An Isle of Surrey: A Novel

The anxiety caused by his unexpected delay in town, or by the tale he had told her, may have had an injurious effect on the invalid, or it may be that, without any exciting cause, the aggravation would have taken place; but at all events, that night, or, rather, early in the morning, Mrs. Crawford rang her bell, and upon her husband coming to her he found her so much worse that he set off at once for the doctor.

As he closed the front-door after him he whispered to himself, "I wonder is this more of my luck?"

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN INTRUDER UPON THE AIT

When Kate Mellor found herself in the streets of Leeham that evening the light was beginning to fail. The clouds, which during the day had been thin and fleecy, had, as the hours went by, grown in extent and mass. They now hung above, fold over fold, dark, gloomy, threatening. The air was heavy, moist, oppressive. Not a breath of wind stirred.

The woman turned to the left, and, taking the tow-path, as she had one night before, set out in the direction of Welford. She wore her veil closely drawn over her disfigured face. Her step was more firm and elastic than in the afternoon. Then she had been on her way to seek physical relief; now she was on her way to alleviate her heart.

She left the tow-path by the approach at Welford, and gained the bridge. The usual group of loungers and loafers were there, but they took no notice of her. They could see by a glance at her that she was poor and miserable, and to be poor and miserable at Welford Bridge insured one against close observation or inquisitive speculation-it was to wear the uniform of the place.

She leaned against the parapet, and gazed at the canal side of Boland's Ait. Everything there was as usual: the floating-stage being moored by the side of the islet, as it had been on the night she tried to draw it across the water.

She turned her eyes on the other side of the island, and started. She saw what she had never seen before: the floating-stage stretching across the water of the bay, making a bridge from one bank to the other. This discovery set her heart beating fast, for if one could only get on Crawford's Quay one could cross over the stage to the Ait.

Hitherto all her hopes had been centred on the stage lying along the islet on the canal side. Now the best chance of gaining the holm lay on the side of the bay.

Crawford's Quay was not used for purposes of trade now, all the buildings being vacant except the house in which Layard lived.

The daylight was almost gone, and the heavy banks of cloud shrouded earth in a dull deep gloom-a gloom deeper than that of clear midnight in this month of June.

Kate Mellor turned again to her left and walked to the top of Crawford Street. She looked down it. All was dark except the one lamp burning like an angry eye at the bottom. As she was perfectly certain no one could recognise her, she went into Crawford Street without much trepidation. She kept on the left-hand side: the one opposite to Crawford's House.

The window of the sitting-room was fully open for air. In the room were four people: a man with a long beard, whom she did not know; a girl with golden-brown hair, whom she had more than once seen take Freddie from her husband at the end of the stage; and a second man whom she could not see, for his back was towards her. And her husband. They were all just in the act of sitting down to supper.

She knew the place and the ways of the people thoroughly. She had studied nothing else for days and days.

"There is no one now on the island but the child, and they will be half-an-hour at supper; they will not stir for half-an-hour! Now is my chance, or never!"

Her heart throbbed painfully; she was so excited that she tottered in her walk. She was afraid to run lest she should attract the attention of people passing along Welford Road at the top of the street.

Everything depended on speed. She had been down here twice before, and found that one of the staples of a padlock securing a gate had rusted loose in the jamb. Without the floating-stage for a bridge, this discovery was useless; without the absence of her husband from the island, or unless he was sunk in profound sleep, the loose staple and the stage-bridge would be of little avail. But here, owing to some extraordinary and beneficent freak, all three combined in her interest to-night!

Not a second was to be lost. Already she was working fiercely at the loose staple. It was rusted and worn, and the wood was decayed all round it, but still it clung to the post, as a loose tooth to the gum.

She seized it with both her hands, although there was hardly room for one hand, and swayed it this way and that until her breath came short and the blood trickled from her fingers.

No doubt it was yielding, but would it come away in time? She had not hours to accomplish the task. She had only minutes, and every minute lost was stolen from the time she might bend over her darling, watching, devouring his lovely face, and listening to his innocent breathing, and feeling his sweet baby breath upon her cheek!

O, this was horrible! Break iron! break wood! break fingers! break arm! but let this poor distracted outcast mother into the presence of her child for the last time, for one parting sight, one parting kiss, in secret and fear!

At last the staple yielded and came away in her hand, and in another moment, after a few gratings and squealings, which turned her cold, lest they should be heard, the unhappy mother forced open the door and passed through.

In another moment she was across the bridge and on the land which her love for her little one had made dearer to her from afar off than ever Canaan was to the desert-withered Israelites of old.

There was light enough to walk without stumbling. She knew the lie of the place as well as it could be learned without absolutely treading the ground. She took her way rapidly round the wall of the old timber-yard and then across the little open space to the cottage. She observed no precaution now, but went on impetuously, headlong.

The door of the cottage was shut. She opened it by the latch, and, having entered, closed it after her. She did not pause to listen; she did not care whether there was any one in the place or not. She knew she was within reach of her child, and that she should be able to see him, to touch him, before she died. She was within arm's length of him, and she would touch him, though he was surrounded by levelled spears. The spears might pierce her bosom, but even though they did she could stretch out her hand and caress his head before the sense left her hand, the sight her eye.

She knew where to find the door of the room in which he slept, for the light she had seen the other night through the eye of Welford Bridge as she came along the tow-path was burning, much dimmed, on the same window-sill now.

She opened the door and entered the room.

In the middle of the bed lay the child, half-naked. The heat of the night had made him restless, and he had kicked off the clothes.

With a long tremulous moan she flung herself forward on the bed, and, penning his little body within the circle of her arms, laid her disfigured face against his head and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XXX.

HETTY'S VISIT TO THE AIT

"And so we have got you at last, and here is Mr. Ray, who will hardly believe you are really coming," said Layard that evening, as Bramwell knocked at the back door and entered Crawford's House. "It is very good of you to make an exception in our favour."

"All the goodness is on your side in inviting one who has been out of the world for so long a time. I know you will believe me when I say that now we are known to one another I am very glad to come."

"There is nothing like breaking the ice, and let us hope for a phenomenon that the water below may be warm. You have no notion of what it is to be at the works all day long and never exchange a word with a congenial soul. Then when I come home I do not think it fair to my sister to leave her alone. So my life is a little monotonous and dull; but now that I have made the acquaintance of you and Mr. Ray I mean to lead quite a riotous existence."

"You will, I know, excuse me if I do not stay long tonight. I must go back to the boy."

"You may go back now and then to see that all is well. But, after all, what is there to be afraid of?"

"Well, you know, I made an enemy to-day, and it might occur to him to revenge himself upon the child."

"But he can't get near the child. Your stage on the canal side is moored, Mr. Ray tells me, and we are here at this end of the other stage, and I don't think there is a small boat he could get on the whole canal. Besides, how is he to know but you are at home? I am sure you may make your mind quite easy."

"Still, if you allow me, I shall go early."

"You may go early to see that all is safe, but we will not let you say good-night until you are quite tired of us. Come in: Mr. Ray and my sister are in the front room."

Layard had purposely delayed a little while in the passage. He was a most affectionate and sympathetic brother, and he did not know but that the two people in the front room might have something to say to one another.

They had, but it did not seem matter of great interest or importance.

"Miss Layard," said Philip Ray when her brother had left the room, "you told me you never were on Boland's Ait."

"Never," she answered.

"Mr. Bramwell is certain to be anxious about the boy, and it would be a great kindness if you would go over the stage and see that all is well."

"I! what? Do you mean in the dark?" she said, looking at him in astonishment.

"Well, Miss Layard, I thought you had more courage than to be afraid of a little darkness; but if you did feel anything like timidity, rather than that Mr. Bramwell should remain uneasy, I would go with you and show you the way. What do you say to that?"

She said nothing, but, bending her head over her stitching, blushed until her bent neck grew pink under her golden-brown hair.

He did not insist upon an answer. Apparently he felt satisfied. In a moment the door opened, and Layard and Bramwell came in.

Although the lamp-light in the room was not particularly strong, for a moment Bramwell was dazzled and confused. He had not been in so bright a room since his retirement from the world. Although the furniture was faded and infirm, it was splendid compared with that in his cottage. Then there were a few prints upon the walls in gilt frames, and curtains to the window, and pieces of china and an ornamental clock on the chimney-piece, and a square of carpet in the middle of the floor, and a bright cover on the table, not one thing of the like being on Boland's Ait.

There was, too, an atmosphere of humanity about the place which did not find its way to the island; here was a sense of human interest, human contact, human sympathy wholly wanting in his home. Bramwell had come from the cell of an anchorite to a festival of man.

But above all else and before all else was the tall, lithe, bright-faced, blooming girl, with plenteous hair and blue eyes, in which there were glints of gold, and the ready smile and white teeth that showed between her moist red lips when she spoke. This was the first lady Bramwell had spoken to or met since his exile from the world, and she was beautiful enough for a goddess-a Hebe.

Was this, he asked himself, the dream of a captive, and should he wake to find himself once more mured between his white washed walls, environed by silence and bound by the hideous fetters of a bond which was a horror and a disgrace? Should he wake up as he had awakened every morning for three years, to think of his ruined home, his blighted life, and his wife, who, though living, was dead for ever to him, and yet with her dead and infamous hand held him back from taking a new companion, to be to him what he had hoped she would be when he took her in all love and faith?

No-all this was true. The talk and the laughter were true. His own talk and laughter were true; and, above all, this radiant girl, with her quick wit and beautiful intelligence and sympathy, was true. All true-and he was no more than thirty years of age! A young man. A man no older than the youngest girl might marry. Philip had told him that this girl was twenty. Why, twenty and thirty were just the ages for bride and bridegroom!

And how different was this girl from the other! Here was no vanity, no craving for admiration, no airs and graces, and, above all, here were the swift responsive spirit, the keen sympathy, the aspiring spirit, the exquisite sensibility!

Ay, and it was all true, and it was allowable for him to dream, for he was free. Free as he had been when, carried away by the mere beauty of face and form, he had asked nothing but physical beauty, believing that he could inform it with the soul of a goddess, until he found that the physical beauty was clay, which would commingle with no noble essence, which preferred a handful of trinkets or an oath of hollow homage to all the stirring tumults of the poets or the intense aspirings of the lute! Yes, he could be a poet under the influence of such a deity. He could sing if those ears would only listen; he could succeed if those lips would only applaud!

He took no heed of time; it slipped away like dry sand held in the hand. He never could tell afterwards what the conversation had been about, but he knew he was talking fast and well. Never in all his life had he spoken under such an intoxicating spell as that of new hope springing in the presence of this girl. It was intoxication on an intellectual ether. His blood was fire and dew. His ideas were flame. The human voices around him were the music of eternal joy. There was in his spirit a sacred purpose that defied definition. He seemed to be praying in melody. He was upheld by the purpose of an all-wise beneficence now revealed to him for the first time; he was transported out of himself and carried into converse with justified angels.

Philip Ray sat in amazed silence at the transformation. It was more wonderful than the miracle of Pygmalion's statue: it was the enchantment of emancipation, the delirium of liberty. He had known and honoured-nay, worshipped-this man for years, but until to-night he had never suspected that he was a genius and a demi-god. He had known him as a martyr, but until this night he had never realised that he was a saint.

"I must go," at length said Bramwell, rising. "I have already stayed too long."

"No, no," said Philip Ray, springing up, "you must not stir yet. This is doing you all the good in the world. I have asked Miss Layard to have a look at the island, and she will see to the boy. You cannot deny her this little gratification. We arranged it before you came. You are here now, and you must do what you are told. I will take her safely over the bridge and back, and then we shall have another chat."

Hetty rose with a heightened colour.

"Pray sit down, Mr. Bramwell; we will bring you back news of the boy. It is much too early to think of leaving, and we are afraid that if once you went across to-night you would not come back again. Now that we have got you we will not let you go."

Layard passed his hand over his bearded mouth to conceal a smile. He guessed the object of Ray's proposal.

"Mr. Bramwell," he said earnestly, "you must not think of stirring."

He rose, and, placing his hands on the other's shoulders, gently forced him back on his chair.

"I am giving you too much trouble, Miss Layard," Bramwell said, with a smile; "but if I must stay and you will go, there is nothing for it but to submit."

His real reason for yielding so readily was the intense pleasure it gave him to find that she took such an interest in his boy.

"Put the lamp in the kitchen-window, Miss Layard," said Philip, when the two found themselves in the back passage. "The light will be useful in crossing the stage."

She did as she was bidden, and rejoined him on Crawford's Quay, just outside the back door, which they left open so as to get the benefit of the hall-light.

"Give me your hand now," said he, and he led her across the floating bridge. "You had better leave me your hand still," he said when they were on the Ait. "It is very dark, and I know the place thoroughly. What do you think of Mr. Bramwell?"

"I think him simply wonderful. I never heard anything like him before. Does he always talk as he did to-night?"

"No; still he usually talks well. But though I have been very intimate with him for many years I never heard him talk so well. As a rule he speaks with great caution, but to-night he threw reserve to the winds and let himself go."

"I think I can manage now without your help," she said, endeavouring to withdraw her hand.

"I should be very sorry to believe anything of the kind," said he, preventing her. "You had better leave me your hand for a little while."

She bent her head and ceased her effort.

"Miss Layard," he said, after a moment's pause, "I want you to do me a great favour. Will you?"

"If I can," she said in a very low voice, so low that he had to bend towards her to catch it.

"In the dark and the daylight leave me your hand. Give it to me for ever."

"But the boy?" she said. "We must go see the boy."

She made a slight attempt to release her hand. He closed his fingers round it.

"We shall go see the boy presently." They were now standing at the tail of the Ait "I have your hand now, Hetty darling, and I mean to keep it. I have loved you since the first time I saw you, and I never loved any other woman. You will give me your hand, dear, and yourself, dear, and I will give you my heart and soul for all my life. You will give me your hand, dear?"

She did not take it away.

Then he let it go himself, and, putting his arms carefully round her, folded her gently to his breast, and said, with a broken sob:

"Merciful Heaven, this is more than any man deserves. May I kiss you, dear?"

"Yes."

Her head was leaning on his shoulder. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

"I'm glad there's no light, dear."

"Why?"

"Because if I saw you I could not believe this is true. Hetty."

"What?"

"Nothing, dear. I only wanted to hear your voice, so that I might be sure this is you."

He put his hand on her head.

"Is that your hair, dear?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe it. And do you think you will grow fond of me?"

"No fonder than I am, Philip. I could not be any fonder than I am."

"This is not to be believed. So that when I come into the room where you are it makes you glad?"

"It gives me such gladness as I never knew before, nor ever thought of."

"This is not to be believed."

"And when you go away I feel so lonely and desolate."

"Do not tell me any more, or I shall hate myself for causing you pain."

"But I would rather feel the pain than be without it. And I'd give you my life, Philip, if you wanted it. I mean I'd go to death for you, Philip; and I'd follow you all round the world, if you wanted it-all round the world, if you would only look back at me now and then."

"You must not say such things, child."

"But they are true."

"I had hoped, dear, but I had not hoped so much as this-nothing like so much as this, and I cannot bear to hear you say so much. Listening to it makes me seem to have done you an injury."

"And I'd do everything that you told me. I'd even go away."

"Hush, child, hush! It is not right to say such things."

"But they are true. I'd go away and live alone with my heart if you told me, Philip. Now don't you see that I love you?"

"I do, dear. But now I see how much less my love is than yours, for I could not go away and live alone with my heart."

"I could. Shall we see to the boy now?"

"Yes."

CHAPTER XXXI.

BY THE BOY'S BEDSIDE

Kate Mellor, lying beside her child on the bed, suddenly became aware of footsteps approaching the cottage along the canal face of the island. She had been fondling and talking to Frank, and he was now half awake.

Between the bed and the wall there was the space of a foot. The mother slipped down through this space to the floor, and there lay in terror, trying to hush her breathing and still the beatings of her heart. She could not tell herself exactly what it was she dreaded more than discovery. Her fears took no definite form.

The footsteps came up to the cottage, and then stopped. Through the open window sounded voices, the voices of a man and a girl. As the concealed woman listened her heart stood still, for she recognised the male voice as that of her brother.

"Go in, Hetty," said the male voice, "and I'll wait for you here. The room is on the left-hand side."

"You won't come in?" asked the girl.

"No. Of course all is right. If you speak in the room I shall hear you."

The girl came into the cottage, opened the door of the sleeping-room, and approached the bed.

"Mother," said the boy, who was now covered up.

The concealed woman grew cold with fear.

"Are you awake, Frank?"

"Yes, mother," said the boy, stretching himself, yawning, and rubbing his eyes. "Are you going to take me away again? If you do, take Freddie too."

"I'm not your mother, Frank. Don't you know me?" said the girl.

"You said you were my mother, and I know you are, though you have spots on your face."

"Rouse up, Frank," said the girl in a tone of alarm. "Look at me. Who am I? Don't you know me?"

"You're mother, and you said you'd take me away to Mrs. Pemberton's, only father wouldn't let you," said the boy, with another yawn.

There sounded a tumult in the ears of the mother, and she thought she should go mad if she did not scream out.

The visitor went to the window and spoke to the man outside. "The child has been dreaming, and fancies I'm his mother."

"Heaven forbid!"

"Why?"

"His mother is not to be spoken of. His mother was the basest, the worse woman that ever lived. She, fortunately for herself and every one else, died a little while ago. You are not to mention her name, dear. It sullies wherever it is uttered."

The hiding woman shrank into herself as if struck by an icy blast. Was it thus she deserved to be spoken of by her only brother? Yes-yes-yes! As the basest, the worst woman who ever lived? whose name sullied the place in which it was uttered? O yes-yes-yes! It was true! Too true.

The boy's eyes were now wide open, and he was looking at the tall slender figure of the girl standing out black against the lamp in the window.

"Aunt Hetty."

"That's my own boy. Now you know me," said the girl in a soothing and encouraging tone as she went back to the bed.

"Aunt Hetty, where's mother gone?"

"She wasn't here, Frank. You were only dreaming."

"O, but I wasn't. I saw her. She lay down beside me on the bed, and she had red spots on her face."

The girl shuddered.

The woman gasped and felt as if her heart would burst through her ribs.

"Philip," said the girl, once more going to the window, "I don't like this at all. I think the child must be a little feverish. He says his mother was here, and that she lay down beside him on the bed, and that she has spots on her face. What do you say ought to be done?"

"Nothing at all. Get the child to sleep if you can. As you say, he has been dreaming."

"But, indeed, I don't like it. He's so very circumstantial. He says his mother told him she'd take him back to Mrs. Pemberton's, only his father won't let her. Who is Mrs. Pemberton?"

"I don't know. Some lodging-house keeper, no doubt."

"Well, I don't know what ought to be done. There is no chance of the child going to sleep soon, and either he is raving or-or-or-" the girl's voice trembled-"something very dreadful indeed has occurred here. The child cannot certainly be left alone now." She looked around her with apprehension. She was pale and trembling.

"You seem uneasy, Hetty."

"I am terrified."

"I assure you the child has been dreaming, that is all. It is quite a common thing, I have read, for children to believe what they see in dreams has real existence."

"O, talking in that way is no use. I am miserable and frightened out of my wits, Philip."