The Loudwater Tragedy

by T. W. Speight

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.