A Son of Ishmael – A Novel

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
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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.

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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
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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
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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
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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
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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?”

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“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
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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.
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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
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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.’

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“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
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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.”

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“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
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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.”