The Loudwater Tragedy

by T. W. Speight

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."