, the dead man had not an enemy
in the world. Where, then, was the motive for the crime? By whom had
it been perpetrated? Days and weeks went on without bringing an answer
to either one question or the other. Within a few hours of the
discovery of the murder Mr. Robert Melray, the dead man's brother and
partner, was telegraphed for, and as, just then, he happened to be no
further away than London, he was promptly on the spot. He it was who,
a little later, and after all the efforts of Scotland Yard to unravel
the mystery had proved unavailing, offered a reward of 500_l_. in
connection with the affair, which, however, still remained unclaimed.
So much having been stated by way of prelusion, it becomes needful,
for a due understanding of the way in which Philip Winslade came to be
mixed up with the Loudwater Tragedy, that our narrative should revert
to a date several months anterior to that of Fanny Sudlow's letter to
her lover.
THE NARRATIVE
CHAPTER I.
ON THE EDGE OF A SECRET.
Probably there was no happier man in all England than Philip Winslade
on the particular afternoon on which we make his acquaintance.
At this time he had just turned his twenty-eighth birthday. He was a
thin, active, keen-faced gentlemanly young fellow, with an aquiline
nose and very bright and piercing steel-gray eyes. In colour his hair
was a light brown, and it was perhaps owing to the fact that he was
clean shaven, except for an inch of whisker on either cheek, that he
looked younger than his years; that he did look so was, however,
undisputable.
The cause of his felicity was not far to seek. The fact was that,
while on his way down from London that afternoon, the man of all
others whom he was desirous of seeing, and who for the past week or
more had never been out of his thoughts for long at a time, had
recognised him as the train drew up at a roadside station, and having
thereupon joined him in his compartment, had, by so doing, afforded
him the opportunity to seek which had been the main object of his
journey. The person in question was the Rev. Louth Sudlow, vicar of
St. Michael's, Iselford--a portly, handsome man of middle age, and a
dignitary of some importance among that section of provincial society
in which he habitually moved. Just now, however, the Vicar's sole
importance in the eyes of Philip Winslade lay in the fact that he was
the father of a very charming daughter with whom that young man had
seen fit to fall in love.
The chance which had not only landed the Vicar in the same
compartment, but had left it free from the intrusion of other
passengers, was too opportune a one not to be seized on by Winslade.
For one thing, and with him it went for much, their accidental
encounter would do away with the need for a formal call at the
Vicarage as a preliminary to a request for a private interview--a
species of cold-blooded proceeding which struck him with a chill as
often as he contemplated it. Further, it would obviate the risk of his
being seen and questioned by Mrs. Sudlow, an ordeal to which he was
far from desirous of submitting himself.
"So you have got back safe and sound from your trip," began the Vicar,
as he shook hands with Phil and proceeded to settle himself in the
opposite corner of the carriage. "I hope you had what our cousins
across the water call a 'good time' while you were away."
"On that score, sir, I had nothing to complain of; and, if I may be
allowed to mention such a thing, it is gratifying to me to know that I
was enabled to transact the special business which took me to the
States to the satisfaction of those who sent me."
"The knowledge of duties well and conscientiously performed can
scarcely be other than gratifying to anyone," remarked the Vicar with
a touch of professional unction.
This being a remark which called for no reply, Phil remained
judiciously silent. He was considering in what terms he could most
diplomatically lead up to the subject which lay so close to his heart.
"When I tell you, sir," he resumed with a little touch of hesitation,
"that I came back from New York to Liverpool by the _Parthenia_, you
will guess at once whom I had the pleasure of having for a travelling
companion."
The Vicar rubbed a thoughtful finger against his nose. "Really," he
began dubiously. Then his face brightened. "Stay, though. The
_Parthenia_ did you say? Why, now I call it to mind, that is the boat
Fanny and her aunt were to cross by. So you and she came over
together, eh? It would beguile the tedium of the voyage for both of
you."
Phil smiled inwardly. The meeting of the two young people had indeed
served to beguile the tedium of the voyage, but in a way the Vicar as
yet had no prevision of.
"If I recollect rightly," resumed the latter, "my sister was always a
poor sailor, but I hope that in that respect at least Fan does not
take after her aunt."
"Miss Sudlow proved herself a capital sailor, sir; but, as far as I am
aware, Mrs. Empson was invisible from the time we passed Sandy Hook
till we sighted the mouth of the Mersey."
"Fan dropped a line to her mother as soon as she landed, but we have
not seen her yet. We hope to have that pleasure a week hence, when,
doubtless, we shall be treated to quite a budget of traveller's
tales."
So far the conversation had kept on the lines most desired by
Winslade, but having reached this point, there seemed a danger of its
being diverted by the Vicar to some less personal topic, in which case
the coveted opportunity would be gone past recall. He pulled himself
together. One breathless moment on the brink and then the plunge!
Philip Winslade, although in the ordinary affairs of life there were
few men more self-possessed than he, could never afterwards call to
mind the exact terms in which he contrived to blurt forth his
confession. All he was conscious of was that he stammered and
hesitated like a man afflicted with an impediment in his speech; that
physically he turned first hot and then cold, and that by the time he
had done he had worked himself back into a state of fever. The pith of
the matter was that he sought the Vicar's permission to be received as
Miss Sudlow's accepted suitor. When he had come to an end he gasped
once or twice like a fish out of its proper element, and then sat
staring helplessly at his _vis-à-vis_, who, on his part, returned the
stare with interest through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
The Rev. Louth Sudlow had listened to Winslade's confession with very
mixed emotions. Once or twice he ran his fingers through his short
silvery hair and murmured an ejaculation under his breath; but he did
not interrupt Phil by so much as a word, preferring to wait till the
latter should cease of his own accord.
Then he said: "My dear young friend, what you have just told me has,
metaphorically speaking, taken my breath away. I--I am really at a
loss what to say in reply. In any case, you must not look for a
definite answer from me just now. I shall require a little time to
consider the matter in all its bearings. To me, just at present, one
of the strangest features of the affair is having the fact thus
suddenly brought home to me that my little girl, whom I used to
dandle on my knee as it might be only the other day is old enough
to--to--well, as the homely phrase has it--to have a sweetheart of her
own. Do you know, now, I had never thought of her in that light. So
easy is it to shut one's eyes, and that not intentionally, to the
flight of time." He sighed gently, and again ran his fingers through
his hair.
"One of my first proceedings on reaching home," he presently went on,
"will be to lay your request before the dear partner of my joys and
sorrows, even as you have laid it before me; for in the settlement of
a question so momentous, and one which so nearly concerns a daughter's
happiness, the views of one parent ought to carry an equal weight with
those of the other. It is certainly in your favour that both Mrs.
Sudlow and myself have been acquainted with you for a number of years;
indeed, it may almost be said that we have watched you grow up; to
which I may add that we know nothing of you but what is pleasant and
of good report."
There was no time for more. As the Vicar ceased speaking the train
drew up at Iselford station. Both men alighted. As the elder held the
hand of the younger for a moment before each went his way, he said,
"You will find me in the vestry at eleven on Monday morning. Come to
me then and there. It may be that I shall have something to say to you
by that time."
Small wonder was it that Philip Winslade deemed himself one of the
happiest of men as he made his way through the soft April twilight in
the direction of his mother's house. His disposition was of that
hopeful and sanguine cast which refuses to see difficulties in
advance, or, at any rate, to take but scant account of them till they
absolutely block the way. Nothing, as he told himself again and again,
could have been more kind and encouraging than the reception accorded
by the Vicar to his suit; and, although he was vaguely conscious that
he stood by no means so high in the estimation of Mrs. Sudlow as in
that of her husband, he did not for a moment allow himself to be
discouraged thereby. As he walked along the quiet road, humming to
himself, Love's golden shuttle was at work in his brain, weaving
the things of common life through and through with gorgeous and
many-coloured threads, till they became clothed with beauty like a
poet's dream.
Philip had not seen his mother since his return from the States.
Neither in the note he had written her announcing his arrival, nor in
the later one in which he told her that he looked to see her at
Whiteash Cottage in the course of Saturday, had he made any mention of
Miss Sudlow's name; consequently, he could not help trying to picture
in advance the mode in which his news would be received by her. That
she would be astonished he did not doubt; but that her pleasure would
nearly, if not quite, equal her surprise, he scarcely doubted more.
Dear good mother that she was! Had not his happiness been her constant
study ever since he could remember anything? And it was absurd to
suppose that, in a matter like the present one, where so much was at
stake, she would set up any wish of her own in opposition to his
wishes, or raise a host of futile objections, as some mothers have a
habit of doing, merely that they may afterwards be knocked over like
so many ninepins.
Although Mrs. Winslade was a woman who was singularly self-centred,
who made a point of going very little into society, and, as a
consequence, of seeing very little company in return, it had not been
possible for her to live so many years in Iselford without making a
certain number of acquaintances; but in all cases she had been careful
to keep them so much at arm's length, that not one of them could with
truth have arrogated to herself the warmer title of friend. Of such
acquaintances Mrs. Sudlow was one; but not even she--pushing,
undaunted, inquisitive little body though she was, with a faculty
educated by long practice for fishing out the private concerns of
those with whom she was brought in contact--not even she had been able
to pierce the fine armour of reserve which Mrs. Winslade habitually
wore, although some there were who never as much as suspected its
existence. Like an alert fencer, the latter was ever on her guard, and
the most innocent question, or innocent-seeming innuendo, never found
her unprepared with a counter thrust. Her tactics, however, were far
more those of defence than offence; and it was only when she felt she
was being pressed unduly that she retorted by pricking back on her own
account. Few were those who had the hardihood to try conclusions with
her a second time.
But it was during the earlier period of her residence at Iselford,
rather than latterly, that she had found it needful when in society
never to be caught off her guard. During the dozen years which had
elapsed since she settled down at Whiteash Cottage, coming from nobody
knew where, and bringing no introductions with her, people had had
time to get accustomed to her, to accept her as she was, and not to
look for more from her than she was prepared to give.
Little by little all curiosity about her had died out. Society at
Iselford had stamped her with its _cachet_, and had come to accept her
(without professing to understand her) as one of its elect. Only in
the heart of Mrs. Sudlow did a tiny mustard-seed, so to call it, of
spite and dull resentment continue to rankle, which, occasion being
given it, would not fail to strike downward and upward, and force its
way to the light, as such baleful germs, even after having been buried
out of sight for years, sooner or later contrive to do.
For be it known that Mrs. Sudlow was not merely the wife of the Vicar
of St. Michael's--which of itself was a matter of no great moment--but
was, besides, second cousin to Lord Beaumaris, and, consequently, an
offshoot of the noble house of Penmarthen. Hence it was that not only
did she claim to have a certain standing in county society, but she
was also in a position to form a little coterie of her own among the
lesser luminaries of the neighbourhood, of which she was the
recognised chief; and it was Mrs. Winslade's suave, but persistent,
refusal to pose as one of the coterie in question which had been the
original head and front of her offending. Still, it is possible that
the "Vicaress"--as many people irreverently termed her--could have
forgiven even that, if, on the other hand, the widow of Whiteash
Cottage would but have made a confidante of her, and have revealed to
her all those particulars anent her antecedents and family history
which she was secretly dying to be told. But Mrs. Winslade, always
smilingly, declined to do anything of the kind. She kept the Vicaress
as completely at arm's length as she did her parlour-maid, and took
one into her confidence no more than the other. Mrs. Sudlow believed
herself to be a thoroughly good woman, and one by whose walk and
conduct many might take example with profit to themselves; but it was
almost too much to expect that poor human nature could quite forgive
the way in which Mrs. Winslade had thought fit to repel her advances.
This secret grievance, however, if such it could be termed, was of old
date by now, and one might naturally have expected that, whatever
virus had been distilled from it in days gone by, would have been
rendered innocuous by the simple efflux of time; but it sometimes
happens that a pin-prick takes longer to heal than a gaping wound.
When Philip reached home, in place of his mother he found a note
written by her awaiting him. Mrs. Winslade had gone to attend the
funeral of an old woman, who, when younger, had been for many years in
her service. She expected to be back at Iselford by the train due to
arrive there at ten o'clock P.M. Meanwhile Phil would have to dine
alone, and afterwards, if he had nothing better to do, he might meet
the train in question. It was annoying to him to find that he would be
compelled to keep his news to himself for four or five hours longer,
after having counted confidently on being able to pour it into his
mother's sympathetic ears within five minutes of his arrival at the
cottage.
When his solitary meal was over he lighted a cigar, and went for a
stroll in the starlit garden; first, however, paying a visit to Leo in
the backyard--who recognised him by his footsteps even before he
spoke, and barked a boisterous welcome--and freeing him from his
chain. All Phil's thoughts this evening were happy ones. More than
once he took a certain letter from his pocket and pressed it fervently
to his lips; more than once in his abstraction his cigar was
unwittingly allowed to go out. It was abundantly evident that he was
in very bad case indeed.
At half-past nine he set out for the station, taking Leo with him. He
had debated with himself whether he should take the pony-chaise, but
finally decided against doing so. His mother would probably prefer to
engage a fly at the station rather than have Doxie put into harness at
that late hour. He took the road to the railway mechanically, swinging
his cane as he went. He was hundreds of miles away in fancy. Once more
he was pacing the deck of the _Parthenia_ with Fanny by his side.
Mother and son kissed each other with effusion at the moment of
meeting. Then Mrs. Winslade drew back a step and took a long look at
Phil by the light of the station lamps.
"You know, dear, it's two months--two whole months--since I saw you
last," she said, as if by way of apology for her scrutiny. "A long
time to me; but I don't see that you are a bit changed."
Phil laughed. "The only change, _madre mia_, is that I know a good
deal more of the world than I did eight weeks ago."
"A sort of knowledge, my dear, that is of little or no value unless
you have learnt how to put it to a good use. Of course I know already
from your letters that you were thoroughly successful in the mission
which took you to the States."
"Most successful. But I will tell you all particulars later on."
For the mother of a son who numbered eight-and-twenty summers Mrs.
Winslade might be called a young-looking woman. Her figure was tall,
and had not yet lost the fine proportions for which it had been
noticeable in years gone by. Both hair and eyes were dark, the latter
large and shining usually with a soft clear lustre which most people
found singularly attractive. She had a rather long, straight nose, a
mouth indicative of firmness and self-possession, and a well-rounded
chin. All her movements, if touched with a certain stateliness, were
easy and gracious, and if she was not in the habit of smiling very
often, when her face did light up the smile brought out a hidden
sweetness of which one had only been vaguely conscious before.
Phil engaged a fly, and presently they were being driven leisurely
homeward, Leo trotting contentedly behind.
"Although it is so many years since Martha Dobson left my service, I
hope, Phil, that you have not forgotten her," said Mrs. Winslade
presently.
"Why, certainly not, mother! My memory is not quite so treacherous as
that. I was remarkably fond of Martha, as, I am quite sure, she was of
me, and although I could not have been more than six or seven years
old when she left us, I am not likely to forget her."
"She belonged to that race of faithful, staunch-hearted domestics of
which, I am afraid, there are very few specimens to be found nowadays,
and I don't believe she would ever have left me had not her brother
sent for her to keep house for himself and his six motherless little
ones. I shall always respect and cherish her memory. She stood by me
like the true-hearted woman she was through the great trouble of my
life--and she died as she had lived, without breathing a word to
anyone of the secret she had kept for so many years." Mrs. Winslade
spoke the latter words as if to herself--as if for the moment she had
forgotten that her son was by her side.
Ever since he could remember Phil had been conscious, although he
could not have told how or when the consciousness first came to him,
that there was a secret in his mother's life, the particulars of which
were kept as carefully from him as they were from the rest of the
world. He had often speculated and wondered in his own mind as to the
possible nature of it; but never had he ventured to hint, even in the
most roundabout way, his wish to penetrate the mystery. To-night,
however, there seemed something in his mother's mood different from
any mood he had ever seen her in before. The death of her old servant
had evidently affected her very deeply; hidden chords had been
touched, and it might well be that scenes and incidents which time had
robbed of their pristine sharpness of outline had for a little while
been quickened into vivid life. In any case, it seemed to Phil that
now, if ever, was the moment when he might look to be taken into his
mother's confidence. He put forth his fingers in the dark, and having
found one of her hands, he stroked it caressingly.
"I am well aware, mother dear," he began, "and I seem always to have
been, that many years ago your life was darkened by some great
trouble, as to the particulars of which I know nothing. You have just
told me that in Martha Dobson you have lost the one person to whom was
known the secret of your life, and such having been the tie between
you, its severance cannot but touch you keenly. But, mamsie dear, I
want you not to forget that you have a son, and that if one confidant
has been taken from you, there is another ready to your hand. That
your trouble was over and past long ago I am quite aware, but I am
equally as convinced that it entailed effects from which you are
suffering now and probably will continue to suffer as long as you
live. Why, then, not----?"
"My dear Phil, you don't in the least know what you are asking me to
do," broke in Mrs. Winslade, her fingers returning her son's pressure.
"If I have hitherto kept this thing from you, and if I still continue
to do so, I must ask you to believe that the motives by which I have
been and am still actuated are such as I am fully able to justify to
my own conscience. Trust me, you are happier, far happier, in your
ignorance than you could hope to be if I made you as sadly wise as
myself."
"But, mother----"
"Is another word needed, Phil?" asked Mrs. Winslade gently; but that
very gentleness, as the young man was well aware, veiled a firmness
not to be shaken. "Scarcely so, I think--unless it be this: that I
only know of one contingency which would induce me to break the rule
of silence I have hitherto imposed on myself with regard to a certain
matter."
"May I ask to be enlightened as to the nature of the contingency of
which you speak?"
"You may ask, my dear boy, but you must pardon me if I decline to
satisfy your curiosity. Be content to rest in ignorance. Believe me,
it is better so."