An Isle of Surrey: A Novel. Dowling Richard
made fast to an iron ring below the level of the tow-path and close to the water, drew heavily upon it, hand over hand. Gradually a long low black floating mass began to detach itself from the island, and, like some huge snake or saurian, stretch itself out across the turbid waters, now darkening in the shadows of eve. This was the floating stage of which Red Jim had told Crawford.
When the stage touched the bank Philip Ray stepped on it, walked to the other end, stooped down to the water, and, catching another chain, drew the stage back. Then he stepped ashore on Boland's Ait.
He paused a moment to gather breath and wipe his forehead, for in his wild haste he had run half the way from Camberwell. With rapid steps and arms swinging he strode to the door of what had once been the foreman's cottage, and knocked hastily. Then he made a great effort, and forced himself into an appearance of calm.
There was the sound of some one rising inside. The door swung open, and a man of thirty slightly under the middle height stood facing the failing light of day.
"Philip," he said. "Philip, I did not expect to see you so soon again. Come in."
On a table littered with papers a reading-lamp was already burning, for even at the brightest hour the light in the small oblong room was not good. By the table stood a Windsor armchair; another stood against the wall furthest from the door. There was a tier of plain bookshelves full of books against one of the walls, a few heavy boxes against another, and absolutely nothing else in the place. The cottage stood at the head of the island, and the one window of the occupant's study looked up the canal in the direction of Camberwell.
"At work, as usual," said Ray, pointing to the papers on the table as he shut the door.
"My work is both my work and my play, my meat and my rest. Sit down, Philip. Has anything unusual happened? I did not expect to see you until Sunday," said the solitary man, dropping into his chair, resting his elbows on the arms of it and leaning forward.
"I am out of breath. I ran most of the way," said Ray, avoiding the question.
"Ran!" cried the other in faint surprise. "Your walking is like another man's running. Your running must be terrific. I never saw you run. What made you run this evening?" He smiled very slightly as he spoke of Ray's walking and running.
"I am out of breath," said the other, again shirking the question. "Give me a minute."
It was not to gain breath Philip Ray paused, but to put in shape what he had to say. He had come from Camberwell at the top of his speed because he was burning with intelligence which had just reached him. He had been so excited by the news that he had never paused to think of the form in which he should communicate it, and now he was in great perplexity and doubt.
Francis Bramwell threw himself back in his chair in token of giving the required respite. He was a pale broad-browed man, with large, grave, unfathomable, hazel eyes His hair and moustache were dark brown; his cheeks and chin, clean-shaven.
Ray fidgeted a good deal in his chair, and acted very badly the man who was out of breath.
"You must have run desperately hard," said Bramwell, at length, in a tone half sympathy, half banter.
"Never harder in all my life," said the other, placing his hand on his side, as though still suffering from the effects of his unusual speed.
After a while he sat up and said, "I was pretty tired to begin with. I had been wandering about all the afternoon, and when I found myself near home I made up my mind not to budge again for the night. I found a letter waiting for me, and I have come over about that letter." He ceased to speak, and suppressed the excitement which was shaking him.
"A letter!" said Bramwell, observing for the first time that something very unusual lay behind the manner of the other. "It must have been a letter of great importance to bring you out again, and at such a rate, too." He looked half apprehensively at his visitor.
"It was a letter of importance."
A spasm of pain shot over the face of Bramwell, and his brows fell. "A letter of importance that concerned me?" he asked in a faint voice.
"Well," after a pause, "partly."
Bramwell's lips grew white, and opened. He scarcely breathed his next question: "From her?"
"O, no!" answered Ray quickly.
"About her?"
"No."
Bramwell fell back in his chair with a sigh of relief. "I thought the letter was about her. I thought you were preparing me to hear of her death," said he tremulously, huskily.
"I am sorry to say you were wrong. That would be the best news we could hear of her," said Ray bitterly.
"Yes, the very best. What does the letter tell you that affects me?"
"It is about him," answered Ray, with fierce and angry emphasis on the pronoun.
"What does the letter say?"
"That he is in England."
"Ah! Where?"
"In Richmond."
"So near!"
"Who saw him?"
"Lambton."
"Beyond all chance of mistake?"
"Beyond all chance of mistake, although he has shaved off his whiskers and moustache. Lambton saw him on the railway platform, and recognised him at once. Lambton had no time to make any inquiries, as his train was just about to move when he recognised the villain standing alone. But I have plenty of time for inquiries, and shall not miss one. I'll shoot him as I would a rabid dog."
"The atrocious scoundrel!"
"When I read the letter I only waited to put this in my pocket."
He took out a revolver and laid it on the table.
Then for a while both men sat staring at one another across the table, on which lay the weapon. At length Bramwell rose and began pacing up and down the room with quick, feverish steps. Ray had not seen him so excited for years-not since his own sister Kate, the solitary man's wife, had run away, taking her baby, with that villain John Ainsworth, whom Edward Lambton had seen at Richmond. After the first fierce agony of the wound, the husband had declined to speak of her flight or of her to his brother-in-law. He plunged headlong into gambling for a time until all his ample means were dissipated, unless Boland's Ait are enough to keep body and soul together. Then his grief took another turn. He was lost to all his former friends for months, and at last took up his residence, under an assumed name-Francis Bramwell instead of Frank Mellor-on Boland's Ait, in the South London Canal. To not a living soul did he disclose his real name or his place of habitation but to Philip Ray, the brother of his guilty wife, and the sworn avenger of her shame and his dishonour.
Ray watched Bramwell with flashing, uneasy eyes. By a desperate effort he was calming his own tumultuous passions.
At last Bramwell wound his arms round his head, as though to shut out some intolerable sight, to close his ears to some maddening sounds, to shield his head from deadly, infamous blows.
"Bear with me, Philip!" he cried huskily, at length. "Bear with me, my dear friend. I am half mad-whole mad for the moment. Bear with me! God knows, I have cause to be mad."
He was staggering and stumbling about the room, avoiding by instinct the table on which the lamp burned.
Ray said nothing, but set his teeth and breathed hard between them.
"I did not think," went on Bramwell, unwinding his arms and placing his hands before his face, as he went on unsteadily to and fro, "that anything could break me down as this has done. I thought I had conquered all weakness in the matter. I cannot talk quite steadily yet. Bear with me awhile, Philip!"
The younger man hissed an imprecation between his set teeth.
Bramwell took down his hands from his face and tore the collar of his shirt open.
"What you told me," he resumed in a gentler voice, a voice still shaken by his former passion of wrath, as the sea trembles after the wind has died away, "brought it all back upon me again. How I worshipped her! How