Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael - L. T. Meade - Страница 4

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Rowton left the house, clinking his spurs as he did so; Nancy listened to the sound he made with a beating heart.

“Suppose father hears,” she thought; but then she remembered that the old man was lying in a state of stupor, which, in all probability, would end in death. He could not, therefore, hear. So far she was safe. Why did her father hate her lover? Why had he cursed the man whom she loved? Well, he was dying, and dead men were powerless to interfere with those who lived. Rowton’s strong will would assuredly win the day, and Nancy would be his bride.

“His willing bride,” she murmured, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “It is awful to think of marrying him against father’s wishes, but I know perfectly well that I shall do it. I am incapable of refusing him anything. I love him to desperation, and who can wonder! I love my father, too, but not as I love Adrian.”

“Please go upstairs, Miss Follett?”

Nancy started and her face turned pale.

“Yes, nurse, what is the matter?” she cried.

“Dr. Follett is awake and wishes to speak to you,” said the nurse.

“Awake! then perhaps he is better!” said Nancy.

“No, miss, he will never be that, but he is conscious and he wants you without a moment’s delay. He asked me to leave you with him, so I am going to the kitchen to try and have a bit of supper. He is pretty sure to go off towards morning; there is little chance of this gleam of consciousness lasting long.”

“I will go to him at once,” said Nancy.

She cast one longing glance at the blazing fire, then turning, left the room. She ran up the rambling old stairs; they were faintly lit at intervals by the struggling light of a watery moon. She reached the gallery which ran round the hall, paused before a creaking, badly hung door, and opening it, found herself in a lofty bedroom. The room was almost bare of furniture. A strip of carpet stood by the bedside, another was placed in front of the old fire-grate. With these two exceptions, the floor was bare. A deal table stood in one of the windows, on which a small looking-glass was placed, a chest of drawers of the commonest and coarsest make occupied a position beside one of the walls; there were a couple of chairs, a very old-fashioned washstand, a huge four-post bedstead made of black mahogany and hung with old velvet curtains—that was all.

The dying man lay in the middle of the bed; he was raised by several pillows and was breathing loud and heavily. His eyes, with dark shadows under them, were directed anxiously towards the door through which his young daughter entered.

“Come here, Nancy, be quick,” he said, speaking in an imperative voice and with wonderful strength for a dying man.

She hurried across the room and stood by the bedside, looking down at him.

“The Almighty has been good to me and has given me sufficient strength to say what is necessary,” panted the doctor. “I am dying.”

Nancy opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them.

“I am dying,” said Dr. Follett again. “You need not try to contradict me, Nance, I know what you would say. You have been a good girl, and you will, in the ordinary course of nature, miss me for a little; you will also as naturally forget me after a short time. I have been a burden to you and have led you a weary life, but we have no time to go into that now. Death is in a hurry and I must do something before I go to him. I have sent for you to get you to make me a promise.”

Nancy began to tremble. Again she made an effort to speak, but again failed; her hands were tightly locked together and beads of sudden moisture stood on her forehead. Dr. Follett was gazing at her out of two sunken and fierce eyes.

“You know what I allude to,” he said. “I see the knowledge in your face; you know what has animated me and kept me alive during the last six years.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied.

“I die before my work is completed,” he continued, “but I leave it to you.”

“I cannot take up your work, father,” she answered.

“Don’t talk folly, child. You must take it up. You know what the object of my life has been. Your brother was murdered; for six long years I have been searching for the man who took his life—I have been a hunter in pursuit of my prey. There is a man alive on this earth whom I must find, my grip must hold him, my revenge must reach him. I die without scenting my quarry, but you must follow where I leave off. There, my brain is clouded, I cannot think, not definitely, not clearly—a short time ago I had a suspicion. I wish Crossley, the detective, were here, I could tell him. It seemed to me that I had got hold of a clue at last, but it has slipped from my fingers, from my memory; I cannot recall it. I choke—this emotion is too much for me. Give me a dose of that medicine, quick.”

Nancy turned to a table which stood near. She poured something from a bottle into a medicine glass and brought it to her father. She held the glass to his lips; he drained the contents to the dregs.

“That is right,” he panted, “that is good stuff, it warms the heart. I used to give medicine myself like that long ago; there is chloroform in it, it is very comforting. Come to my side, Nancy, let me hold your hand. Remember I am a dying man and the requests of the dying ought to be granted. You are to make me a promise. Your brother, Anthony, was murdered, you are to find the murderer, and to avenge his death; you are to take up my life work, child. If you don’t I shall curse you.”

“Where you failed, how am I to succeed?” she answered. “I won’t make that cruel promise.”

“If you don’t I’ll curse you,” replied the dying man, his glittering eyes looking full into hers. She shuddered and covered her face with her trembling hands.

“I think nothing at all of your squeamish womanly fears,” he said, with an awful sort of sneer. “Sit down by me—I have everything planned out—listen.”