PHILIP RAY AT RICHMOND.
Once Philip Ray started on any course he was not the man to let the
grass grow under his feet. All his time was not at his disposal. He
was in the Custom House, and for several hours a day he was chained to
his desk.
No sooner were his duties discharged on the day following the arrival
of the boy at Boland's Ait than he hastened to Ludgate Hill railway
station and took the first train to Richmond.
He had not worked out any definite plan of search. His mind was not a
particularly orderly one. Indeed, he was largely a creature of
impulse, and in setting out he had only two ideas in his head. First,
to find the man who had caused all the shame and misery; and, second,
to execute summary vengeance on that man the moment he encountered
him.
He did not seek to justify himself morally in this course; he did not
consider the moral aspect of his position at all. When his blood was
up he was impulsive, headlong. He had made up his mind three years ago
that John Ainsworth deserved death at his hands for the injury done,
and neither during any hour of these three years nor now had he the
slightest hesitancy or compunction.
He had sworn an oath that he would kill this man if ever he could get
at him, and kill him he would now in spite of consequences. People
might call it a cowardly murder if they pleased. What did he care?
This man deserved death, and if they chose to hang him afterwards,
what of that? He was quite prepared to face that fate. Kate was dying
or dead; the honourable name of Ray had been disgraced for ever; the
life of the man he loved best in all the world had been blasted by a
base, vicious scoundrel, and he would shoot that scoundrel just as he
would shoot a mad dog or a venomous snake. He was inexorable.
No thought of seeking his sister entered his mind. She was, doubtless,
dead by this time. From the moment she left her husband's roof she had
been dead to him. In the presence of Frank, and with that letter
before him, he had held his tongue regarding her. But his mind was
completely unchanged. The best thing that could happen to her was that
she should die. A woman who could do what she had done deserved no
thought of pity, had no place in the consideration of sane people; a
woman who could leave Frank Mellor, now known as Francis Bramwell, for
John Ainsworth, deserved no pity, no human sympathy. She had sinned in
the most heinous way against loyalty; let him show that all the blood
of the family was not base and traitorous. He would sin on the other
side to make matters even.
He knew that such forms of vengeance were not usual in this time and
country. So much the worse for this time and country. What other kind
of satisfaction was possible? The law courts? Monstrous! How could the
law courts put such a case right? By divorcing those who had already
been divorced! By a money penalty exacted from the culprit! Pooh,
pooh! If a man shot a man they hanged him, put him out of pain at
once. But if a man was the cause of a woman's lingering death from
shame and despair, and imposed a life of living-death on an innocent
human being, they let the miscreant go scot-free; unless, indeed, they
imposed a fine such as they would inflict for breach of an ordinary
commercial contract. The idea that treatment of this sort had even the
semblance of justice could not be entertained by a child or an idiot!
Before setting out from Ludgate Hill and on the way down to Richmond
nothing seemed more reasonable than that he should take the train to
that town, and without any serious difficulty find John Ainsworth. The
town was not large, and he could give any one of whom he asked aid the
man's name and a full description of his appearance. He possessed,
moreover, the additional fact that Ainsworth had shaved his face,
taken off his beard, whiskers, and moustache. He should be on his
track in an hour, and face to face with Ainsworth in a couple of hours
at the outside.
He stepped briskly out of the train at Richmond, and waited until the
platform was cleared of those who had alighted. Then he spoke to the
most intelligent porter he could find. First of all he gave the man a
shilling. He said he was in search of a Mr. John Ainsworth, a
gentleman of about thirty-five or thirty-seven years of age, five feet
eight or thereabouts, with a quick restless manner, a clean-shaven
roundish face, dark hair and dark eyes, in figure well made, but
inclining to stoutness.
The porter knew no gentleman of the name, he was sorry to say, and
recalled a great number of gentlemen who corresponded in some respects
with the description, but none that corresponded with all. As far as
he was aware, there was no man of the name in Richmond--that is, no
gentleman of the name. He knew a Charles Ainsworth, a cab-driver, but
Charles Ainsworth was five feet eleven or six feet, and no more than
twenty-five years of age. Perhaps the stationmaster might be able to
help.
The stationmaster knew no one of the name--that is, no one named John
Ainsworth. He knew Charles Ainsworth the cabdriver. He could not
identify any one corresponding to Ray's description, but the
interrogator must remember that a great number of gentlemen passed
through that station from week's end to week's end. Why not look in a
directory and find out his friend's address at once?
Of course. That was an obvious course. It had not occurred to Ray
before.
Accordingly he left the station, and turned into an hotel and asked to
see the local directory.
No John Ainsworth here.
Another disappointment. But this was not disheartening; for Ainsworth
in all likelihood was not a householder. At the hotel they suggested
that the post-office would be the place to learn the address of his
friend.
Ray smiled grimly as he noticed that the three people of whom he had
inquired all referred to Ainsworth as his "friend."
His luck at the post-office was bad also. Nothing was known there of
any Ainsworth but Charles, the cabdriver.
This was becoming exasperating. The man he sought could not have
vanished into thin air. Edward Lambton, who saw Ainsworth, was quite
sure of his identity. When a man recognises another who has taken off
his beard, whiskers and moustache, there is not the slightest room for
doubt of the identification, particularly if the identification is
casual, not suggested, spontaneous.
Ray felt more than exasperated now. He was furious. He walked about
the town for an hour, asking here and there, but could find no trace
of John Ainsworth. He was no more known in the place than if he had
never been born.
Suddenly he stopped with an exclamation of surprise and anger. "I am a
lunatic!" he cried in a low voice, "I'm a born lunatic! Is it because
Lambton saw Ainsworth on the platform of this place that he must live
here? Might not ten thousand people have seen me on the platform of
this place an hour or so ago, and do I live here? Indeed I do not
think any human being out of Bedlam could be so hopelessly idiotic as
I have been to feel sure he lived here."
He found his way back to the station and returned to town. He got out
at Camberwell, and walked from there to Boland's Ait. It was upon this
occasion that Crawford, sallying from Layard's, learnt from Red Jim
how the man who had come along the tow-path had failed to emerge from
the cover of the island.
"And what have you been doing all day?" asked Ray, when he was seated
in one of the armchairs in the study or dining-room of the cottage.
The boy was seated on the floor, turning over the leaves of a book
full of pictures.
"We have been busy and playing," said Bramwell, nodding towards the
child. "I was putting the place to rights, getting in order for my new
lodger. I thought you would have come sooner." For the first time in
three years Francis Bramwell spoke in a cheerful tone and looked
almost happy. There had always been a great deal of reserve in this
man, but now he seemed more open and free than he had ever appeared
even before his marriage. Suffering had purified, and the presence of
his son, whom he had taken into his heart, had soothed and humanised
the recluse.
Ray paused in doubt as to whether he should tell the other of his
visit to Richmond. He had taken no notice of the boy upon his
entrance, but he was pleased and grateful that Bramwell showed an
awakened interest in life. The child had done this, and his heart
softened towards the little fellow. Anything that brought light to his
brother-in-law was an object of thankfulness. If his friend, his
brother, as he called him, were in better spirits, owing to the coming
of the child, why should he dissipate them by telling him of his
search of vengeance. He answered the question of the other by saying:
"I was delayed. I had to attend to something."
Bramwell's face darkened. Philip had no secret from him. He was a man
who could keep nothing from a friend. Why did he not say what had
detained him? There could be only one explanation: the delay had been
caused by something in connection with the letter Philip had received
the evening before. It was plain to Bramwell what had detained Kate's
brother. Bramwell said very gravely:
"You have been to Richmond?"
Philip nodded.
"Ah," Bramwell sighed heavily, "I thought so! Did you find out
anything?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He is not known there. I tried at the
railway station, in the directory, at the post-office, in a dozen
shops. No account or trace was to be found of the scoundrel."
"Thank Heaven!"
"I do not believe he lives there. He must have been only in the town a
little while, visiting some one, or passing through, on some new
devil's work, I will swear."
"It was a mercy for you that he was not to be found."
"A mercy for him, you mean."
For a few minutes Bramwell seemed plunged in gloomy thought. The two
men were silent. At length the elder shook himself, rose, and said:
"Come, see the arrangements I have made for the boy. He is to sleep in
my room. I am going to give him my bed. The stretcher will do
excellently for me. I have spoken to Mrs. Treleaven--you know the
woman who brings me what I want every morning. She is to come for an
hour or two a day and keep matters right for us. Up to this she has
never been on the Ait, but I could not myself keep the place as tidy
as I should like now that I am not alone. Early impressions are
lasting, and I must do the best I can to brighten up this hermitage
for the sake of the new young eyes. Come!"
The two men went to the bedroom.
"See," said the father, with a sad smile; "I have laid down this bit
of old carpet, and hung up these prints, and put the stretcher close
to the bed, so that I may be near him, and also that it may serve as a
step when he is getting in and out of his own bed. Children, I have
often read, should sleep in beds by themselves; and, above all, it is
not wholesome for them to sleep with grown-up people. You don't think
this place is unhealthy for a child, Philip?"
"O, no! You have enjoyed very good health here."
What a change--what a blessed change had come over this man! He had
been reborn, re-created by the touch of those chubby fingers and young
red lips; by the soft, silky hair and the large dark eyes; by the
fresh, sweet clear voice, and the complete dependency and helplessness
of the boy.
"But I am a man in the vigour of life," said the father anxiously;
"and am therefore able to resist influences of climate or situation
which might be perilous to one so young and delicately formed, eh? You
don't think there is any danger in the place?"
"Certainly not."
"But so much water that is almost stagnant? You are aware that there
is hardly any current in the canal, and that there are no locks on
it?"
"O, yes; but I never heard any complaints of insalubrity, and you know
the neighbourhood of a gas-house, although it does not make the air
bright or sweet, purifies it."
"I know; I thought of that. I know that a still more unsavoury
business--that of candle-making--is a preventive to pestilence; at
least, it was in the days of the Plague, and chandlers had immunities
and privileges on that account. But it is the water I fear for him.
None of your family, Philip, had delicate chests?"
"No, no; I think you may make your mind easy. I am sure the boy will
thrive marvellously here."
"I am glad to hear you say so. Let us go back. The poor little chap
must not be allowed to feel lonely. You did not take any notice of him
when you came in. Philip," he put his hand on his brother's arm, "you
are not going to visit any anger on the desolate orphan? Remember, he
is an orphan now; and you must not bear ill-will towards the dead, or
visit the--the faults of the parent on the child."
"Tut, tut!" said Philip, as they left the room and returned to the
study; "I am not going to do anything of the kind. I took no notice of
the child when I arrived because my head was full of other things."
He went to the boy and raised him in his arms, and pinched his cheek,
and patted his hair and kissed him.
"Thank you," said Bramwell. "I feel new blood in my veins and new
brains in my head, and a new heart in my body. I intend giving up
dreaming for ever. I am now going to try to make a little money.
Presently the child will have to be sent to school--to a good school,
of course."
"My dear Frank," cried Philip, with tears in his eyes and voice, "it
is better to listen to you talk in this way than to hear you had been
made a king."
"I am a king," cried the father in a tone of exultation. "I am an
absolute monarch. I reign with undisputed sway over my island home,
and my subject is my own son, whom I may mould and fashion as I
please, and whom no one will teach to despise me."