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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 mokers 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 ground-floor 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 ground- floor 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 500l. 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."
CHAPTER II.
WHO IS MRS. WINSLADE?
Although the Vicar of St. Michael's, in the exuberance of his good nature, had allowed Philip Winslade to infer that there was no reason why Mrs. Sudlow might not be expected to look upon the young man's suit with eyes as favourable as those with which he himself was inclined to regard it, he felt far from sure in his own mind that such would really be the case. He knew that his wife was a woman of strong prejudices and narrow sympathies, who had a habit of nourishing petty resentments till they swelled out of all proportion to the original cause of offence, whether it chanced to be real or merely supposititious. For his own part, he would have gladly welcomed Phil for a son-in-law. He--the Rev. Louth--was, comparatively speaking, a poor man. There seemed little prospect of any further preferment for him; he had eight younger olive-branches to provide for, who were growing more expensive year by year; and to be able to get his eldest daughter off his hands, and married to one who he felt sure would make her a good husband, seemed to him one of those things devoutly to be wished. He was not a man of strong will, nor even one of those who contrive to mask their moral cowardice under the bluster of self-assertion. Dear to his heart were peace and quietness, more especially on the domestic hearth. As he rang the vicarage bell this evening his courage sank a little at the prospect before him. His conscience was too sensitive to allow him to shirk what he deemed to be a duty, how disagreeable soever it might be to him; but that did not render its discharge any the easier.
Dinner came as a brief respite. It was not till later, after the younger members of the family had retired for the night and husband and wife were left alone in the drawing-room, that the Vicar braced himself to the task before him.
Mrs. Sudlow was a small, slight, fair woman, with chilly blue eyes, pinched features, and a somewhat worn and acid expression; but whether the latter was due to the fact that she found the cares of a numerous family weigh heavily upon her, or whether it had its origin in those fictitious troubles which some women make a point of creating for themselves, hugging them all the more fondly in that they have no substantial existence, was a moot point, and one which, happily, no one was called upon to decide.
The Vicar laid down the Times, which he had been making a pretence of reading, hemmed and gave a tug at the bottom of his waistcoat. His wife was seated opposite him, busy with some fancy embroidery.
"My dear, I picked up young Winslade this afternoon, or, to speak more accurately, he picked me up, at Downhills station. He was on his way from London to spend a few days with his mother."
Not the slightest notice took Mrs. Sudlow. Her husband might have been addressing himself to the chimney-piece for any heed vouchsafed by her.
Again the Vicar cleared his voice.
"From what he told me, it appears that he has been over to America on some special matter for his employer, and, by a rather singular coincidence, it so happened that he crossed from New York in the same steamer that brought my sister and Fanny. By the way, I don't think that Fan, in the letter she wrote us after landing, as much as mentioned young Winslade's name."
"Why should she? Doubtless to her such a detail seemed too insignificant to be worth recording."
This was not a very promising beginning, but there could be no drawing back now; whatever might be the result, he must go through with that which he had made up his mind to say.
"There may, perhaps, have been another and a totally opposite reason why Fan made no mention of Philip Winslade in her letter."
"What do you mean? The older you get, Louth, the fonder you become of beating about the bush when you have anything to say."
"That's your opinion, is it, my love?" he demanded, not without a shade of irritation. "Well, then, in what I am about to tell you there shall be no beating about the bush--none whatever. Here, in a few words, is the long and the short of it. Fan and young Winslade met on board the Parthenia, doubtless as old acquaintances, they having known each other for years. My sister being prostrated by sea-sickness, they were naturally thrown much together, and by the time Liverpool was reached had contrived to fall in love with each other, and come to some sort of a mutual understanding in the affair. Had Winslade and I not met in the train, it was his intention to have sought an interview with me in the course of Monday next."
Mrs. Sudlow's needle came to a halt midway in a stitch, and the line of her lips hardened till the division between them was scarcely perceptible.
There was a brief space of silence when the Vicar had brought his statement to an end. Then Mrs. Sudlow said in her chilliest accents: "And what, pray, might be Mr. Philip Winslade's purpose in seeking an interview with you on Monday next?"
"What purpose but one can a young man in such circumstances have? What he is anxious to obtain is my consent--or rather, I ought to say, our consent--to his engagement with Fanny. Indeed, he went so far as to put the question to me this afternoon; but of course I told him that it was impossible for me to give him an answer on the spur of the moment, or, in point of fact, till I had consulted with you in the matter."
"I fail to see why you could not have given him an answer on the spur of the moment, as you term it."
"Surely, surely, my dear, in a matter which so nearly concerns the welfare of our child, some little time for consideration is imperatively demanded."
"None whatever, as it seems to me, where a person like Philip Winslade is in question. You might have given him his answer there and then, and thereby have saved him the necessity of seeking a further interview with you."
"Um! That would certainly have been rather an arbitrary mode of procedure. But there is another view of the affair which does not seem to have struck you. As I understand it, Winslade and Fanny have already come to some sort of an agreement, in which case----"
"There is no need whatever why you should trouble yourself on that score. Fanny will be home in a week from now. I shall know how to deal with her."
"And yet Fan is a girl of spirit," remarked the Vicar drily, "and when once she has made up her mind, sticks to her point like a limpet to its rock. I rather doubt, my dear, whether you will find her as easy to manage in this affair as you seem to anticipate."
"I have not the least doubt in the world that, to serve his own ends, Philip Winslade has exaggerated a mere passing flirtation, such as is so often indulged in on board ship, into something far more formidable than it really is. In any case, as I said before, you may leave me to deal with Fanny, and, if needful, to--to bring her to her senses."
"With all my heart. But why this display of animosity as regards young Winslade? More than once I have heard you hint that it would be a good thing if Fan were to make an early marriage."
"I am not aware that I have imported any animosity into the conversation. I have merely brought to bear a modicum of that wordly prudence and common sense which it behoves all parents to exercise where the future of their children is in question, but in which, I am sorry to say, you are lamentably deficient."
She paused to re-thread her needle.
"After all," she resumed, "if one may ask, who and what is this Mr. Philip Winslade with whom you seem to be so taken up?"
"Come, come, Kitty, you can't pretend that you are altogether ignorant of his antecedents. He is a clear-headed, energetic, clever young man, and, as it seems to me, sure to make his way in the world. He is a good son----"
"Cela va sans dire. It would be more to the purpose if you were to ascertain the amount of his income and the nature of his prospects--provided he has any."
"Those were points, my dear, which there was no opportunity of entering upon in the train. But had he not conceived himself to be in a position to marry, if not just yet, in the not distant future, I do not suppose he would have spoken to me as he did."
"Would you not be nearer the mark if you were to say that such 'mercenary considerations,' as I have no doubt you term them to yourself, never entered your mind?"
The Vicar coughed and proceeded to polish his spectacles with his handkerchief.
"You seem to forget," resumed Mrs. Sudlow, a little inconsequentially it might have been thought, "or, rather, you never care to remember, that Fanny is second cousin once removed to the Earl of Beaumaris. But there! I have known for years, to my sorrow, that you have not a morsel of proper pride in your composition."
The Vicar's shoulders went up deprecatingly. "My dear," he said, "if the noble Earl, your second cousin, had ever done anything for us, or had interested himself in our fortunes in any way, it might have been politic to bear the family connection in mind. But, seeing that neither he nor his daughters, the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, care a stiver about us, it may be as well to leave the 'claims of long descent' out of the discussion."
Again Mrs. Sudlow's lips compressed themselves into a thin straight line. She felt that it had become necessary for her to shift her basis of attack. She had reserved one barbed arrow till the last. "After all, you have contrived to shuffle out of the question I put to you, which was, Who is Philip Winslade?"
"My dear, you know as well as I do that he is the only son of Mrs. Winslade, who has been a neighbour of ours for the last dozen years, and who, in addition, is a lady for whom I have the highest possible regard."
"Oh, I am quite aware that you always had a sneaking penchant for Mrs. W. She is what is vulgarly called a 'fine woman,' and I have not forgotten that your tastes always did run in that direction."
The Vicar held up his hands. "My love, you are forgetting yourself!"
"Not at all. If I may push my question further--Who is Mrs. Winslade?"
"You know precisely as much about her as I do."
"Which is equivalent to saying I know nothing about her."
"Her life for the past twelve years is before you to bear witness for her."
"As much of it as she has allowed to be seen, and that, as you must admit, is very little. In the first place, Who was she before she made her appearance at Iselford? She planted herself among us without a single introduction. To this day nobody knows where she sprang from. She passes herself off as a widow--who can say with certainty whether she ever had a husband?"
This was too much for the Vicar. He got up abruptly, his face very red, and an unwonted sparkle in his eyes. "For shame, Kitty; for shame!" he exclaimed. "I never thought to hear such words from the lips of my wife. I will leave you to your uncharitable thoughts and retire to my study."
It was not often in their little skirmishes that the worthy Vicar ventured to offer such a bold front of opposition to his wife as he had this evening, and through all the irritation and annoyance into which she had stung him he could not help pluming himself somewhat on his unwonted display of pugnacity. Still, nothing had been settled, no course decided upon as between husband and wife, and it was quite evident that the question would have to be reopened by one or the other of them. And reopened it was next morning as soon as breakfast was over, with the result that the following note, addressed to Philip, was delivered by Quince, the sexton, at Whiteash Cottage early on Sunday afternoon:
"My dear young Friend,--With reference to what passed between us yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Sudlow and I have come to the decision that, pending my daughter's arrival at home about a week hence, when an opportunity will be afforded us of ascertaining her views and wishes, the question at issue had better remain precisely where it is at present. Such being the case, it seems to me advisable that our interview, as arranged for to-morrow, should be postponed till a future date. You may, however, rely upon it that as soon as I have any communication to make you shall hear further from me.
"Pray present my remembrances to Mrs. Winslade, and believe me,
"Sincerely yours,
"Louth Sudlow."
CHAPTER III.
THE SECRET TOLD.
On their arrival at the cottage on Saturday evening it was manifest to Phil that his mother was very tired, and he debated with himself as to whether it would not be better to delay breaking his news to her till the morrow. But he felt that it would be hard to have to do so; so, after waiting till she had rested awhile, and had partaken of some refreshment, he drew his chair a little closer to hers and began.
"Mother," he said abruptly, feeling at the same time a hot flush of colour mount to his face, "I have not only brought you myself to-day, but some very special news into the bargain."
"Indeed, my dear boy. By very special news I presume you mean news which I shall be glad to hear. Don't keep me on tenterhooks longer than you can help."
"The fact is, mamsie, that I've fallen in love with Fanny Sudlow (you know Fanny--have known her for years), and--and although it may seem egotistical to say so, I've every reason to believe she doesn't dislike me--indeed, far from it. My intention was to call on the Vicar while down here, and ask his consent to our engagement; but, by great good fortune, I encountered him in the train this afternoon so I took advantage of the opportunity to tell him what I am now telling you, and I must say that the dear old boy listened to me most kindly, and, in short, I'm to meet him at the vestry at eleven on Monday, when---- But, good gracious, mother, you are ill! What can I get you? What can I do for you?"
Mrs. Winslade had been lying back in her easy-chair; but the moment the confession that he was in love escaped Phil's lips her frame seemed to become suddenly rigid, while her face blanched to the hue of one at the point of death. Slowly her figure rose from its half-recumbent position till it sat stiffly upright, her long slender hands grasping each an arm of the chair. It was at that moment Phil lifted his eyes and caught sight of her face. He sprang to his feet in alarm, but his mother put up her hand with a restraining gesture, and he sank back in his chair, unable to take his eyes off her face.
"It has come at last--that which I have so long dreaded!" said Mrs. Winslade, speaking in a hard dry voice, wholly different from her customary low and mellow tones. "Of course it was folly to hope that the blow could be much longer delayed, and if it had not come now it must have come a little later." She paused, as if to crush down the emotion which she found it so hard to keep back. "To-day, when you asked me to reveal to you my life's secret, I told you that you knew not what you asked, and for your own sake I refused to tell it you. Now, however, you must be told. There is no help for it--would to heaven there were! My poor boy, you are about to pass from the land of sunshine into that of shadow, and it is my hand that perforce must thrust you there."
"Mother," said Phil, a little proudly, "it seems to me that you underrate both my strength and my courage. If you, a woman, have been able uncomplainingly to carry this dark secret (whatever its nature may be) all these years, why should you fear that I, a man, may sink under the burden of it?" Next moment he was on his knees in front of her and her arms were round his neck. "Forgive me," he added, "I know that in this, as in everything, you have acted for the best."
"Mine is a terrible confession for a mother to have to make to her son," began Mrs. Winslade a few minutes later, when she and Phil had in some measure recovered their composure. "As you are aware," she went on, "I have never talked to you much about your father. He died when you were about three years old, and to you he is nothing more than a name."
"That is all, mother--a name. Whenever I have ventured to speak of him, which has not been often, you have seemed so distressed, so unaccountably put about, that I have refrained from questioning you about him, and have been glad to turn our talk to other things."
"That I had ample cause for my reticence you will presently learn." She paused, and sat gazing into the glowing embers in the grate for what, to Phil, seemed a long time. Then she roused herself with a sigh, and, turning her eyes full upon him, said slowly: "Do you happen ever to have heard of a certain criminal, who was notorious enough in his day, but who by this time is happily well-nigh forgotten--Philip Cordery by name?"
"Why, it was only the other day, so to speak, that I met with a magazine article giving an account of his career, which had a strange fascination for me. He was known as 'The Prince of Forgers.' But what of him?"
"Merely this--that Philip Cordery, the so-called Prince of Forgers, was your father."
"Mother!" was the only word that broke from the young man's lips. It was the half-stifled cry of one struck suddenly in some vital part. Horror, incredulity, and shame the most bitter, all seemed to appeal to her out of his dilated eyes to take back her words. Then with an abrupt gesture he rose. As he crossed the room a groan forced its way from his lips. Although the lamp had been lighted long before, the curtains were still undrawn; on these pleasant spring evenings it was the custom to leave them so till bedtime. Phil opened the long window and stepped out into the veranda. A fine rain had begun to fall; sweet fresh odours seemed to be wandering aimlessly to and fro; there was a sense of silent gratitude in the air, for all nature had been athirst. Phil stood there minute after minute, resting his head against the cool pillar of the veranda. His soul was sick within him, his mind was in a tumult in which nothing formulated itself clearly save the one hideous, overwhelming fact that Philip Cordery was his father, and that he was the son of a felon. As yet he only suffered vaguely, like one who, having been suddenly struck down, comes back to consciousness by degrees. He was stunned, he was dazed, the real anguish had yet to come. A dash of cold rain in his face recalled him in some measure to himself. He stepped back into the room and shut the window, and, crossing to his mother, he stooped and pressed his damp cheek for a moment against hers.
In Mrs. Winslade's eyes, as she sat fronting the fire, pale, erect, with that absolute quietude which comes from the intensity of restrained emotion, there was nothing to be read but infinite compassion--compassion for the son whom hard circumstance had forced her to smite thus sorely.
"So that is the secret you have kept from me for so long a time," said Phil quietly, as he resumed his seat.
"That is the secret."
"Well, mother, being what it was, I can't wonder at your locking it up in your own breast, at your safeguarding it from the world; still, it might, perhaps--I only say perhaps--have been better if you had told me years ago."
"Ah, my son, do not say that! Should I not have been a wretch to cast a blight over your young life one hour before I was absolutely compelled to do so? But you know, or, at least, you can guess, why I have at length broken the seal of silence which I imposed on myself so many years ago, and have told you this to-night."
"Yes, I think I know," he said with a sort of slow sadness. "After what I told you just now--that I had won the love of one of the dearest girls on earth--you felt that the time had come when I must walk blindfold no longer, when, at every risk, the bandage must be plucked from my eyes."
"The necessity was a hard one, but there seemed to me no help for it."
"None whatever. It will be a hard thing and a bitter to have to tell the Vicar on Monday morning."
"After all these years, is there no other way than that?"
"None that I can see. The understanding between Fanny and myself has gone so far that I could not withdraw from it honourably, even were I wishful of doing so. No, mother, there is nothing left me save to tell everything to the Vicar and leave him to decide the matter in whatever way may seem best to himself."
For a little while neither of them spoke.
Then Phil said: "Mr. Sudlow is an honourable man, no one more so, and I feel sure, and so must you, mother, that your secret--or ours, as I must now call it--will be as safe with him as though it were still unspoken."
Mrs. Winslade did not reply; only to herself she said: "My poor Phil, you forget that there is such a person as Mrs. Sudlow to be reckoned with."
Phil was bending forward, staring into the fire with gloomy eyes, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin supported by his hands. "Of course it is too much, altogether too much to expect," he went on disconsolately, "however good and kind-hearted a man Mr. Sudlow may be and is, that he will ever consent to accept me in the light of a prospective son-in-law. No; he will insist on the engagement being at once broken off; and, under the circumstances, how can anyone blame him?"
Mrs. Winslade still sat without speaking. Not a word of what her son had said could she controvert. His life was wrecked so far as his love for Fanny Sudlow was concerned, and she had not even a solitary spar to fling to him. Far more clearly than he she realised what must inevitably come to pass when once her life's secret had passed beyond her keeping and his.
After a little space Phil's sombre thoughts found a vent for themselves in another channel.
"Mother," he said abruptly, "it seems to me something incredible that I should really be the son of such a man as Philip Cordery."
"It is none the less a fact which cannot be gainsaid."
"He--he died in prison, did he not?"
"He did, years before we came to live at Iselford."
Again for a little while the silence remained unbroken. Then Mrs. Winslade drew herself together like a woman who has nerved herself for the performance of a duty which, however painful it may be, must yet be gone through with.
"Now that you have been told so much it is only right that you should be told more," she presently said. "You shall hear my story once for all. After to-night I trust there will be no need for either you or I ever to refer to it again." She closed her lids for a few moments like one conjuring up in memory the scenes of bygone years.
Then with her still beautiful eyes--large, dark, and just now charged with a pathos too deep for words--fixed on her son, she began: "My mother was dead and I was living at home with my father, who was rector of Long Dritton, in Midlandshire, when I first set eyes on Philip Cordery. At that time he was a man of two or three and thirty--handsome, plausible, well-read, or so to all seeming; master of more than one showy accomplishment, and, in addition, a man who had been, or professed to have been, nearly everywhere. No wonder that I, a simple country-bred girl, who knew nothing whatever of the world, felt mightily flattered when this grand gentleman, for such he appeared in my eyes, began by complimenting me on my looks, and, a little later, went on to pay me attentions of a kind which could scarcely be misunderstood. Such being the case, it is almost needless to add that I presently ended by falling in love with him.
"Ours was a famous hunting county, and Mr. Cordery, who kept a couple of horses, had taken rooms for the season in the neighbouring town of Baxwade Regis. He was hand and glove with the master, Lord Packbridge, and was made welcome at several of the best houses round about. He won my father's heart, in the first instance, by putting down his name for a very handsome subscription to the Church Restoration Fund. I hardly know how it came about, but before long he began to be a frequent guest at the rectory. I suppose my father was taken by him, as most people seemed to be, and certainly I have never met anyone more gifted with the faculty of attracting others than he was. Well, there came a day when Philip Cordery asked my father to bestow on him the hand of his only child. Before doing so, however, he had drawn from my lips the avowal that I loved him. In what way he contrived to satisfy my father as to his means and position in life, I never heard; but that he did satisfy him is certain, seeing that my father gave his unqualified sanction to our engagement. I deemed myself the happiest of girls. We were married in the early summer and went for a month's tour on the Continent.
"On one point I must do Philip Cordery justice. He did not marry me for the sake of my fortune, which, indeed, was only a matter of a few hundreds of pounds left me by my mother's sister. Neither could he expect anything at my father's death, for the living of Long Dritton was a very poor one, and my father's purse was never shut against the claims of charity. It was a great blow to me when, within a couple of months of my marriage, my father died after a few days' illness; but when, eighteen months later, my other great trouble fell upon me, I no longer grieved that he had been taken.
"My husband had hired a small furnished house at St. John's Wood, London, which stood in its own grounds and was surrounded by a high wall. Its position was a very secluded one, so much so that it could not be overlooked from any other house. Your father had never enlightened me in definite terms as to the nature of the business in which he was engaged, but I had a vague notion that he was connected, although in what capacity I was wholly ignorant, with some important firm in the City. Sometimes his duties took him from home for a week or ten days at a time. At other times there would be days when he never went beyond the precincts of his own garden. He had given me to understand that his great hobby was experimental chemistry, and he had fitted up a room on the top floor of the house as a laboratory where he often worked till far into the night, and the door of which, whether he was engaged there or not, was always kept locked. Considering the number of people whose acquaintance he had made in the shires, it seemed strange that he should know so few people in London, but so it was. He belonged to no club, we saw very little company, and he rarely took me anywhere except now and then to the theatre. Such callers as we had were all men, many of them being foreigners of different nationalities. I usually got away from them to my own room as soon as possible, and Philip seemed pleased that I should do so.