A Son of Ishmael: A Novel

When Nance entered her drawing-room Rowton was waiting to receive her. He was standing by the hearth. A great fire burned in the grate. Nance, as she entered at the extreme further door, saw a picture which caused her to give an exclamation of fresh delight; she looked down a long vista of lovely furniture, of knick knacks, of small tables, of flowering plants which filled the air with a subtle perfume, and saw her husband’s noble figure in evening dress as he waited for her. She scarcely noticed the dress, but her heart leapt up to receive the smile which shone out of the dark eyes and trembled round the lips. Then her gaze travelled a step further. Close by the man stood someone else—a slender boy, who might have been any age from nine to eleven, dressed picturesquely in black velvet with a Vandyck collar.

Each feature of his bold dark face was a counterpart of the dark face of the man who towered above him; by the boy’s side, the boy’s hand resting on his head, was a huge German boarhound, a magnificent creature of perfect breed.

“I never told you about this young gentleman, Nance,” said Rowton, coming forward, and holding the boy’s hand as he did so.

“Let me introduce you to my nephew, Murray Cameron; he has Scotch blood in him. Make your best bow to your aunt, Murray.”

The little chap went forward, giving a low bow.

Nancy held out her hand.

“Nonsense,” she said, “you need not bow to me, Murray; I am delighted to see you.” She laid her white hand on his shoulder, and bending forward kissed him on his brow just where his clustering curls met the white skin.

The boy flushed crimson, raised two splendid dark eyes and looked full up into her face.

“Come, come, Murray,” said his uncle, “you can go back now and continue your attentions to Roy; Roy will be jealous; look how he is sniffing your coat.”

“Roy has no reason to be jealous,” said the little fellow in a determined, manly voice; “he must be a very silly dog if he supposes I can compare him to a beautiful lady.”

Rowton burst into a loud laugh.

“Jove! youngster, you are coming on,” he said; “there, you may go now, in any case; you may come to dessert if your eyes remain open long enough.”

“I am not likely to sleep,” said the boy. He gave another glance of the broadest admiration at Nancy, and then walked gravely down the room, accompanied by the boarhound.

“How is it you never told me about that dear little fellow, Adrian?” said Nancy.

Rowton rumpled up his hair with a careless movement.

“I forgot his existence,” he said briefly.

“Forgot the existence of a splendid boy like that!” said Nancy in astonishment.

“Yes, I was occupied with other matters.”

For some reason which Nancy could not understand there was annoyance in his tone. With a woman’s tact she hastened to change the subject.

“How lovely this room is!” she said; “no wonder you gave me to understand that you would dazzle me some day. I cannot believe that I am really the mistress of this house.”

“I am glad you like it!” said her husband, recovering his good humour on the instant. “Ah! I think the servant has just announced dinner. Come, Nancy mine, let me have the pleasure of leading you to the head of your table.”

The dinner passed off somewhat tamely. The dining-room was a long and decidedly sombre apartment. But the Rowtons sat at a cheerful little table at one end, laid with glittering glass and massive plate; it was brought up close to the fire, and was lit by candles with coloured shades over them. The rose coloured light somewhat softened Rowton’s harsh complexion, and cast a fairy-like gleam over Nancy with her golden hair, pale face and soft draperies. Two footmen waited, doing their work noiselessly; the rest of the room was in absolute gloom.

Nancy could scarcely tell why she felt a sudden depression. She would not yield to it, however, and struggled hard to keep up the gaiety which she had really experienced not a few minutes ago.

When the dessert was on the table she raised her voice somewhat timidly.

“May not Murray come in?” she said. “I should like to see him again.”

“Tell Master Cameron that dessert is served,” said Rowton, turning to one of the footmen.

They both noiselessly left the room and the husband and wife were for a moment alone.

“Does Murray live here?” asked Nancy of her husband.

“Yes, this is his home. Now, see that you do not spoil him; he is a fine little chap, but the soft ways of a woman about him just now would be his destruction.”

“You don’t really mean that, Adrian; surely at Murray’s age more than at any other time, he——”

“I differ from you, my love,” said her husband. “Hush!”

He interrupted her words: she glanced down the room. Out of the darkness came a high-pitched glad voice, a gay laugh followed, and then the flashing of bright eyes, the charm of a noble little face, and the boy seated himself frankly and confidingly by his new aunt’s side.

“I left Roy in the other room,” he said, looking up at her; “I do not want Roy now.”

“Have a glass of wine, Murray?” said his uncle.

The boy held out his glass, which Rowton filled to the brim.

He drank it off and his tongue began to chatter.

“I am so glad you have both come back,” he said; “I have been awfully lonely; Mrs. Ferguson is not the best company. Now I expect I shall have a right jolly time. You are going to live here always, are you not, aunt?”

“Listen to me, Murray,” said Rowton; “you are not to worry your aunt.”

“Oh! he won’t,” said Nance. She took one of the small hands—hard as iron it felt, for the boy was all muscle—and patted it softly.

“We won’t worry each other, will we?” said Murray, glancing up at her again and laughing.

Rowton gave the pair as they sat thus close together—the very fair young girl, for Nance was nothing more, and the beautiful dark boy—an earnest, penetrating glance.

“By Jove!” he said, “I see you are both going to fall in love with each other. Take care both of you; I shall begin to be jealous.”

“Not you, Adrian,” said Nance with a smile.

“But he will, though,” said Murray; “you don’t know him yet, auntie; I don’t know anyone who can be so, so——”

“So what?” said Rowton. “Come here this minute, lad, and give your aunt an account of me; she won’t believe what I say of myself, but you have known me for years.”

“Not so many years,” said Murray. “I am only eleven, and that is quite young, isn’t it?”

“Well, speak, tell your aunt what you think of me.”

The boy left his seat by Nancy’s side, went up to Rowton and leant against his knee.

“You have a bold face, young ’un,” said the man, chucking him under the chin; “speak out, you are not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid,” said the lad proudly, tossing back his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“That is right; you are a gay little bantam. Now tell that beautiful lady whom you have been impertinent enough to fall in love with exactly what you think of me, her husband.”

“You know what I think of you,” said Murray, giving the man a very keen and intense glance. Something in his gaze, fixed and full as it was, caused Rowton to lower his own bold eyes. He caught the boy’s little wrist with a grip of iron, and turned him fiercely round.

“Tell your aunt what you think of me, Murray,” he said.

“I think you are a very fine man—yes, auntie, he is a very fine man indeed, very brave; about the bravest man in the world, I should say, but——”

“No ‘buts,’ young sir, out with everything.”

“Then I will tell the truth,” said Murray; “you are not good in one way.”

“Ha! ha! Nancy,” said her husband, “listen with all your ears now; this youngster is about to lift the curtain and show you the sort of man you have deigned to marry.”

“Perhaps you can make him good all round,” said the boy, suddenly fixing his bright eyes on Nancy’s soft face; “he is not good all round now—he is not good to my mother.” The boy stepped back two or three inches, and flung back his beautiful noble head.

“Silence, this moment, sir,” said Rowton. His voice rose; it seemed to fill the big room. “Leave the room, Murray,” he said. “You have transgressed your limits; you have a certain tether and you have gone beyond it; leave the room.”

“I will, but I am not frightened,” said the boy. He still stood upright with his head flung back, but Nancy saw that his delicate lips were trembling.

“You are cruel to my mother, Uncle Adrian, and when I think of it, I—I hate you.” He turned then and marched proudly away.

It seemed a long time to the listeners up at the warmly-lighted part of the room, until they heard the last echo of his little footsteps, and the banging of the door in the dim distance as he walked away; then they both looked one at the other. Nancy’s face was white and troubled; tears were in her eyes; Adrian was looking full at her.

“That little turkey cock must be quieted,” he said; “he takes too much on him; you are not to spoil him, Nancy, do you hear?”

“But what does he mean?” asked Nancy; “he says that you—you are cruel to someone.”

“Come back to the drawing-room with me, sweet Nance.”

Rowton held out his hand; he clasped Nancy’s with a pressure which almost made her cry out; she bit her lips and walked by his side in silence. The drawing-room was the picture of comfort; Rowton sank down into a deep easy chair, and pulling Nancy towards him, seated her on his knee.

“Now, my wild bird,” he said, “the curtain begins to lift; what do you think of your Adonis? do I begin to show the cloven hoof?”

“No, no, no,” she said, a strangled sob in her throat, “but you frightened me; why did you roar like that at the child?”

“He angered me, the little spitfire,” said the man; “he has got a spirit that nothing will break.”

“But he is you, Adrian, he is you—young. He is what you were as a child.”

“Faith! I believe you are right, Nance.”

“I wish you had not shouted at him,” she continued. “I hated to see him, and yet I loved to see him standing up so bravely under your anger.”

“I told you I was a lion,” said Rowton. “You have heard my first thunder. Heaven grant that I may never thunder at you, darling. For the rest, by those who know me well, by those who know me best of all, I am more feared than loved.”

“No, no,” she said, “I cannot believe it. That little chap loves you.”

“But he said he hated me.”

“He hates you for a cause; he wants you to be good all round.”

“That I can never be; goodness is mawkish.”

“And who is his mother, Adrian, and why, why are you cruel to her?”

Rowton grasped Nancy’s wrist again.

“Do you really think I am?” he said.

“No, I don’t,” she said with white lips, for his grasp was so firm, so fierce, that she could scarcely help wincing at the pain.

It relaxed at her words and his features wore a smile.

“That is good, little woman,” he said; “if you believe in me, all the rest of the world may think as it pleases.”

“But who is the boy’s mother?”

“My sister.”

“And why did he speak in that strange way about her?”

Rowton did not answer for a while.

“Nancy,” he said then, “this is our first night at home, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised at his tone.

“Now I am not going to say anything harsh.”

“No,” she answered, “but I don’t think I much mind if you do.”

“Ah! my little woman,” he said, suddenly clasping her to him in a fierce embrace, “I knew you had a spirit of your own: now I am going to remind you of something. Do you remember the compact we made each with the other on the day of your father’s death?”

Her face turned very white.

“I wish you would not remind me of that,” she said after a pause.

“You force me to,” he replied; “the time has come for me to remind you of it, Nancy; I shall not interfere with your secrets if you do not interfere with mine.”

“Then you have secrets?” she said again.

“Yes, little girl,” he answered—his voice was low—there was shame in the tone.

“Ah!” he said suddenly, “you would make me an angel and worship me as such, but I am a fiend. Do not try to know too much; be happy—you can be happy, but knowledge would be your death-blow.”

She sat quite still and did not speak another word. In the distance she heard a child’s laughter.

“Hark to the young cock sparrow—he has recovered,” said Adrian; “nothing depresses him long, and nothing can crush him.”