Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael - L. T. Meade - Страница 6

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Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure and muscular arms to perfection.

“You are late to-night,” he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of growl. “I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I heard the clock strike one that you were not coming.”

“I was delayed on my way home from the station,” said Rowton briefly; “here, take Satyr, rub him down well and attend to him before you go to bed.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want any supper?”

“None that I can’t get for myself. Good-night, Samson; I shall not need your services before the morning.”

Rowton turned to his left as he spoke; Samson led the horse away to the stables which stood to the right of the Bungalow. Rowton entered the lowly built house under a heavy porch. A paraffin lamp was burning in the hall; he took it up and entered a sort of general sitting-room. It was long and low; there were three windows occupying the greater part of one of the walls; the room was furnished in nondescript style, partly as dining-room and partly as study; a square of carpet placed in front of the fire gave a certain degree of comfort to the upper portion of the apartment; the lower part near the entrance door was bare of carpet and also of furniture. A high desk occupied the whole of one window. Rowton placed the paraffin lamp now on this desk; he turned it up high and the light illuminated the entire room.

“Bad enough hole for a man to live in, but the lap of luxury compared to Nancy’s sitting-room,” he muttered. A red gleam sparkled angrily in his eye as he spoke; he sat down where the firelight fell all over him, tossed off his heavy boots, and gazed gloomily into the heart of a large and glowing fire. He was a huge man, built on a massive scale. He tossed his hair impatiently from a broad and splendidly developed brow. At this moment his eyes were full of dreadful and fierce reflection, and he pulled at his long moustache with an almost savage gesture.

“Without food, without fire, without the decencies of life—that old fool is a madman,” he muttered again, “but I’ll soon change matters. I take her with leave, if I can, but I take her without leave if any difficulties are put in my way, and sooner without leave than with. After all, to carry her off by force would suit my purpose better. The wild bird shall sing to me and make me gentle; I cannot live without her. Hullo! what’s up now, Samson? Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that the boxes will be here to-morrow night.”

“Who told you that?”

“Scrivener; I had a cipher from him by the last post.”

“All right,” said Rowton, “take them in when they come.”

“Between one and two to-morrow night,” repeated Samson; “there is no moon and we can easily get them carted off from the station without anyone noticing. Scrivener will come with them.”

“All right,” said Rowton again. “What are you waiting for? To-morrow night is not to-night, and I am dog-tired and want to get to bed.”

“There is no room in the cellar unless we move the boxes which are there already,” continued Samson. “We cannot go down there with lights in the daytime, and I can’t do the job by myself.”

“You dog! I shan’t help you to move a box to-night; get off to bed and leave me alone.”

Samson withdrew, muttering angrily as he did so.

When he left the room, Rowton rose from his chair by the fire, walked across the apartment and locked the door. Then stepping up to the uncarpeted portion of the room, he touched a secret spring, which immediately revealed a trap-door. There was a ladder beneath the door which led down into a cellar. Rowton gazed gloomily down for a moment.

He then let the trap door fall into its place, and a moment or two later put out the lamp, lit a candle and went upstairs to his bedroom.

He slept until late the following morning, and when he went downstairs between nine and ten, Samson was bringing his breakfast into the room.

“That’s right,” said Rowton, “I am as hungry as a ferret. You can put it down; I shall wait on myself.”

“You won’t forget that Scrivener is coming to-night?”

“Am I likely to, when you remind me of the fact whenever you see me? You want me to help with the boxes; I’ll go down to the cellar with you after breakfast.”

“As you please, sir, but if I were you I would not draw attention by taking a light there in the daytime.”

“We need not have a light; we can move the boxes in the dark. Be sure, by the way, that you have the cart in good time at Mervyn station to-night.”

“I forgot to say that Nelly has gone lame,” said Samson; “she hurt her hoof yesterday and won’t be good for anything for a few days.”

“You must take Satyr, then.”

“Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.”

“Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson, I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to leave the room when he suddenly came back.

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.”

“Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee.

“The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say, in that queer old character.”

“That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks, you can leave me alone now.”

When Samson withdrew, Rowton went calmly on with his breakfast. He then returned to his bedroom and completely altered his dress. His rough Norfolk suit was exchanged for that which a gentleman might wear in town. Five minutes later he issued from the Bungalow, looking like a very handsome, well set-up young man. Samson, who was grooming one of the horses, raised his head to watch him from behind the hedge. When he saw his master’s get-up, he grinned from ear to ear.

“Now what’s in the wind?” he said, under his breath; aloud he called out:

“Do you want the horse?”

“Not this morning.”

“You ain’t helped me with the boxes.”

“True, I had forgotten; I will help you when I come back. I am going to see Miss Follett.”

Samson grinned again, but he took care now to withdraw his head from any chance of Rowton’s observation.

The morning was clear and frosty; the storm of the night before had completely spent itself; the sky overhead was a watery blue, and the ground beneath felt crisp under Rowton’s feet as he walked. He quickly reached the Grange, and taking a short cut to the house, soon found himself on the lawn, where he had tied Satyr the night before. The door of the old Grange was wide open and Nancy stood on the steps. She heard her lover’s footsteps and greeted him with a very faint smile, which quickly vanished. Her face was ghastly white and red rims disfigured her beautiful grey eyes.

“Here I am,” said Rowton. “Good morning, sweetheart; give me a kiss, won’t you?”

Nancy raised her trembling lips, then all of a sudden her calm gave way, she flung her arms passionately round Rowton’s neck and burst into convulsive sobs.

“There, darling, there,” he said. He patted her on the cheek, kissed her many times and tried to comfort her, showering loving words upon her, and then kissing her more and more passionately.

“You know,” she said at last in an almost inaudible whisper.

“Of course I know,” said Adrian. “What you feared last night has come to pass—your father’s sufferings are over, he is dead. Peace to his soul, say I. Now it is your duty, Nancy, to take care of yourself and not to fret yourself into an illness. Remember I am here, and it is my privilege and blessing to feel that I have a right to comfort you.”

Nancy with some difficulty disengaged herself from her lover’s arms.

“I have something to tell you,” she said—her face was like a sheet. “Something happened last night after you left, and—Adrian—I am not free to marry you—I am not free to marry anyone! I am a doomed woman; a doom is on me and I cannot be your wife!”

She covered her face with her trembling hands; tears rained down her cheeks.

“I swear,” said Rowton, “that there is not a doom on this wide earth which shall part us. What is the matter, child? Tell me.”

“I cannot; it is a secret.”

“I swear that you shall, and now.” He tried to clasp her again in his arms, but she slipped from him.

“I can never tell you,” she said; “and while I hold this secret I must not be your wife!”