A Son of
Ishmael
BY
MRS. L. T. MEADE
Author of
“The Medicine Lady,”
“Dr. Rumsey’s Patient,”
“A Soldier of Fortune,” etc., etc.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. BURNHAM SHUTE
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK
A SON OF ISHMAEL.
[Illustration: “I die before my work is completed,” he said; “but leave
it to you.”—_Frontispiece._]
A SON OF ISHMAEL
A Novel
BY
L. T. MEADE
AUTHOR OF “THE MEDICINE LADY,” “HEART OF GOLD,”
“NOBODY’S NEIGHBOR,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE
LONDON—F. V. WHITE & CO.
Copyright, 1896,
by
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.—DR. FOLLETT’S SECRET 1
II.—HIS WILLING BRIDE 15
III.—THE PACKET ON THE UPPER SHELF 19
IV.—AT THE BUNGALOW 30
V.—A WILD WOOER 37
VI.—LONG JOHN 45
VII.—THE WEDDING NIGHT 54
VIII.—AT THE OPERA HOUSE 60
IX.—THE ROSE-COLOURED BEDROOM AND THE NEW MAID 70
X.—THE BOY ON THE HEARTH 78
XI.—THE QUEEN ANNE WING AND GARDEN 87
XII.—SILVER 95
XIII.—LONG JOHN 104
XIV.—THE BUTLER’S PANTRY 108
XV.—LEAH 121
XVI.—THE LADY IN THE WOOD 130
XVII.—CROSSLEY 139
XVIII.—THE TORN LETTER AND THE MARK 147
XIX.—THE SILVER SCHOOL 156
XX.—A BLACK DIAMOND 170
XXI.—THE RATS IN THE QUEEN ANNE WING 174
XXII.—THE MAN WITH THE MARK 184
XXIII.—DAME ROWTON 192
XXIV.—THE BLACK DIAMOND AGAIN 200
XXV.—KIDNAPPED 208
XXVI.—A “PLANT” 214
XXVII.—INVISIBLE INK 225
XXVIII.—HESTER 236
XXIX.—“CALL ME DAWSON” 242
XXX.—MRS. LARKINS 250
XXXI.—A SUMMONS 260
XXXII.—A RED TRACK 266
XXXIII.—“IF NOT, LIE TO HIM” 277
XXXIV.—A TOAST 290
XXXV.—WAGES 295
XXXVI.—THE DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN 306
CHAPTER I.
DR. FOLLETT’S SECRET
Not many years ago in the neighbourhood of Andover stood a lonely house,
which went by the name of the Grange. It was enclosed in walled-in
gardens, and people who passed by on the high road saw nothing of
it. The house itself was squarely built—its windows were small, with
old-fashioned latticed panes, and its thick walls were closely covered
with ivy and other creepers of the hardy species.
It was a lonely place, standing solitary and bleak all the year round,
its sole inhabitants being an old man, a young girl, and one servant.
These three inhabited a corner of the old house, living very sparsely and
frugally, doing without warmth and comfort in winter and without all the
gay things of life in summer. The grounds round the Grange had gone to
rack and ruin; the huge kitchen garden was full of weeds, and the lawn in
front of the house had been attended to by no gardener since Dr. Follett
and his daughter, Nancy, took possession of the place six years ago.
People who saw them at church on Sunday said that Nancy Follett was a
handsome girl; she had bright grey eyes, good features, and quantities
of beautiful hair; her face had strength about it, her lips were firmly
moulded; she had a very upright and erect carriage, but she looked like a
girl who lived under a shadow, and during the six years of her residence
at the Grange she made but one acquaintance.
The neighbours would have been kind to her if she had let them, but Dr.
Follett received no visitors, and strictly forbade his daughter to make
friends for herself in the neighbourhood of her dismal home. How she got
to know Adrian Rowton was a mystery; how he obtained a footing in the
dismal old house was the wonder of the country side. But then Rowton
was a man who seemed to do what he liked wherever he went. He saw Nance
one day in church, observed the turn of her head, noticed the exquisite
curves of her soft neck and throat, commented with a quickening of his
heart’s pulses on the lovely shades of her hair, determined to get a
nearer view of her, met her by accident the next morning, spoke to her,
caught the glint of her bright eyes, and fell madly in love with her on
the spot.
Adrian Rowton had never yet seen any reason to check his inclinations,
whatever they might be. Nancy Follett’s father was an ogre, but Rowton
was clever enough quickly to gain an entrance into the deserted old
house. He made love to the father for the sake of the daughter, and to
the surprise of everyone in the place, was soon allowed to visit at the
Grange as often as he liked.
It was just Rowton’s luck, said other young men who also admired pretty
Nancy Follett, but then they looked at one another and wondered what
they meant, for if people knew nothing of Dr. Follett and his daughter,
they knew still less of Adrian Rowton. He rented a little shooting lodge
about half a mile away from the Grange. It was called the Bungalow, and
would have been to most men a singularly unattractive place. The house
was tumble-down and out of repair, and Rowton took no pains to keep the
grounds in order.
He arrived at the Bungalow two years before this story opens, accompanied
by a man-servant, a rough-looking fellow with a bulldog head and a
singularly unprepossessing face; also by several dogs, and a large
supply of guns and ammunition. Rowton had taken the shooting of a large
neighbouring estate and in the autumn he occupied himself with his
favourite pastime as long as daylight permitted. When the shooting season
was over he generally shut up the Bungalow and disappeared, returning,
however, any day or night quite unexpectedly and for no apparent reason.
He supplied Nancy Follett with plenty of game, but what he did with the
rest he never told to anyone. He used to drive about the country on a
high dog-cart, and one day brought two or three thoroughbred horses with
him from London.
People talked a good deal about him, for he had an air of mystery
which tantalised curiosity. He was tall, well set up, and strikingly
handsome—too dark, perhaps, for the conventional Englishman, but so
plucky, such a good sportsman, and withal so gay and bright when he
pleased, that against his own inclination and against the secret
prejudice of most of the neighbours, he was quickly invited to the best
houses in the place, and was, in short, a universal favourite.
On a certain night towards the end of a particularly tempestuous
November, Rowton was riding home from Andover. He was a reckless
horseman, and always rode mercilessly. The beast on which he was sitting
this special night was only half broken in. Suddenly he heard himself
shouted to by an angry voice.
“Hullo! take care, can’t you; do you want to ride right through my gig?”
Adrian pulled up his horse fiercely, the animal reared, he sprang from
its back and exclaimed with a hearty voice:
“A thousand pardons; I never saw you, Dr. Read.”
Dr. Read, who was also standing by his horse, faced the young man with a
smile.
“You nearly rode into me,” he said. “You ought not to give reins to an
animal of that sort on a dark night.”
“I am extremely sorry, but you had no lamp to your carriage. I certainly
did not expect to meet anyone on this rough bit of road. What is the
matter, doctor? What patient has called you out such a night as this?”
“I am just returning from the Grange,” said Dr. Read; “have you not
heard?”
“Heard what?—is anyone ill there?—surely not Miss Nancy!”
“Bless you, Nancy Follett is well enough, unless indeed, poor child, she
dies of her sorrows. What an old ruffian that father of hers is? Well,
he is dying now: his grief is evidently bringing him to his grave. By
the way, talking of mysteries, I believe I have got a clue to the shadow
which hangs over the old Grange.”
“And what is that?” asked Rowton, a tone of interest coming into his
voice.
“Why, they say that this old man, Dr. Follett, is no other than the
well-known physician of the name who performed such wonderful cures
in Harley Street some years back—you must have heard of the great Dr.
Follett.”
“Can’t say that I have,” answered Rowton.
“Well, well,” said Dr. Read testily, “I thought all the world knew of
him. I never for an instant suspected that this cross-grained old fellow
could be he, but I believe it is a fact. It seems that the man had an
awful shock: his only son was mysteriously murdered. Of course there may
not be a word of truth in it, but something must have happened—did you
speak, sir?”
Rowton had said “Good God” under his breath. He was quite quiet now.
“I think your informant must be mistaken,” he said after a pause. “I know
the Folletts very well, and neither father nor daughter have ever alluded
to a murdered son or brother—murdered! Good Heavens! Nancy Follett would
surely have told me of a tragedy of that sort.”
“Well,” said Dr. Read, “there is some shadow over those two lives, and
the shadow is killing the old man. Poor fellow, his days are numbered; it
is only a question of hours.”
“I am surprised, shocked, and sorry,” said Rowton. “I was at the Grange
only a week back and then Dr. Follett looked as well as ever.”
“As ill, you mean,” said the doctor. “He has been breaking up fast for
the last six months. The mystery, or shadow, or whatever it is, is
killing him, for the man is not really old. Have you ever noticed the
extraordinary gloom on his face?”
“Yes, and no,” replied Rowton. “I thought him a queer old card, but to be
frank with you, I don’t go to the Grange to study old Dr. Follett.”
The moon shone out at this moment, and Dr. Read favoured the bold outline
of the young man who stood by his side with a keen glance.
“That girl is as fine a creature as ever breathed,” he said with apparent
inconsequence; “take care, young sir, that you do not do her an injury;
but now I must be off. Follett is dying because there is a shadow over
him and the shadow is killing him. Well, I must not stay here any longer.
Good night to you, Mr. Rowton.”
“One moment before you go, doctor. Is Miss Nancy all alone?”
“No, I sent in a nurse this morning. Good-night, I must not stay here any
longer.”
The doctor got back into his gig and drove away, and Rowton stood for a
brief moment at his horse’s head. He was a man of quick action at all
times.
“Not home just at present, Satyr,” he said to the horse; “here, turn
your head to the left. So! ho! old boy, easy, easy.”
A moment later horse and rider were flying almost on the wings of the
wind in the direction of the Grange.
There was a long rambling avenue under dark lime trees up to the old
house. Rowton did not wait to open the gates. Setting spurs to his
horse the animal quickly leapt these obstacles, and then at full speed
galloped up the avenue. When the pair approached the house Rowton pulled
up abruptly, and springing from his steed led him softly over the grass.
A great cedar tree stood in the middle of the desolate lawn. Taking a
leather strap from his pocket, Rowton tied his horse to a branch of this
tree, and then stepping quickly up to one of the windows he began to
whistle, in gay clear notes, the well-known strains of “Garry Owen.” His
whistle rang out joyfully; he had just completed the melody and was going
to begin it a second time, when a noise at a little distance caused him
to turn his head; a faint light proceeded from an open door, and a girl’s
slender figure was seen standing on the steps.
Rowton made a stride forward, and the next moment had clasped Nancy
Follett to his heart.
“This is good,” he said. “I have hungered for a kiss. What is the matter,
sweetheart? you tremble as though you were an aspen leaf.”
“Because I am so glad to see you,” she replied. “But how did you know?
What brought you here at this hour?”
“By good luck, I met Dr. Read,” exclaimed Rowton; “he told me of your
trouble. There, sweetheart, you need not tremble; I am here to shelter
you.”
“But you don’t know everything, Adrian,” she said in a sort of choking
whisper. “Things have changed since I saw you last.”
“You need not tell me that, I know all about it,” he replied. “Your
father is dying and you are miserable—but things must be better when I
am with you. Let us come indoors; you will catch your death of cold if
you stay out in an awful gale of this sort, besides, we can scarcely hear
our own voices; come, I suppose you have some sort of fire in that big,
desolate dining-room.”
“Just a spark,” she answered, with a smile, which she quickly repressed.
“You seem to lift a weight off my heart,” she continued. “It is strength
and real gladness to have you close to me; but, Adrian, I cannot stay
with you; he is dying—the doctor says he will not last till morning.”
While she was speaking, Nancy turned and, followed by Rowton, entered the
great hall of the almost empty mansion.
“Why, it is as dark as pitch,” exclaimed the young man, “what a state of
things; have you no candles, no lamps, nothing to show a gleam of light
on an awful night of this sort?”
“I’ll fetch a candle,” she answered. She ran across the hall, opened
the door of a sitting-room some little distance away, and returned in a
moment, holding a lighted candle high above her head.
“The fire is out in the dining-room,” she said with another shiver,
“but we had better go there; I can talk to you better there, and I have
something to say.”
“You don’t utter a word until you have a good fire to say it by,” replied
Rowton. “This sort of thing is intolerable. You are going to be my wife,
you know, Nance, so you have to obey me, whether your father wishes it
or not. Here, give me the candle; why, your poor little hand shakes, you
would drop it in another moment.”
He took the light out of the girl’s trembling hands, and holding it in
such a manner that he could see her face, gazed long and earnestly into
it. It was a face of great spirit and beauty. The features were straight
and delicate in outline, the brows perfectly black and delicately marked,
the eyes large and of a lovely shade of grey, the golden hair looked like
a tangled web of many lights. But now the girl’s complexion was pinched
and blue with cold, and the lovely eyes had red rims round them.
“Come, let us light a big fire,” said Rowton. “I’ll soon set it going;
here are logs of wood and lumps of coal; fetch me an old newspaper,
Nancy. Now we’ll set to work.”
He dropped on his knees as he spoke, used his great hands deftly, and in
a moment or two a huge fire was roaring merrily up the old chimney.
“There now, that’s better,” he said. “You shall warm yourself—you shall
get back your delicate complexion. Why, my wild bird, you wanted me
sorely. Give me your hand—here, let me warm it. Sit on my knee close to
this blaze; it will tingle right through you. Whisper one word to me,
sweetheart; when did you last have a right, good, comforting meal?”
“Never mind about that, Adrian; how can I eat when my poor father is
dying? I love him, although——”
“Although he turned your life into a hell,” interrupted the young man
fiercely.
“That is true,” she replied; “but never mind that now—he has gone through
fearful sorrow, and I am heart and soul with him in everything.”
“Well, dearest, he is your father and one cannot account for the feelings
of affectionate girls like yourself. Thank heaven! I never had home
ties—I cannot remember my father—my mother died when I was an infant—I
was brought up in the roughest imaginable school. Yes, the school of life
was hard on me, and it has turned me out a pretty rough specimen; a rough
diamond, eh! sweet Nancy?”
“Not to me,” she answered with sudden tenderness. “To me you are the
best, the noblest of men; why will you run yourself down?”
“I won’t again,” he answered. “Now let us to business. Have you told your
father yet that you have promised to be my wife?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Why do you say ‘yes’ in that dismal way? Is he not glad? Will he not
welcome me as a son-in-law after his own heart? A little talk will
reassure him on many subjects. When can I have it?”
“Never, I fear, Adrian; he is too ill.”
“Well, then, I take you without his leave.”
“That’s just it,” replied Nance, speaking with hesitation and distress.
“You know, Adrian, how he began by taking a wonderful fancy to you.
During all the six years of our residence in this dismal old Grange you
are the only stranger who has set foot across our threshold. Father
liked you to come—he liked to talk to you—he liked to talk of you when
you went away. It comforted me immeasurably to feel that you and father
suited each other. When I saw that you loved me I was more glad than I
can say, to feel assured on the point of father also being tolerant to
you. Well, things have changed. The dreadful change took place after
your last visit. When you were gone, when you shut the hall-door behind
you, I found father in a state of strange and nervous excitement. He
was pacing up and down the room, clasping and unclasping his hands and
muttering to himself. I really had not the least idea what it all meant.
He kept saying under his breath: ‘Suspected—yes, suspected—there is a
likeness—there is a possibility of my search being terminated.’ Oh, he
has a secret, Adrian, but I don’t want to go into that now, and I thought
his poor brain was turned and that he was off his head, and I went to
him quite tenderly and touched him on his arm, and said, ‘Sit down, calm
yourself.’”
“‘I cannot,’ he said, shaking me off, ‘my heart is on fire and I am
nearly mad. That man—that man—and I harboured him here.’”
“‘What man?’ I asked in astonishment.
“‘Rowton,’ he said, ‘Adrian Rowton; I have harboured him here and made a
friend of him! Ah, but I shall track him down yet.’
“I felt myself turning quite faint with astonishment and an unaccountable
sense of terror.
“‘Father,’ I said, ‘you must be mad.’
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not mad, but my suspicions are aroused. Good heaven!
that I should have harboured that man here!’
“Then he pulled himself together, and tried to speak quietly. ‘Nancy,’ he
said, ‘listen to me. My suspicions are aroused—the man who calls himself
Adrian Rowton is never to come here again.’
“‘You cannot mean it,’ I said.
“‘I can and do,’ he replied. ‘He is never to darken these doors again.
Why, what is the matter?’ he exclaimed, for I was trembling and the tears
were running down my cheeks.
“‘It is only that I love Adrian Rowton better than anyone else in all the
world,’ I replied.
“Then he stood up and I thought he was going to curse me, but he did not
curse me, he cursed you instead. Oh! he used awful, fearful words, and
when they were over he fell down in a sort of fit. He got better after a
little, and since then has not breathed your name. I do not know what he
would do if he really knew that you and I were sitting here together.”
Rowton’s face looked disturbed while Nancy was speaking.
“Your father must have been off his head,” he said after a pause.
“No,” she replied, “his brain is sane enough.”
“He must have been off his head for the time at least,” repeated her
lover; “nothing else could account for words so purposeless and wild.
They are not worth your grave consideration; do not fret, sweetheart,
such words can make no difference to us. You don’t suppose that I will
part from the most precious thing in all the world because an old man’s
brain has suddenly given way.”
“If I really thought that,” said Nancy Follett.
“What else could it be? but now don’t let us waste our time talking about
it; you are mine and I am yours if fifty old men choose to go mad on the
subject. Now, I must see that my wild bird does not wear herself out; you
must have food, you shall have it; is there no one helping you to nurse
your father?”
“Yes, Dr. Read sent in a nurse to-day, she is upstairs now; not that
there is much to do, he has lain since the afternoon in a state of
stupor.”
Nancy was standing now close to the fire; the bright light fell all over
her; it brought a delicate colour into her cheeks and lit up her large
eyes with a strange gleam.
“You are the most beautiful creature in all the world,” said Rowton, with
passion.
She looked at him with a pained expression; her pretty dark brows were
knit together.
“Don’t,” she said suddenly. “I cannot listen to such words just now, they
seem incongruous, they press on my heart and hurt me. Whatever you may
choose to think of him, I love that old man upstairs; his fate has been
a cruel one, his grief is killing him; his terrible, his awful grief is
killing him, it is carrying him to his grave.”
“I am a heartless brute not to sympathise with you, Nancy,” said Rowton.
“What can be the grief, my dearest?”
“Ah! that I dare not tell you, that is our fearful secret. Once I was a
very happy girl, a thoughtless child. I wanted for nothing, I was gay as
the sunshine itself. Father was a successful man, he was quite a great
doctor, he had one of the largest practices in Harley Street. Then came
the trouble; it was a blow sudden and awful, like a bolt from the blue.
It crushed father and turned him into an old man, a man with only one
bitter object in life. Everything else seemed to die in him, everything
but the one consuming passion. He sold the furniture in Harley Street,
and we came here because the house was going for an old song, and father
wanted us to live cheaply; we have lived here ever since that blow
descended on our heads, and we have saved, and saved; we have starved
ourselves, we have lain cold at night, we have wanted the common comforts
of the most ordinary existence, all for one terrible purpose.”
“You certainly are a mysterious pair,” said Rowton with a laugh which
echoed painfully in the old room. “Just whisper to me what the purpose
was, Nance.”
She hesitated for a moment, then bending forward whispered a single word
in his ear.
His ruddy, dark face changed colour when she spoke, for quite a moment he
was silent.
“Your father has made a mistake,” he said; then gravely, “such a purpose
turns round and crushes the man who holds it in his grasp. His own fell
purpose will kill your father. You must drop it from your life, Nancy.
Your little sunshiny face was never meant for shadow or sorrow; you have
lived too long in the gloom; turn now to the sunshine of our mutual love.”
“Oh!” she answered, her voice coming out with a sort of strangled sob, “I
love you beyond words.”
“To please me, try and put it into words, Nan,” he asked; he gathered her
close to his heart as he spoke.
“My love is wide as the world and deep as hell,” she replied; “stronger
than death, and I think, I think, it could reach even to the heavens.”
“And mine for you means madness if thwarted,” he replied. “There is not a
man on earth can keep me from winning and holding you. There, you may go
to the old man now, for I see you want to; we’ll be man and wife before
another moon is passed. I’ll come back in the morning to learn your news.
Good-night.”