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 theTimes, 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."
"Whatdoyou 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 theParthenia, 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,ourconsent--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 sneakingpenchantfor 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."
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, youmustbe 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.
"All this time, although many of my illusions had taken to themselves wings, I was by no means unhappy. Philip, while never demonstrative, was kind in his careless, easy-going fashion; in fact, I may say that I believe he was as fond of me as it was in his nature to be of anyone. And then, by-and-by, you were born, and life seemed to me a sweeter thing than it had ever been before.
"It was when you were about four months old that the crash came. There is no need for me to dwell on that time, nor to recapitulate in detail all I had to go through. It is enough to say--and it may now be said once for all--that Philip Cordery was proved to have been the leader and guiding spirit of one of the most notorious gangs of bank-note forgers with which the present century has had to do. I saw him but twice after his conviction. A month or two after my second interview with him he died. A little later, through the death of an uncle, I came in for a legacy (taking his name at the same time), the income derivable from which has enabled me to keep up a home such as you have known as long as you can remember. At my death the capitalised amount will become yours to deal with as you may deem best."
Philip had refrained from interrupting his mother's narrative by a word; indeed, his interest in the tragic story she had to tell was too intense to allow of his willingly breaking in upon it even for a moment. When she had come to an end the silence that ensued was broken by a deep-drawn sigh from him. "Poor mother! poor mother!" he murmured half aloud. It was on her and on all she had undergone that his thoughts were dwelling just then, rather than on that mysterious entity--to him he would remain for ever a mystery and a wonder--Philip Cordery, the author of his being; or even on the effect which his mother's revelation might have on his own future.
Presently Mrs. Winslade spoke again. "You will now be able to comprehend one thing which has doubtless puzzled you more than enough in days gone by, and that is why I have led so persistently secluded a life, seeing so little company under my own roof and scarcely ever visiting anywhere. Never feeling sure from day to day that the secret of my past might not by some mischance become public property, I was determined that the good folk of Iselford should not have it in their power to say that I forced my way into their society under false pretences--that I had sought them out and sat by their firesides, being conscious all the time there was that in my history which I would be ashamed to have them know. It is they who have sought me out; it is they who have thrust themselves on me. In so far my conscience holds me free from blame."
Philip Winslade did not accompany his mother to church on Sunday morning. His heart was still so sore, he was still so mentally shaken by his mother's revelation that, like the stricken deer, he craved for solitude the most absolute. It was a craving Mrs. Winslade was too wise to combat. She herself had suffered in like manner in years gone by, and her heart bled for her boy.
Phil still held firmly by his overnight determination to make a clean breast of it to the Vicar at their interview on the morrow, and it was so evidently the right thing to do that on no account would his mother have breathed a syllable in any effort to dissuade him therefrom. In the course of the afternoon the Vicar's note was delivered at the Cottage, and after a first reading it seemed both to Phil and Mrs. Winslade as if a brief providential breathing-space had been accorded them. The evil day was only put off for a time; but it was a respite, and they were grateful for it.
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 therôleof 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."
"Still, I cannot help repeating that it is a great pity you could not bring yourself to put up with your aunt's whims and little infirmities of temper, especially knowing, as you do, what a number of mouths there are at home to be fed, and what a little money there is to do it on. But of course it was too much to expect that you would sacrifice any of your ridiculous prejudices, whatever might be the gain to others from your doing so."
Fanny did not reply; she was already debating a certain scheme in her mind which would reduce the number of mouths to be fed at home by one.
It was not till rather a late hour, and after the younger members of the family circle had retired for the night, that Mrs. Sudlow found an opportunity of being alone with her daughter. The Vicar, with a prevision of what was coming, had shut himself in his study on the plea of having to put the finishing touches to his morrow's sermon.
Mrs. Sudlow was not without her misgivings as to the success of the task she proposed to herself. Her preliminary skirmish with Fanny in the afternoon had proved to her of what stuff the girl was made. But the little woman was not deficient in pugnacity, and rather relished a battle-royal now and again, as tending to diversify the monotony of everyday existence. Only she would much rather that her antagonist should have been someone other than her daughter. In the present instance, however, there was no help for it.
"Your father accidentally encountered young Winslade the other day, when he was down here over the week-end," began the Vicaress. "From what I gathered, it would seem that you and he met on the steamer which brought yourself and your aunt over from New York."
The clear olive of Fanny's cheek flushed to the tint of a damask rose at the sudden mention of her lover's name. There was something in her mother's tone, an added flavour of acidity, as it were, which warned her that she was about to be attacked. A moment later her coolness came back to her in full measure.
"What you gathered was no more than the truth, mamma," she said. "Philip Winslade and I met on board theParthenia, and seeing that Aunt Charlotte was confined to her state-room the whole way across, I was glad to have someone to talk to other than strangers."
"I can quite understand that, my dear; and if the matter had only ended there no harm would have been done. Mr. Winslade, however, would seem to be gifted with an amazing amount of effrontery and self-conceit."
"You surprise me, mamma. That he is occasionally a little audacious, I am willing to admit; but of the other qualities which you attribute to him I know nothing."
"In any case, it would seem that you have studied him to some purpose."
"There is so little to do on board ship except study one's fellow-passengers."
Mrs. Sudlow was becoming slightly nettled.
"There is all the difference between a general study and an individual one. I have good reason for speaking of young Winslade as I did. May I ask, Fanny--and I trust you will give me a straightforward answer--whether you were aware of the particular object which brought him to Iselford a week ago?"
Again that tell-tale colour dyed Fanny's cheeks, but she answered her mother as calmly as before.
"I was quite aware, mamma, of the nature of the business which brought him here. He came to see papa and to ask him for his sanction to our engagement."
"Your engagement! Can it be possible that the wretched affair has gone as far as that?"
"That is just as far as the 'wretched affair' has gone."
"You--you astonish me. I can't find words to express a tithe of what I feel. Do you mean to tell me that you have been cozened into an engagement with this young man?--that you have allowed him to extort from you a promise which----"
"Pardon me, mamma, but there has been no cozening, as you term it, either on one side or the other. Quite the contrary, I assure you. My engagement with Philip Winslade is the outcome of my own free action. It was entered into deliberately and with my eyes wide open."
"Oh, this is too much!" cried Mrs. Sudlow, her hands quivering with the excitement which she had some ado to keep under. At that moment she would dearly have liked to box her daughter's ears, as she had been used to do in days gone by. "But, thank goodness, it is not too late," she went on. "Your father must interfere. The affair must be broken off at the earliest possible moment."
"Did papa give Mr. Winslade to understand as much at their interview last week?"
Mrs. Sudlow paused before answering. She had taken it for granted that Fanny was acquainted with what had passed between the two men, but in so thinking she had evidently assumed what was not the fact. She would have given much to be able to assure the girl that the Vicar had already sent Phil to the right-about; but, with all her faults, she was a truthful woman where a question of fact was involved, and Fanny's question demanded a truthful answer.
"No, Fanny," she replied; "your father, instead of giving Mr. Winslade hiscongéthere and then, as he ought to have done, was weak enough to defer his final decision till after your arrival at home."
"Dear, dear papa!" murmured Fanny under her breath. Mrs. Sudlow saw the added sparkle that flashed suddenly out of her eyes, but did not hear the words.
"Not that the result will be in any way different," resumed the latter lady dogmatically. "Your father must write the young man a note on Monday, informing him that the affair is finally broken off."
"Indeed, and indeed, mamma, he must do nothing of the kind."
"Why not, pray?"
"Because the affair, as you call it, is not broken off--in point of fact, it is quite a long way from being broken off."
"Disobedient girl! And would you, then, persist in this--this entanglement in direct opposition to the wishes of your parents?"
"Pardon me, mamma, but I have not yet heard from papa's lips that he is so wholly opposed to my engagement as you seem desirous of making him out to be."
"For all that, I tell you that he will write to the purport just now stated by me."
"I should be very sorry for him to do so. The writing of such a note would simply have the effect of putting things in more of a tangle than they are already; and that is hardly necessary, I think."
"Perhaps you won't mind telling me what you really mean."
"Simply this, mamma. Even if papa were to write such a note as you speak of, it would not have the effect of breaking off my engagement. I have given my word to Philip, and only he himself could induce me to take it back, and I am quite sure he is not likely to attempt anything of the kind. So long as I remain under age my obedience, up to a certain point, is due to my parents, and I will do nothing in direct opposition to their wishes. But my engagement will continue to stand good just the same, and in two years and two months from now I shall be twenty-one."
It was gall and wormwood to Mrs. Sudlow to be compelled to listen to this outspoken statement without seeing any means by which it might be gainsaid. "You are a wilful, headstrong, disobedient girl," was all she could find for the moment to say. It was a statement which Fanny made no attempt to refute.
"Neither you nor your father have an atom of proper pride about you," resumed Mrs. Sudlow in a tone of cold acidity. "Little did I think that any daughter of mine--the daughter of a woman who can trace back her ancestry for upwards of three hundred years--would ever condescend to marry anyone so low down in the social scale as Philip Winslade. I know quite well what his Lordship will say when he hears of it--for hear of it he must. He will say that you have disgraced the family from which (on your mother's side) you spring, and he will beg that your name may never be mentioned in his hearing again." For once the little woman seemed on the verge of tears. For her the picture her imagination had conjured up was full of pathos.
Fanny bit her lip and waited for a few moments before trusting herself to reply. Then she said: "With all deference to you, mamma, I don't care the snap of a finger what his Lordship may choose either to think or say--indeed, if it comes to that, I very much doubt whether he remembers that there is such a person as poor me in existence, and certainly I am not going to make a fetich of him. I have not forgotten that day when the Earl and his daughters drove over from Raven Towers, where they were staying on a visit, and condescended to partake of luncheon at the Vicarage. As for his Lordship, I remember that both in manners and appearance he struck me as being more like a small shopkeeper than a nobleman with a long line of ancestry, and the way he once or twice snubbed papa, who is much the finer gentleman of the two, made my blood boil, young as I was at the time. And then, when I was asked to show the Lady Anna and the Lady Mary round the garden, I have not forgotten with what frosty condescension they listened to my remarks, nor how they stared at my sunburnt cheeks, and my country-made shoes and my poor print frock--as if, taken altogether, I were a creature who had strayed by chance from another sphere. Do you think, mamma, that to themselves, or to each other, they would acknowledge that the same blood runs in my veins as in their own? No, I am quite sure they would not."
Mrs. Sudlow cast up her eyes and shook her head. She could not but acknowledge to herself that she had come off second best in the encounter. All she could find to say was: "You are incorrigible--yes, perfectly incorrigible; and I am at a loss to know why Providence has seen fit to afflict me with such a child."