As time went on Mrs. Sudlow found her secret becoming more and more of a burden. If only she could have shared it with someone--if only she could have had one confidant with whom to dissect and discuss it in all its bearings. There were times when the longing to whisper it became almost irresistible; but she knew that her husband would never forgive her if she were to breathe the slightest hint of it to anyone. Weakly good-natured, and somewhat of a time-server, as the Rev. Louth Sudlow might be in some things, no man could be more rigid than he on a point of honour, or have a more genuine contempt for the mean and ungenerous motives which prompt the actions of so many people. No; however painful its continued presence might be, Mrs. Sudlow--so indifferent, as a rule, to her husband's wishes, so contemptuous of his opinions, and so habituated to having her own way--was yet in this matter afraid to take the embargo off her tongue which the Vicar (so foolishly and weakly, as it seemed to her) had seen fit to lay upon it.
One of Mrs. Sudlow's most intimate friends was a certain well-to-do maiden lady, of middle age, Miss Tuttilow by name, who, being very hospitable and fond of society, and without a grain of malice in her composition, was deservedly popular.
Miss Tuttilow had one brother, who, like herself, was unmarried, and who was a partner in a firm of London lawyers. In the spring of each year Gregory Tuttilow made a point of stealing away from business for a few days, and of spending a brief holiday with his sister, in order that he might be able to indulge in the fishing for which the neighbourhood of Iselford is so justly famed.
It was on an afternoon in the pleasant month of May that Miss Tuttilow, who never let a week go by without calling at least once at the Vicarage, said to her "dear friend," Mrs. Sudlow: "Gregory has gone back home after a week of the best fishing he has had for years. By the way, the mention of his name reminds me of a rather curious circumstance which happened the other day. He and I had walked into the town together--he to buy some tobacco and I some feminine fal-lals--when whom should we meet face to face but Mrs. Winslade. She favoured me with one of her indefinite smiles, bowed slightly, and passed on. 'You seem to know that lady. Who is she?' queried my brother, as he turned for a moment to look after her. Whereupon I told him as much as anybody in Iselford knows about Mrs. Winslade, which, as you and I are aware, is very little; and then, of course, asked him what _he_ knew about her? 'Nothing at all,' was his reply. 'it was merely that she put me very strongly in mind of a person, one of your sex, whom I had occasion to meet professionally two or three and twenty years ago. The person in question was the wife of a notorious forger, Philip Cordery by name, who engaged our firm to defend him at his trial. I found Mrs. Cordery to be a very charming woman, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart for being wedded to such a scoundrel. As it happens, I have a very excellent memory for faces, and really, allowing for the lapse of time, your friend Mrs. Winslade bears a quite startling likeness to the Mrs. Cordery of so long ago. But, of course, it can be nothing more than a coincidence.' Singular, was it not, my dear friend? And it would be still more singular, would it not? should Mrs. Winslade and Mrs. Cordery turn out to be one and the same person. But even if such were the case nobody in Iselford would be able to prove it."