Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael - L. T. Meade - Страница 5

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As Nancy seated herself on the edge of the bed, her face grew startlingly livid.

“You cannot surely mean what you are saying, father,” she replied.

“I mean,” said Dr. Follett in a steady and strong voice, “exactly what I say. I have failed to avenge your brother’s death; you must finish my work.”

“I am sorry,” said Nancy. “I am sorry at an hour like this to have to refuse you anything, but I cannot do what you ask.”

“I will not die until you promise,” replied the doctor. “For six years I have done all that man could do. I have not left a single stone unturned, I have not neglected the slightest clue, yet I have failed. The man who murdered Anthony has still to be found. If he walks this earth he shall be found. I die, but you must find him.”

“You forget that I am a girl,” said Nancy; “no girl could undertake work of this kind.”

“Pooh! what does sex matter?” replied the doctor. “Does the fact of your being a girl alter love? Did not you love the dead boy? I die. It is the will of the Almighty to take me away before my work is accomplished; but I leave behind me a child, my lineal descendant, the loving playmate of the murdered boy, the girl into whose ears he whispered his young secrets, the girl who kissed his young lips. This girl is no weakling, she can take up my work; she shall. I insist, I command, I will listen to no silly cowardly entreaties. Do you hear me, Nancy? I die before another sun rises, but my unfinished work drops on to your shoulders; you dare not refuse me—do you hear what I am saying? You dare not.”

“The task you set me will kill me, father. I am dreadfully tired already. I am utterly weary of the misery of my life.”

“Kneel down, child,” said the doctor. His voice changed from its hard and ringing note; it grew all of a sudden soft, beseeching, tender.

“You have a woman’s heart and a woman’s spirit,” he said, touching one of the slim young hands and stroking it as he spoke; “but you have more than that, you have a man’s courage. I have seen that courage shine in your eyes in more than one sudden emergency; the day the blow fell I saw it. I have seen it since, when you have denied yourself and turned your back on the good things of youth, and followed me, step by step, uncomplainingly, up the narrow path of self-sacrifice and self-denial. You can do it—you shall. Think of Anthony, think for a moment of the old times.”

“Yes, I remember the old times,” replied Nancy. She began to sob as she spoke.

“That is right, child, cry away. I have touched your heart. When I touch a heart like yours courage soon re-animates it; you will not be a coward, you will not allow your brother’s blood to cry from the ground for vengeance; think of the old times, think of your mother, think of the old, gay, happy life.”

“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said the girl; “but it is all past and over.” She wept silently, bowing her head until it almost touched the bedclothes.

“I see the old times as I lie here,” said Dr. Follett. A meditative, gentle look stole the anxiety and some of the age out of his face. “Yes,” he continued, speaking in a dreamy tone, “the past rises before me. I see a picture. There are three people in the picture, Anthony, your mother, you. Our house is full of sunshine. Your mother is proud of her children, and I am proud of your mother and of the children. The picture is very vivid, it is almost like a vision, it fills the whole of my gaze. I see the room where we sit in the evening. I see people flitting about. I see our morning-room with the sunshine on it; there is your mother’s gentle face, there is Anthony like a young eagle, all romance, chivalry—a daring boy, a splendid lad. I see you full of courage, but pretty, soft, with hair like the sun. Yes, it is a lovely picture; it rests me, it supports me. Ah, but it is changing—your mother’s place is empty, she no longer sits by the fire, or takes the head of the table. She has gone. I am in one sense alone, but still I live, for Anthony lives, and you live, and I work for you, and my profession abounds with interest and it absorbs me. Here is another picture coming on fast. I see my consulting-room; here come the patients; I give them five minutes each, and I drop the golden sovereigns into my drawer, fast, faster and faster. I am a very successful doctor. You remember all about my success, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, you were grand, magnificent in those days,” said Nancy. She had raised her head now; her tears had dried on her cheeks.

“Yes, as you say, I was magnificent,” repeated the old man, “but don’t interrupt me; I still see the picture. Patients think a lot of me—I am spoken well of by my colleagues, I am consulted by local practitioners. People come from distant lands to see me and to get my opinion. My opinion is golden. I feel myself something like a god; I can dispense life, I can issue the dread fiat of death. Here is a patient who comes from China. All the long way from the flowery land the wretched man has come to consult me. I seem to see the long voyage and the despair at the man’s heart, and now I behold the hope which animates him. He has a tumour, horrible, unsightly, a ghastly thing, a protuberance from the very home of Satan himself, but I remove it by my knife and by my skill, and the man recovers. Look at him! He is blessing me, and he is offering me the half of all his worldly possessions. Oh! how he has suffered, but I have relieved him. I have lifted him from hell to paradise. Yes, I am a great doctor. How beautiful, how absorbingly interesting is this picture of the golden past!”

Dr. Follett’s voice dropped—the animation went out of it.

“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened, for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his murderer lives.”

“But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——”

“I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my work.”

Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them, became fixed on her father’s face.

“I see another picture,” he said again suddenly. “I see the morning when Anthony went to Paris—to gay Paris, where he lost his life. He enters the room. How light is his laugh and how his eyes sparkle! He has said ‘farewell,’ he has gone. Wait a while—another picture is rising in that dark part of the room. Hold me, Nancy, my child, or I shall fall. I must look at it, but it horrifies me, it chills my blood. Do you see the man who has come into the room? His name is Eustace Moore.”

“Oh! don’t let us recall that dreadful scene, father,” interrupted Nancy.

“I must, child. Don’t interrupt me, let me go on describing the picture. Eustace Moore has come into the room. He is Anthony’s friend. He tells his awful tale. Cannot you hear what he says?”

“No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully bad for you to talk as you do.”

“Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore speaking. These are his words:

“‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’

“‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me everything.’

“‘Your son was murdered at a café in Paris,’ continues Moore. ‘The cause of the murder is an absolute mystery. A stranger had a quarrel with him; there were hurried words, followed by blows and pistol shots—the boy was shot clean through the heart. My address was found in his pocket; someone rushed to my flat, not far away, and I was on the scene in less than half an hour. Anthony was lying dead on a table in an inner room of the café. The man who had quarrelled with him and who had murdered him was known by the name of Hubert Lefroy. As I was entering the café, I saw a tall man rushing by in considerable agitation; he wore no hat, and he flew quickly past me. I observed his strange face, and a mark—the mark of a death’s head and cross-bones tattooed on the upper lip. Knowing nothing definitely at the moment, I did not stop to arrest his flight. My firm belief is that he is the murderer. Every possible search has been made since, but not a trace of him has been heard of. The man was tall, dark and strong. By the mark on his lip we ought to know him again—I should recognise his face were I to see him.’

“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them, as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you, my child, know how well.”

“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”

“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him, Nancy—you will carry on my work.”

“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour. “When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to succeed?”

“You must go on employing Crossley, the detective; you must use your woman’s wit—you must never slacken your zeal.”

“Oh! father, the thought is too horrible; let me drop it.”

“Never, child; I feel that I could haunt you if you did not do it. Find the man who killed Anthony; promise to carry on my work, or I curse you before I die. It will be an awful thing for you to live under your dying father’s curse.”

“I am superstitious—you have made me superstitious,” answered Nancy; “my nerves are not as strong as the nerves of girls who have lived happier lives; I do not believe I could live under your curse.”

“You could not, it would wither you up, so awful would be its quality; you would die or go mad.”

“I could not bear it,” said Nancy, again shuddering as she spoke.

“Then take my blessing instead, do my work, take up the burden bravely.”

“But is there any chance of my succeeding?” she answered, a note of wavering coming into her voice. “If you have failed to find Anthony’s murderer, how is it possible for me to succeed? All your savings have gone to detectives. All the money you earned when you were rich and famous has vanished. We have stinted ourselves and starved ourselves, and brooded over this awful thing until we have scarcely been like human beings. Can you not leave revenge to Heaven? Why should you ruin my young life?”

“Because I will have revenge,” said the dying man, “because I lived for it and will die for it. Swear, child—your idle words are only like pin pricks to me. Swear to carry on my life’s purpose or I curse you.”

Nancy groaned and covered her white face.

“I won’t be denied,” said Dr. Follett, catching hold of her arm and trying to pull one of her hands away.

“What have I done to be punished in this awful way?” said the girl.

“Swear,” repeated the doctor.

“I won’t swear,” she said suddenly. She flung down her hands; her face looked calm and resolved. “There, have your way,” she said; “I yield, I submit. I will do what you wish.”

“Swear it, swear by the heaven above and the hell beneath.”

“I won’t do that, father. I give you my word. I can do no more. I will devote my life to this accursed search. I have never broken my word. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am satisfied; you never told me a lie yet.”

He lay back panting against his pillows. He spoke huskily and weakly now that he had won his point.

“I am quite satisfied,” he said again. “You are young and you will have time to do the work. Remember that Detective Crossley has got what few clues we were able to collect. It will be necessary for you to go on employing him. There is still a thousand pounds to my credit in the London City Bank. A thousand pounds will go a long way, and you must give Crossley what money he requires. As to your own expenses, you will of course leave the Grange, but you can live very cheaply in some inexpensive country place. I have trained you to want scarcely anything. You must keep Crossley up to the mark. Crossley must search and keep on searching; he must follow up the faintest clue; the money is there, and a thousand pounds with your aid ought to do the work. Don’t forget that the man is an Englishman and that there is an ugly scar on his lip. I feel convinced that you will carry my work to a successful issue, and that your brother’s blood will be avenged. Don’t turn your young attention to the lighter things of existence; don’t marry until you have fulfilled your sacred mission.”

“But if I find the murderer, father,” interrupted Nancy, “if I am successful, what am I to do?”

The old doctor gave a grim smile.

“There is the justice of the law,” he answered; “the man would be tried and hanged; I have thought of all that. I have pictured the dying scene, and had I lived such pleasure would that trial have given me, such exquisite bliss would I have felt in the moment that the murderer was breathing out his dying breath, that I could have wished for no greater gratification on earth; but you, child, are made of different metal, and I have thought of a way by which revenge will come, swift, sure, and terrible. None know better than I that a woman’s strength has its limits. I myself will direct the bolt which severs that wretch’s life from this fair earth. Now take my keys, go to the cupboard in the wall and open it.”

Nancy walked across the room, fitted a key into the cupboard and turned the lock.

“There is a packet on the upper shelf—bring it to me,” called the doctor to her.

She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed.

“Bring it here,” said her father.

She did so.

“Lay it on the bed.”

“Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?”

“Nancy, you are never to open the box.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr. Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes. Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping. Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise. When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s blood will be avenged.”