The Loudwater Tragedy

by T. W. Speight

Further consideration of the note, however, made it evident that, although the Vicar expressed a wish to defer the Monday's interview till he should have had an opportunity of consulting his daughter, that was no sufficient reason why Phil should take on himself to delay his confession. Was it not, rather, his duty to tell everything to the Vicar before the meeting in question took place? With the latter in possession beforehand of all the facts of the case, it could not afterwards be alleged that any unfair advantage had been taken of either his or his daughter's ignorance of them. Clearly here also was the right thing to do.

Next morning after breakfast--such a breakfast as either mother or son had the appetite to partake of--Phil set out for the vestry. His mother kissed him and bade him be of good cheer; her eyes were dry, but there was a wistfulness in the smile with which she followed him as he left the house which seemed to have its origin in emotions too profound for tears. As it fell out, however, the Vicar and Phil were not destined to meet that day. The latter, on reaching the vestry, was told by Jabez Drew, the parish clerk, that "his reverence" had been summoned from home by telegram and was not expected back till next day. Now, Philip Winslade was due back in London at nine o'clock on Tuesday morning. Evidently there was no help for it. He must defer what he had to say till the Vicar should appoint a meeting at his own time and place.

At this stage another difficulty confronted him. He had promised that he would write to Miss Sudlow and let her know the result of his interview with her father, by which means she would be forewarned as to the attitude her parents would be likely to adopt towards her when she should see them a few days later. But, as Philip asked himself, how was it possible, under the circumstances, that he should write to her at all? Nothing would have been easier than for him to tell her in so many words that the Vicar had postponed all decision in the affair till he should have seen Fanny herself; but how could he tell her so much without telling her more? He had written to her twice already such letters as it is a lover's happiness to indite, but how dare he mention such a word as love now with that hideous secret crushing him down like a veritable Old Man of the Sea? Neither could he tell his tale to her before telling it to her father. To have done so would have been to take advantage of the Vicar in a way his pride would not allow--him to stoop to, and would, in addition, have the appearance of trying to secure, through Fanny's compassion and womanly pity, a promise to continue true to him which she might see cause to regret after the influence of her parents should have been brought to bear on her. Even at the risk of having hard things thought of him by her he loved so fondly, he would keep an unbroken silence till he had made his confession to the person who was entitled to hear it first of all.

Miss Sudlow went down to Iselford on Saturday by the same train that her lover had travelled by a week before. She had been puzzled and somewhat put about when day passed after day without bringing her the expected letter, or a word of any kind from Phil. That she put a score of questions to herself goes without saying, to none of which, however, was any answer forthcoming; and it was not without a certain vague uneasiness and dread of what the next day or two might have in store for her that she travelled down home. Nothing of this, however, did she betray to her mother, who, with one of her sisters, she found awaiting her arrival at the station.

Fanny Sudlow, unlike her mother, was a brunette. She had brown eyes, frank and vivacious, a great quantity of dark wavy hair, and a face that depended more on character for its attractiveness than on any special charm of feature. As we shall presently discover, she was a young woman of spirit, with a strong sense of independence and considerable fixity of will, which latter characteristic her mother called by another name.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sudlow, after she had embraced her daughter, eyeing Fanny's Saratoga trunk with evident dismay, "pleased as I am, of course, to see you again, my hope was that you had only come to pay us a flying visit, and that, in point of fact, you had contrived to make yourself so indispensable to your aunt that she would ask you to stay with her altogether."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, mamma, but I have left Aunt Charlotte for good and all. When I went to her you know it was only as a makeshift till her companion, Miss Pudsey, whose health had broken down (and I don't wonder at it) was able to resume her duties. Then poor Pudsey is terribly afraid of the sea, and Aunt Charlotte having made up her mind to go in person to America and look after some property she was afraid she was being swindled out of, probably thought that I should be of more use to her during the voyage out and home. Now, however, Pudsey is back in harness, so aunt and I have said good-bye, mutually glad to have seen the last of each other for at least a considerable time to come."

"It is a pity, a very great pity, that you were not at more pains to conciliate your aunt; and she with so many thousands to leave behind her."

By this time they had packed themselves into one of the station flies and were being jolted homeward.

"It is just possible that if Aunt Charlotte had been a poor woman instead of a rich one, I might have been at more pains to please her than I was. But, for my part, I've no inclination to fill the rôle of toady to a cross-grained and abominably selfish old woman, however well-to-do she may be." Then, a moment later, she added: "Not for a thousand a year would I willingly degenerate into a Pudsey."