A Son of Ishmael: A Novel

Nance fell on her knees by the dying man. She took one of his cold hands in hers.

“Little woman,” said Rowton. “Come close to me, Nance,” he continued in an almost inaudible whisper; “hold my hand tighter—I cannot feel your clasp.”

She put both her hands round it, fondling it close to her breast.

“Are we alone, Nancy?”

“Yes, darling, quite alone.”

“That is—good. I have much to say to you.”

“Darling, don’t talk if it gives you pain. I can guess your thoughts, I know you so well.”

“Heavens! She knows me so well,” repeated the dying man.

“Has a doctor been sent for, Adrian?”

“No use.”

“But I thought you were strong, in good health. What is the meaning of this agony?”

“Heart,” he said in a whisper. “I have—known—it long—disease of long standing—hopeless; never mind—no doctor can cure me. Listen—Nancy mine.”

She bent down until her white face was almost on a level with his.

“Speak, dearest, beloved,” she said in her softest voice. “Your very lowest word will be heard by me. Everything you tell me I will do. I am all yours, remember, both in life and death.”

“There never was—such an angel,” he replied, and a faint, half-mocking, yet utterly sweet smile flitted across his face.

“Nancy, my strength is going. See you get the boy.”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Nance. Simpkins knows where he is—so does—Scrivener. So, I fancy, does Sophy—the girl in this house. If—Simpkins and Scrivener fail you—turn to—Sophy. She was always fond of me—poor Sophy! If she—helps you—take her away with you afterwards—for in doing—what you want, she may bring her own—life—into danger. Go away yourself, too. Little woman—you’ll hear terrible things.”

“I don’t care,” she replied. “What are terrible tidings to me if I don’t believe them?”

Rowton smiled into her eyes.

“I would—I might always remain thy white knight,” he said. “Black to everyone else—but white to thee. There!—it is too much to hope.”

He panted, his breath failed him. Nance held some brandy to his lips. He presently closed his eyes.

She sat down on the floor by his side, and slipped her arm under his neck, so that his head rested on her breast.

He felt the warm beating of the loving heart and opened his eyes.

“Are you there?” he said. “I can’t see; are you there?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Do you think I could leave you?”

“Never,” he replied. “My angel who believed in the angel in me. Nancy, I am the blackest scoundrel—on earth.”

“No, no,” she then said with a sob. “Don’t revile yourself now. To one person you have always been white.”

“As an angel, Nancy mine?”

“As an angel,” she replied. “You have been the one hero of my life—immaculate, strong, as you said yourself, my white knight.”

The dying man moved restlessly.

“Child,” he said, “you will hear things.” His voice grew lower and lower. “I have brought thee into the lowest scrape—into the depths. You will know hereafter what I have done for thee, Little Nancy.”

“I don’t wish to know; I will not listen. Whatever I hear, nothing will turn my love,” she replied.

“Is that indeed so? Say—those words again.”

“Nothing in heaven above or hell beneath can change my unalterable love,” she repeated.

“Fold my hands, Nance—together—so. Father in Heaven—if a weak woman can be so forgiving, wilt not Thou—even Thou—have mercy?”

The last words were scarcely distinguishable. Nance kept the folded hands together. A smile came suddenly on the white lips, a longer and slower breath than any of the others, then stillness.

Half an hour afterwards Simpkins softly opened the door of the room and came on tiptoe to Nancy’s side. He saw at a glance that the chief was dead. Nance was kneeling by him, her face hidden against his breast.

“Come, madam; I am dreadfully sorry, but you dare not stay here another moment,” said the man in a tone of great pity and sympathy.

At the words she raised her head and gave him a bewildered glance. She rose to her feet, staggering slightly.

“I do not wish to leave here,” she said. “I want to remain by my husband’s body.”

“Hurry, Simpkins, hurry!” said Scrivener’s voice at that moment in the doorway.

“You must not stay, madam. It is as much as our lives are worth. I must tell you something.”

“Nothing against the dead,” said Nancy, speaking in a strong full tone; “I forbid you.”

“No, we won’t mention his name,” said Simpkins. “I honour you, madam, for your loyalty. But as matters have turned out, he might, poor fellow, have met a worse fate. I won’t say any more. Whatever his faults he died true to us. Mrs. Rowton, it has been our misfortune to get into the black books of the law, and even at this moment the house is surrounded by police.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. The police have got wind of our whereabouts. They will burst into this room in a moment or two. No they cannot touch the dead, but you must leave us, madam.”

“Is your name Simpkins?” inquired Nance suddenly.

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I have a message for you from my husband. He said that you knew of the whereabouts of his nephew, Murray Cameron. His last injunction to me was to find the boy. I must find him. Will you help me?”

“Yes,” said Scrivener, who came forward at that moment. “We’ll both help you, lady. We do not want the boy any more. Our School is broken up after to-night. Go at once, Mrs. Rowton. I know your hotel. Your husband’s nephew will join you there before the morning. Go now.”

A sudden noise was heard downstairs—the trampling of feet.

“Heavens! we are lost,” cried Scrivener. “Go, madam; they cannot touch your dead; but if you do as he wishes, you will leave us now.”

“Yes, I will go,” said Nance. “But one moment first.”

She fell on her knees by the body of her husband, and bending down printed a long kiss on the cold lips. In doing so she noticed that the lips themselves were smooth and undisfigured. There was no mark.

Scrivener was true to his word, and early the following morning Murray Cameron was restored to his friends. Crossley, aided by Jacob Short, had given the alarm to the police, and the Silver School was broken up for ever.

Nance returned for one night to Rowton Heights—it was just before she and Murray started to begin a new life in Australia—her object was to secure a certain box.

“I do not know what it contains,” she reflected, “but if it means revenge, I would rather break my vow to the dead than use it now!”

She packed it carefully, and, half way between England and the New World, dropped it into deep water. Thus its secret was never revealed.

But afterwards a dying man in Paris made a strange confession. He declared to the priest who absolved him that for years he had belonged to a notorious gang of burglars in London, who went by the name of the Silver School. He himself was known by the sobriquet of Spider. Amongst the queer friendships of his life was one with the gentleman leader of that gang, a man called Silver. The likeness between the two was remarkable, and there was an occasion when, for purposes of his own, it came into Spider’s head to personate Silver. He did so in order to take the life of a young Englishman with whom he had quarrelled in a Parisian café. The Englishman had discovered one of his most important secrets, and Spider, with the ruthlessness of his class, resolved to silence him in the only effectual way. In order to divert suspicion entirely from himself, he used a cipher and hieroglyphic, the secret of which Rowton had once confided to him.

“On my lips,” said the dying man, “you will find the mark of a death’s head and arrows which was tattooed there years ago. You may use this confession after my death.”

THE END.