"A MAN I AM, CROSS'D WITH ADVERSITY."
There are certain persons connected with our narrative whom, although
for some time we may seem to have lost sight of them, it is
permissible to hope the reader has not quite forgotten. To them and
their concerns we now turn for a little while.
Mrs. Winslade, since her departure from Iselford, had been living a
very quiet life with her son in one of the north-western suburbs of
London. It was an infinite relief to her to be able to breathe the
freer and more generous air of the metropolis (where people scarcely
know the names of their next-door neighbours, much less their
business, and find enough to do in attending to their own concerns)
after having lived for so long a time under the prying eyes of the
gossipmongers of Iselford.
On a certain chilly afternoon in early summer, as Philip Winslade was
being driven in a hansom along the Thames Embankment on an errand
connected with his employers, his eyes were attracted to a solitary
figure seated on a bench fronting the river. After staring for a
moment or two as though doubtful whether he saw aright, he ordered the
driver to pull up, and alighted. Even then he paused before advancing.
Could it be possible, he asked himself, that yonder lonely figure,
sitting with bowed shoulders, his clasped hands resting on the nob of
his umbrella, and gazing into vacancy with the unmistakable air of a
man weighed down by some secret trouble which he was unable to shake
off, could be the Rev. Louth Sudlow? As he drew nearer he saw that it
was indeed none other than the Vicar of St. Michael's who was sitting
there.
That something was amiss, that the whilom genial, kind-hearted Vicar
was suffering from the effects of a blow of some kind, Phil could no
longer doubt.
Seeing that the other took no notice of his presence, he laid a hand
lightly on his shoulder. "Mr. Sudlow," he said, "this is indeed a
surprise to meet you here."
The Vicar started violently, straightened his back and stared up into
Phil's face, as he might into that of a stranger; but presently a slow
light of recognition dawned in his eyes. "Surely--surely it must be
young Mr. Winslade," he said, as he extended his hand with something
of his old urbanity.
"Yes, sir, it is I," answered Phil as he grasped the proffered hand,
which trembled like that of a very old man. "I trust that you are
quite well, sir, and that all are well at home." Then, after a
moment's hesitation. "May I ask whether you have been sitting here
long?"
The Vicar stared around for a moment as if not quite certain how he
came to be there, and stroked his cheeks with the fingers and thumb of
his left hand before answering. "Not very long, I think," he said
hesitatingly; "but, really, I am not quite sure at what hour I left my
hotel."
If Phil, while at a distance, had been struck by the change in his
appearance, he was nothing less than dismayed now that he saw him
close at hand. The gold-rimmed spectacles were there as of yore, but
the eyes that looked through them were dim and sunken, with a sort of
vacant despair in them and that sad, heavy-lidded weariness which
betokens insomnia. Then, too, it was evident that he had not been
shaved for some days, which, of itself, was enough to prove that all
was not well with him. His white cravat was limp and loosely tied, his
hat and clothes were unbrushed, while his shoes were thick with dust
and one shoe-string had come untied. The fresh healthy tints of his
face were utterly gone; his cheeks had become flabby and pendulous,
and, in short, the Rev. Louth Sudlow looked to the full a dozen years
older than when Phil had seen him last.
The young man was at a loss what to say or do next. Presently he
ventured to ask, "Are you making much of a stay in London, Mr.
Sudlow?"
Again the elder man had to pull his thoughts together before replying.
"I--I scarcely know. That is to say, I had intended going back home
to-night, but--but certain things have happened, and I have not quite
made up my mind what to do."
Phil saw that his thoughts would be far away again in a moment or two,
and that he must say what he had to say while he could still claim his
attention.
"You are perhaps not aware, sir," he went on, "that my mother is
keeping house for me in London; but such is the case. I need scarcely
tell you how pleased she would be to see you. That is my cab waiting
there. Let me persuade you to keep me company as far as where I live.
We shall just be in time for a cup of my mother's tea, which I
remember you used to say was the best you tasted anywhere."
Somewhat to his surprise, the Vicar rose at once, although a little
stiffly. "I shall be very gratified indeed," he said, "to see Mrs.
Winslade again after so long a time. I know no one for whom I have a
greater respect and esteem."
Half-an-hour later the hansom deposited the two men at Pembury Villa.
As Phil had prophesied, they were just in time for a cup of his
mother's tea. After the Vicar had partaken of one, together with a few
mouthfuls of thin bread-and-butter, he suddenly fell fast asleep in
the easy-chair in which he was sitting on one side of the fire. It was
past ten o'clock when he awoke. Scarcely had he opened his eyes and
had time to call to mind where he was, before his hostess was at his
side with a cup of broth in which a glass of sherry had been infused.
A few minutes later he averred that he felt better and stronger than
he had felt for the past week. It was too late now to think of going
down to Iselford till the morrow, and he must perforce stay where he
was over night.
As the Vicar sat there an irresistible longing came over him to
unburden his mind of the trouble that was crushing him down--so
utterly down that, as he sat on the Embankment, he had more than once
been tempted to make an end of everything in the cold grey river
running so swiftly within a few yards of his feet.
Well, he yielded to the longing and did unburden himself. The story he
had to tell, although sad enough, was by no means an uncommon one. He
had been induced--he did not say by whom or what--to invest the whole
of his savings, painfully accumulated, a few pounds at a time, during
a long course of years, in some American mining shares of which only
half the nominal capital had been subscribed. The concern had been
paying an intermittent dividend for three or four years, and there
seemed no likelihood that the shareholders would ever be called upon
to disburse the remainder of the capital. The sudden flooding of the
mine had, however, entirely altered the complexion of affairs. A large
sum was needed to enable it to be got into working order again, and a
heavy call was at once made, something like six hundred pounds being
demanded from the Rev. Louth Sudlow as his portion thereof. Now, the
whole of the Vicar's available resources did not amount to more than
one-sixth of the sum in question. The predicament was a serious
one--so serious, in point of fact, that Mrs. Sudlow, in a moment of
desperation, had been induced to appeal for help to her kinsman, the
Earl of Beaumaris. The answer to that appeal had been a curt refusal.
After that, as a last resource, the Vicar had come up to London in the
hope of being able to borrow the required sum from an old college chum
with whom he still kept up a desultory correspondence. Here again
disappointment awaited him. His friend had gone on a voyage to the
antipodes for the benefit of his health, and was not expected back for
some months. Ruin stared the unhappy man in the face, and he had been
wandering about the streets for some hours, lacking courage to carry
back home the story of his failure, when Phil chanced to encounter
him.
Such was the story poured forth by the Vicar, brokenly and with many
pauses and hesitations, to his sympathising listeners. But when, an
hour later, he went down on his knees in his bedroom he had been made
happy by the assurance that the morrow should see his troubles at an
end.
Next forenoon Mrs. Winslade went into the City and sought an interview
with her broker. When, later in the day, Phil saw the Vicar off at the
terminus on his way to Iselford, the heart of the latter was too full
to find expression in words. There was a last handshake, a fervent
"God bless you!" and then, as the wheels of the train began to
revolve, he was fain to turn away his face and hide the emotion which
would no longer be controlled.