UNCHRISTIAN CHARITY.
With all the emphasis of which he was capable, and, indeed, with far
more than he had ever ventured to bring to bear before, the Rev. Louth
Sudlow had impressed upon his wife the obligation they were under, as
a matter of principle and honour, to keep inviolate the secret which
had been entrusted to them by Philip Winslade. It was one of those
things as to which it was not permissible to open their lips to a
soul. It must remain with them as though it had never been spoken. To
all which Mrs. Sudlow agreed; and although her agreement might be of
that negative kind which is implied by the phrase that "silence gives
consent," in her own mind she honestly meant to carry out the
condition laid upon her by her husband. All that, however, could not,
or, in any case did not, keep her from letting Mrs. Winslade see,
whenever they chanced to encounter each other, that she knew the
latter's secret, and in that fact found her justification for looking
down upon her in a way she had never ventured to do before. Heretofore
there had always been a certain show of cordiality between the two
ladies. Whenever they met they stopped to shake hands and smile, and
take stock of each other's bonnet, and make a few mutual inquiries
about nothing in particular; but now Mrs. Sudlow passed Mrs. Winslade
with the most frigid of bows, and a sort of drawing round her of her
skirts, more metaphorical, perhaps, than actual; but none the less a
palpable fact to the other. All of which said as plainly as words
could have done: "I know you for what you are--a woman passing under a
name not your own; the widow of a forger and a felon; and, as such,
not fit to move in that circle in which you have hitherto been
received in ignorance of your antecedents." These were moments of
triumph to Mrs. Sudlow, and at such times she felt half inclined to
condone the act which had been the means of putting such a power into
her hands. Sweet to her was it to be able to stab this woman again,
and yet again, who for twelve long years had so persistently kept her
at arm's length, and whose airs of quiet superiority (on this point
the Vicaress allowed her fancy too wide a margin) and general
_noli-me-tangere_ manner had been to her as a perpetual hidden sting,
the existence of which was known to herself alone.
As time went on Mrs. Sudlow found her secret becoming more and more of
a burden. If only she could have shared it with someone--if only she
could have had one confidant with whom to dissect and discuss it in
all its bearings. There were times when the longing to whisper it
became almost irresistible; but she knew that her husband would never
forgive her if she were to breathe the slightest hint of it to anyone.
Weakly good-natured, and somewhat of a time-server, as the Rev. Louth
Sudlow might be in some things, no man could be more rigid than he on
a point of honour, or have a more genuine contempt for the mean and
ungenerous motives which prompt the actions of so many people. No;
however painful its continued presence might be, Mrs. Sudlow--so
indifferent, as a rule, to her husband's wishes, so contemptuous of
his opinions, and so habituated to having her own way--was yet in this
matter afraid to take the embargo off her tongue which the Vicar (so
foolishly and weakly, as it seemed to her) had seen fit to lay upon
it.
One of Mrs. Sudlow's most intimate friends was a certain well-to-do
maiden lady, of middle age, Miss Tuttilow by name, who, being very
hospitable and fond of society, and without a grain of malice in her
composition, was deservedly popular.
Miss Tuttilow had one brother, who, like herself, was unmarried, and
who was a partner in a firm of London lawyers. In the spring of each
year Gregory Tuttilow made a point of stealing away from business for
a few days, and of spending a brief holiday with his sister, in order
that he might be able to indulge in the fishing for which the
neighbourhood of Iselford is so justly famed.
It was on an afternoon in the pleasant month of May that Miss
Tuttilow, who never let a week go by without calling at least once at
the Vicarage, said to her "dear friend," Mrs. Sudlow: "Gregory has gone
back home after a week of the best fishing he has had for years. By
the way, the mention of his name reminds me of a rather curious
circumstance which happened the other day. He and I had walked into
the town together--he to buy some tobacco and I some feminine
fal-lals--when whom should we meet face to face but Mrs. Winslade. She
favoured me with one of her indefinite smiles, bowed slightly, and
passed on. 'You seem to know that lady. Who is she?' queried my
brother, as he turned for a moment to look after her. Whereupon I told
him as much as anybody in Iselford knows about Mrs. Winslade, which,
as you and I are aware, is very little; and then, of course, asked him
what _he_ knew about her? 'Nothing at all,' was his reply. 'it was
merely that she put me very strongly in mind of a person, one of your
sex, whom I had occasion to meet professionally two or three and
twenty years ago. The person in question was the wife of a notorious
forger, Philip Cordery by name, who engaged our firm to defend him at
his trial. I found Mrs. Cordery to be a very charming woman, and I
pitied her from the bottom of my heart for being wedded to such a
scoundrel. As it happens, I have a very excellent memory for faces,
and really, allowing for the lapse of time, your friend Mrs. Winslade
bears a quite startling likeness to the Mrs. Cordery of so long ago.
But, of course, it can be nothing more than a coincidence.' Singular,
was it not, my dear friend? And it would be still more singular, would
it not? should Mrs. Winslade and Mrs. Cordery turn out to be one and
the same person. But even if such were the case nobody in Iselford
would be able to prove it."
"You are mistaken," said Mrs. Sudlow, "_I_ could prove it. I have known
of it for the last two months."
Miss Tuttilow jumped up as if a cracker had exploded under her chair.
"Goodness gracious me!" was all she was able to gasp out in the first
access of her amazement.
Next moment Mrs. Sudlow could have bitten her tongue off with
vexation. She had had no intention whatever of enlightening her
visitor as to the extent of her knowledge, and it was not until the
latter ventured the assertion that nobody in Iselford would be able to
identify Mrs. Winslade with Mrs. Cordery, that she, all unwittingly,
let slip that fatal sentence, which it was impossible to recall, and
equally impossible to soften down, or twist to any other meaning than
its few simple words conveyed. She felt excessively annoyed with
herself; but that in nowise altered what was done. All she could now
do was to minimise the effects of her indiscretion as far as it might
be in her power to do so.
What passed further between the two ladies need not detain us. It is
enough to say that when Miss Tuttilow left the Vicarage she was under
a solemn bond of secrecy; but, whether purposely or by accident, she
quite omitted to inform Mrs. Sudlow that she had already informed two
other "dear friends" of her brother's meeting with Mrs. Winslade, and
of the remarkable likeness which he averred she bore to the wife of a
notorious criminal.
As time went on it seemed to Mrs. Winslade that people, even some of
those she had known longest, were beginning to look upon her with
changed eyes. At first she told herself that it was nothing more than
fancy; but, before long, what had been a doubt deepened into a
certainty. She could not be mistaken. Many with whom she had been on
speaking terms for years now passed her with a curt nod, or a frigid
bow, or even in some cases averted their eyes of set purpose, and made
believe not to see her. Whenever an errand took her into the town she
was aware that not infrequently people turned and stared at her, and
sometimes whispered to one another, as if there was something about
her which differentiated her from others of her sex. It was impossible
for her any longer to doubt that her life's secret had become public
property.
She would not blame Mrs. Sudlow even in her thoughts; she would not
believe that the Vicaress, notwithstanding the veiled hostility which
had existed between them for years, would, knowingly and of her own
free will, do her so ill a turn. But, indeed, it would have been a
matter of small moment to her to be able to ascertain by what
mischance the truth had become known. The situation was an intolerable
one, for beneath that calm and equable exterior lay hidden a proud and
sensitive spirit, which, now that its secret armour had been pierced,
lay at the world's mercy. Iselford as a home was no longer possible to
her; she must seek another elsewhere.
"Where should she go but to London and keep house for her son?"
demanded Phil, not without a show of reason, when the case was laid
before him. She had given in her adhesion to the plan, but had not
quite settled the date of her departure, when Phil came down to spend
the week-end with her. Together they went to church on the Sunday
morning, but, as they left after service was over, so unmistakable was
the way in which they were avoided--it may be said shunned--by one
group of whilom acquaintances after another, that, as they quitted the
churchyard, Mrs. Winslade let her veil drop over her face, and Phil
could feel that the arm resting within his was trembling. "My dear
boy," she said presently with a pathetic quaver in her voice, "if you
can arrange to stay over to-morrow I will go back with you. The
furniture and other things can follow later on."
Thus did it come to pass that Mrs. Winslade was driven from the home
which had sheltered her for so long a time by the "look askance, the
cut direct" of a number of so-called "good" people, whose views, both
mental and ethical, were as restricted and as incapable of expansion
as the horizon of the petty provincial town in which their lot
happened to be cast.