A Son of Ishmael: A Novel

Nancy lay long awake that night. Her husband slept soundly by her side, but sleep seemed determined not to visit her; she was agitated, alarmed, depressed. All the glory of that summer moon through which she had lived had faded not only into autumn, but into winter.

What were Adrian’s secrets? Why was he cruel to his own sister? What was the mystery which hung over him? The burden Nance had herself to carry was quite sufficiently heavy to daunt most women, but just at present she seemed to have laid it aside. All her thoughts were for Adrian. She loved him more deeply, more passionately than ever, but she found herself not only anxious but curious. What did he mean by those dark hints? Where she found him angel, why did other people think of him as fiend? Towards morning the tired girl fell asleep. She slept until late, and awoke to find a snow-covered world, but much comfort around her. A fire had already been lighted in her room and her maid, Hester, was waiting to attend on her.

“Is it late?” asked Mrs. Rowton, starting up in bed.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl, speaking in a certain prim, respectful voice, which was rather aggravating to listen to: “it is nine o’clock, but Mr. Rowton said you were not to be disturbed. Would you like breakfast before you get up, ma’am?”

“No, indeed,” replied Nance. “I don’t think I ever breakfasted in bed in my life; I will get up now if you will leave me, please.”

The girl raised her brows in some slight surprise.

“Just as you please, ma’am,” she said. “I have left everything in perfect order in your dressing-room, and when you ring the bell I shall be ready to arrange your hair.”

Nancy said nothing more and the girl retired.

“Why is it I don’t take to her?” thought Mrs. Rowton; “she seems a good girl, clever and obliging, but she gives me an uncomfortable sensation. Well, I need not keep her if she is not quite to my taste, and she certainly need not trouble me now.”

Nance dressed herself quickly and ran downstairs. She did not ring for Hester to arrange her hair. Her spirits rose as she dressed, and when she entered the room where she and her husband had dined the night before, she felt full of excitement and interest.

Rowton had promised to take her over the house, and she was all agog to explore her new home without delay.

The servant who waited upon her told her that his master had breakfasted nearly two hours ago; that he and Master Murray were out, but would be in before long.

Nancy had scarcely finished her meal before they appeared.

The boy ran up to her, flung his arms round her neck and kissed her.

“Have you slept well?” he asked. “I hope you are not tired; there is so much for you to see, and it is so interesting. Are you not very curious to see everything?”

“Enough, Murray,” said his uncle; “you shall take Aunt Nancy round the place this afternoon, but just at present she is my property. Run off to your lessons, my lad; I saw your tutor coming up the avenue just now.”

“Bother lessons!” said the boy.

“Are you not fond of study?” asked Nancy.

“No, I hate it; I can’t think what use tiresome books are to anyone.”

“Make yourself scarce, chatterbox,” said his uncle again.

The boy laughed and ran off.

“He is quite a darling,” said Nancy; “what a difference he will make in the house.”

“I am glad you have taken to him,” said Rowton; “he is a fine little chap, only you must not let him gossip to you, Nance. The boy has a keen vein of curiosity in him; he knows too much or thinks he does. Now, if you have quite finished breakfast I will take you round.”

They began their exploration, going from room to room and from storey to storey. The house was an old one, and as Rowton showed it to his wife he gave her a brief history of it. It had belonged to his family for several generations, but had been so eaten up by one mortgage after another, that Rowton’s own father had declined to live in the old place.

“But is it mortgaged now?” asked Nancy.

“No,” was the brief response.

“And you are rich, very rich, and your father was poor?”

“Even so, Nancy,” was the somewhat curt reply.

Nancy glanced up at her husband. His eyes looked full into hers; there was a sort of dare devil gleam in them, which she turned away from.

“I see,” she said after a pause, “I must not expect you to confide in me.”

“Forsooth, no,” he answered; “not on certain topics. We two married under a condition; if there is to be a chance of peace between us, we must keep to it. You must ask me no questions, my darling; I on my part will ask you none. I frankly admit that there are pages in my life which I do not wish you to know anything about, but on the other hand there are fair white pages which only you shall read. Are you not content with me, Nancy?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “I love you. I trust you too utterly to feel anything but happiness when with you.”

They kissed each other, standing side by side in the long picture gallery. Portraits of Rowton’s ancestors adorned the walls. There were Holbeins, Van Dycks, Gainsboroughs, and Raeburns among them—in short, a magnificent collection, which Nancy scarcely knew enough of art to thoroughly appreciate.

“Fair dames, are they not?” asked Rowton, stopping under a celebrated Gainsborough as he spoke. “Ah! now I know whom you reminded me of when you wore that Gainsborough hat in Paris; you have got just the face of that Dame Rowton; just that graceful turn of the neck. We will copy that picture for your next ball dress; you will look, as the old saying is, as if you had stepped out of the canvas.”

They both laughed and discussed the picture a little longer; then they walked on to the extreme end of the gallery.

“This way now,” said Rowton, turning abruptly to his left.

“Why so?” she asked. “Why not go through this door? See! you must have overlooked it; there is a door here, and it will take us out into another wing of the house.”

“Not now,” said Rowton. “There is nothing of interest in that wing; come into the old ball-room; it has been disused for some time, but we will restore it. Look”—he flung open a door as he spoke—“look at this carved oak; it covers the room from floor to ceiling, from ceiling to floor again. This oak is hundreds of years old and of enormous value. Will you believe me when I tell you that once such a Goth lived in the old place that he painted the oak white? It took a whole year to get that paint off; my grandfather had that done. The oak looks nearly as well as ever now. Observe the delicacy of the carving. We will furnish this ball-room again. What say you, Nancy, shall we give a ball as your house warming, after the neighbours have called on you.”

“The neighbours!” she said in some alarm; “are people coming to call on me?”

“My dear, darling little goose,” was the reply, “do you think you are going to live here in solitude? This is Saturday, to-morrow will be Sunday. You and I and Murray appear in church together—a picturesque group; we sit in the old family pew. On Monday the callers begin to arrive. We shall be invited out a good bit, and then we will give a ball in this room and you shall be dressed as Gainsborough’s Dame Rowton.”

Nancy laughed; Rowton continued to talk further about this idea; and they strolled out into the grounds. It was a lovely winter’s day towards the end of January. The pair walked quickly, exploring the different gardens and pleasure grounds. Suddenly they came straight up to a high wall which ran parallel with the house.

“What is in there?” asked Nancy.

“Another garden,” said Rowton in a careless tone.

“What a heap of gardens,” she exclaimed with a laugh. “I am almost tired of exploring them.”

“We will return to the house now,” he said; “we need not go any further to-day.”

“Oh, yes, let me see the inside of this garden. What a high wall, and broken glass all along the top! I cannot get even a peep within. I am curious. Is it a very old-fashioned garden, Adrian?”

“Yes,” he said after a pause; “we call it the Queen Anne garden here.”

“How charming! Are the trees cut about in queer shapes?”

“Yes. Contorted into foxes and dogs and bears. I fancy there is a cock, who looks exactly as if he meant to crow, just inside the entrance gate.”

Rowton’s face wore a quizzical expression.

“Where is the entrance?” asked Nancy. “I am dying to see the garden.”

“Not to-day,” replied her husband. He drew her hand through his arm.

They walked on in silence for a moment, then he bent down and looked at her.

“Are you vexed, little woman?” he asked.

“I try not to be,” she answered; “but it seems a simple thing just to show me that last garden. I have never seen a proper Queen Anne garden, and this one——”

“You feel a pin prick of natural womanly curiosity,” said Rowton; “suppress it, dearest. Now I am going to confide in you to a certain extent. I did not mean to, but I see that it is necessary. I have brought you to a beautiful home, have I not?”

“Lovely—a palace,” said Nancy.

“The whole place is yours,” continued her husband: “the house, the ground, with—with a reservation.”

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him with parted lips.

“With a reservation,” he continued. “There is a wing of the house which you are never to enter. That wing looks into the Queen Anne garden—you are, therefore, never to go into the Queen Anne garden.”

“Never, Adrian, never?”

“Never, darling.”

“Why so?”

“I meant to keep the reason from you,” said Rowton; “but I must tell it—there is a reason.”

“Yes?” she said again. She began to tremble.

“You heard Murray speak of his mother last night,” continued the man, standing very upright as he spoke, folding his arms and looking down at Nancy’s slim young figure.

“Yes,” she replied.

“The boy’s mother lives in that wing.”

“What?” cried Nancy.

“She lives in the wing into which you are never to go,” continued Rowton. “She takes exercise in the Queen Anne garden. You need not be afraid of her, but you are never to see her.”

“Why, why?”

“Because she is mad.”