A Son of Ishmael: A Novel

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?”