CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH MISS SUDLOW SPEAKS HER MIND.

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 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."

"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 the _Parthenia_, 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 telltale 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 his _congé_ there 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."