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The Mathematical Experience Study Edition Philip J.
Davis Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Philip J. Davis, Reuben Hersh, Elena Anne Marchisotto (auth.)
ISBN(s): 9780817682941, 0817682945
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 101.13 MB
Year: 2012
Language: english
Modern Birkhäuser Classics
Philip J. Davis
Reuben Hersh
Elena Anne Marchisotto
Originally published as a hardcover edition under the same title by Birkhäuser Boston,
ISBN 978-0-8176-3739-2, ©1995
www.birkhauser-science.com
Philip J. Davis
Reuben Hersh
Elena Anne Marchisotto
With an Introduction by Gian-Carlo Rota
The
Mathematical
Experience
Study Edition
Birkhauser
Boston • Basel • Berlin
Philip J. Davis Reuben Hersh
Division of Applied Mathematics Department of Mathematics
Brown University and Statistics
Providence, RI 02912 University of New Mexico
Albuquerque, NM 87131
Elena Anne Marchisotto
Department of Mathematics
California State University, Northridge
Northridge, CA 913308313
****
For my brother,
Hyman R. Davis
Contents
Preface Xlll
Preface to the Study Edition XV
Acknowledgements xvii
Introduction XXI
Overture 1
I. The Mathematical Landscape
What is Math e m atics? 6
Where is Mathematics 8
The Mathematical Community 9
The Tools of the Trade 13
How Much Mathematics is Now Known? 17
Ulam's Dilemma 20
How Much Mathematics Can There Be? 24
Appendix A-Brief Chronological Table to 1910 26
Appendix B-The Classification of Mathematics
1868 and 1979 Compared 29
Assignments and Problem Sets 31
2. Varieties of Mathematical Experience
The Current Individual and Collective
Consciousness 36
The Ideal Mathematician 38
A Physicist Looks at Mathematics 48
I. R. Shafarevitch and the New Neoplatonism 56
Unorthodoxies 59
The Individual and the Culture 64
Assignments and Problem Sets 70
3. Outer Issues
Why Mathematics Works:
A Conventionalist Answer 76
Mathematical Models 85
lX
Contents
Utility 87
1. Varieties of Mathematical Uses 87
2. On the Utility of Mathematics to Mathematics 88
3. On the Utility of Mathematics to
Other Scientific or Technological Fields 91
4. Pure vs. Applied Mathematics 93
5. From Haryism to Mathematical Maoism 95
Underneath the Fig Leaf 97
I. Mathematics in the Marketplace 97
2. Mathematics and War 101
3. Number Mysticism 104
4. Hermetic Geometry 108
5. Astrology 109
6. Religion 116
Abstraction and Scholastic Theology 121
Assignments and Problem Sets 128
4. Inner Issues
Symbols 138
Abstraction 142
Generalization 150
Formalization 152
Mathematical Objects and Structure; Existence 156
Proof 163
Infinity, or the Miraculous Jar of Mathematics 168
The Stretched String 174
The Coin of Tyche 179
The Aesthetic Component 184
Pattern, Order, and Chaos 188
Algorithmic vs. Dialectic Mathematics 196
The Drive to Generality and Abstraction
The Chinese Remainder Theorem: A Case Study 203
Mathematics as Enigma 212
Unity within Diversity 214
Assignments and Problem Sets 217
5. Selected Topics in Mathematics
Group Theory and the Classification
of Finite Simple Groups 227
The Prime Number Theorem 233
Non-Euclidean Geometry 241
X
Contents
Xl
Preface
Xlll
Preface
ics, foster it, teach it, create it, and use it in a wide variety of
situations. It should be possible to explain to nonprofes-
sionals just what these people ar~ doing, what they say they
are doing, and why the rest of the world should support
them at it. This, in brief, is the task we have set for our-
selves. The book is not intended to present a systematic,
self-contained discussion of a specific corpus of mathemati-
cal material, either recent or classical. It is intended rather
to capture the inexhaustible variety presented by the math-
ematical experience. The major strands of our exposition
will be the substance of mathematics, its history, its philoso-
phy, and how mathematical knowledge is elicited. The
book should be regarded not as a compression but rather
as an impression. It is not a mathematics book; it is a book
about mathematics. Inevitably it must contain some mathe-
matics. Similarly, it is not a history or a philosophy book,
but it will discuss mathematical history and philosophy. It
follows that the reader must bring to it some slight p1ior
knowledge of these things and a seed of interest to plant
and water. The general reader with this background
should have no difficulty in getting through the major por-
tion of the book. But there are a number of places where
we have brought in specialized material and directed our
exposition to the professional who uses or produces math-
ematics. Here the reader may feel like a guest who has
been invited to a family dinner. After polite general con-
versation. the family turns to narrow family concerns, its
delights and its worries, and the guest is left up in the air,
but fascinated. At such places the reader should judiciously
and lightheartedly push on.
For the most part, the essays in this book can be read in-
dependently of each other.
Some comment is necessary about the use of the word
"I" in a book written by two people. In some instances it
will be obvious which of the authors wrote the "I." In any
case, mistaken identity can lead to no great damage, for
each author agrees, in a general way, with the opinions of
his colleague.
XIV
Preface to the
Study Edition
The first Mathematical Experience appeared in 1981. At that
time, only a few years ago, it was commonly believed that it was
impossible to make contemporary mathematics meaningful
to the intelligent non-mathematician. Since then, dozens of
popular books on contemporary mathematics have been pub-
lished. James Gleick's Chaos was a long-run best seller. John
Casti is producing a continuing series of such books.
In technology and invention, it's a commonplace that know-
ing what's possible is the most important ingredient of suc-
cessful innovation. Perhaps the first Mathematical Experience
changed people's idea about what's possible in exposition of
advanced contemporary mathematics.
Alert readers recognized the book as a work of philosophy
-a humanist philosophy of mathematics. It was far out, ''mav-
erick" (see Philip Kitcher), virtually out of contact with offi-
cial academic philosophy of mathematics. In the past 15 years,
humanist philosophy of mathematics has bloomed. There are
anthologies, symposia, a journal. The far-out maverick of 15
years ago might be the mainstream in a few years.
The first Mathematical Experience was a trade book, not a text-
book. It was sold in book stores, not in professor's offices. But
we heard over and over of college teachers using it, in the
United States, Europe, Australia, Hong Kong, Israel. It's used
in two different ways: "Math for liberal arts students" in col-
leges of art and science, and courses for future teachers, es-
pecially secondary math teachers, in colleges of education.
In mathematics teaching, it's a commonplace that "Mathe-
matics isn't a spectator sport." You learn by doing, especially
doing problems. Like all truisms, this is half true. Mathemat-
ics education as doing, doing, doing-no thinking, no con-
versation, no contemplation-can seem dreary. An artist isn't
prohibited from occasional art appreciation-quite the con-
trary. You can'tlearn practical skill as a spectator, but you can
learn good taste, among other things.
XV
Preface
xvi
Acknowledgements
XVII
Acknowledgements
xviii
their efficient help in the preparation and handling of the
manuscript. Ms. Avery also helped us with a number of
classical references. We would like to thank Professor Julian
Gevirtz for a careful reading of the first printing which
helped us find a number of misprints and errors.
P. J. DAVIS
R. HERSH
xix
Introduction
DEDICATED TO MARK KAC
"oh philosophie alimentaire!"
-Sartre
XXI
Introduction
xxii
Introduction
GIAN-CARLO ROTA
August 9, 1980
xxm
"The knowledge at which geometry aims is the knowledge
of the eternal."
PLATO, REPUBLIC, VII, 527
1
Overture
2
Overture
3
Overture
4
1
THE
MATHEMATICAL
LANDSCAPE
6
What is Mathematics?
7
The Mathematical Landscape
Where is
Mathematics?
8
The Mathematical Community
The Mathematical
Community
9
The Mathematical Landscape
10
The Mathematical Community
What mathematics
looked like in 1700 B.c.
Clay tablet with cunei-
form writing from south-
ern lrtU[. The two prob-
lems that are worked out
follow the standard pro-
cedure in Babylonian
mathematics for qua-
dratic equations.
1 9 (gin) is the (total ex-
terms, the problem posed by this tablet is: given x + y and the width which I added
xy, find x and y. Solution: together, (and) you will
get 3;15;
8 square 3;15, (and) you
II
The Mathematical Landscape
12
The Tools
of the Trade
13
The Mathematical Landscape
Astrolabe, 1568.
14
The Tools of the Trade
15
The Mathematical Landscape
16
How Much Mathematics Is Now Known?
How Much
Mathematics
Is Now Known?
17
The Mathematical Landscape
18
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
All the men were silent now. One or two looked eager and
impressed, one or two alarmed. Long John, after a silence which
might almost be felt, spoke again.
“If we don’t give him away, he gives us away.”
“No,” said the man called Danvers, “’tain’t in Silver to give
evidence agin his pals.”
“We have him in a cleft stick,” continued Long John. “Seeing
himself at our mercy he will turn round and defy us. Has he not
done so already? To-night, in your presence, mates, he named
impossible conditions; when they were not acceded to, he went
away with threatening words on his lips. He has done us harm, and,
I repeat again, he must go. A diamond, well known to the police,
has been found in his establishment. His wife has worn it. It is,
doubtless, even now written in their records as part of the stolen
goods from Rowton Heights. I repeat once again, the man must go.
Do not let us discuss the fact of his going. A word or two as to the
means and this meeting may break up.”
Just then there came a timid knock at the door.
Scrivener went on tiptoe to open it. The servant girl who brought
it stood without. She handed a little twisted note.
Scrivener took it to Long John. He opened it, read the contents,
and thrust it into his pocket.
“I have grave information here,” he said. “Spider is in town, and
has been acting the spy for us as usual. We have no time to lose,
mates. The police have already got wind of Silver’s identity. Spider
has informed me in this note that they identify him with Adrian
Rowton, master of Rowton Heights. Before twenty-four hours are
over he will be arrested. Now, look here, we arrest him first. You
understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” answered several voices. They were all eager now. Their
apathy had vanished.
“We have a wine party here to-morrow night,” said Long John,
rising as he spoke. “Scrivener, it will be your duty to bring Silver here
as guest. Use fair means to get him to come, if necessary; if not, lie
to him. Good-night, men. We meet to-morrow evening at nine.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A TOAST.
The moment Rowton spoke Long John rapped his hand loudly on
the board. He rose and spoke in a clear and penetrating voice.
“Silence, men,” he said, “I have something to say.”
Every tongue was instantly arrested.
“I wish to state a fact,” continued Long John, just glancing for a
moment at Rowton, who, white to his lips, was standing near. “Our
gentleman leader, Adrian Rowton, of Rowton Heights, in Yorkshire,
otherwise known to this school by the name of Silver, has been in
debt to us to the tune of five hundred pounds. The debt was
contracted on behalf of a certain diamond, which we all know here
as the black diamond. The diamond was of great worth, and from
different circumstances in connection with its coming into our
possession, its presence in the School was fraught with extreme
danger. Silver was commissioned to take it to Spain and sell it there
for two thousand pounds, a sum, as you know, very much below its
intrinsic value. Silver did sell the diamond, but, as it turns out, he
sold it to himself for five hundred pounds below the price I set upon
it. In this manner he contracted a debt to our School of five hundred
pounds. By securing the diamond for himself he contracted a further
debt, the dimensions of which cannot be measured. This further
debt formed the subject of our very painful discussion last night. The
first debt was of small importance; the second debt was vital. There
was only one way in which Rowton could pay the second debt. I
wish to tell you all, now, my men, that Adrian Rowton has cleared
the debt. His record with us is white.”
“Hold a minute,” said Rowton. His voice was loud but somewhat
shaky. He was staggering with mortal pain. “All here present have
acted towards me with treachery. There’s not a man in this room
who did not know what Long John wanted me here for. You,
Scrivener, lured me to this place by means of a lie. When I came
here I trusted to your honour, mates. You have every one of you
failed me.”
Some of the men groaned, lowered their eyes, and some shuffled
restlessly with their feet. Long John tapped again on the table.
“The old trite proverb that ‘all is fair in love and war’ applies here,”
he said. “There was only one way to wipe out Rowton’s debt, and
that way has been used.”
“A word more,” continued Rowton; “my debt will be wiped out
soon, but there is another debt to cancel. Long John, you kidnapped
the boy. If my record is white, yours is black. I forgive the rest of
you fellows—you did what you did under compulsion. But as to you,
you coward, I swear that if I appear before my Maker unabsolved
and with my sins upon me, so do you.”
Quick as thought Rowton produced a revolver and fired. He aimed
at Long John’s heart. The man saw his danger, swerved an inch, and
received the bullet in his right arm.
All was immediately confusion and alarm. Rowton, after firing, fell
to the ground in strong convulsions. Long John, white as a sheet,
caught up a napkin to stay the blood which began to pour from his
wounded arm. Simpkins rushed to one of the windows to shut it,
fearing that the police might have heard the sound of the shot. Long
John’s face became more and more ghastly—a smile kept coming
and going on his thin lips. Simpkins ran forward to help him.
Scrivener and another man approached the heap on the floor which
had represented the strong, athletic form of Rowton not ten minutes
ago.
“What are you trying to say, mate?” whispered Scrivener.
“Take me where I can be alone.”
The two men tried to lift him in their arms.
“Stay,” called Long John; “we can put cushions on the floor and lay
him here. I am going. One word to you, Rowton, before we part; we
have not yet squared the record.”
“We wait for that,” answered Rowton. He raised his glassy eyes
and fixed them on Long John’s cadaverous face.
Long John staggered to the door. The other men hurried to place
cushions and coats in a corner on the floor. They laid the dying man
on them.
“How long have I to live?” he asked.
“I do not know,” returned Scrivener, “but I think for two or three
hours. We gave that poison before to——”
“Hush!” said Simpkins suddenly, clapping his hands across
Scrivener’s mouth.
“I forgot myself in the excitement of the moment,” answered
Scrivener. “I wish I’d never done the ghastly deed—Rowton of all
men! If it were not for Long John, and that he’d find a way to hurry
one out of the world if one did not do his slightest wish, why——”
Scrivener wiped the dew from his face.
“Ours is a ghastly calling,” said Simpkins. “There, mates,” he
added, turning to where a group of the men were huddled together
in a distant part of the room, “you had best leave us. Long John is
not killed, but he has got his deserts after a fashion, and he’ll have
to lie dark for a bit. The rest of you go home, and be quick about it.
When we want you again we’ll let you know.”
The men still hesitated. At last one of them, treading on tiptoe,
came to the upper end of the room.
“Shake hands, mate,” said this fellow, going on his knees and
holding out his hand to Rowton. “Say you forgive us before we go.”
“I forgive you, mates,” answered Rowton; “you were only tools.
There is one man whom I do not forgive, and that is your boss. He
acted with treachery and you were not courageous enough to resist.
Now go. I have only a short time to live and much to do.”
One by one the men came up, looked at his ashy face, shook their
heads, and slowly left the room.
When they had all gone Rowton spoke to Simpkins.
“What did he give me?” he asked.
With some hesitation Simpkins named a drug, bending low to do
so.
Rowton’s face could not grow more ghastly.
“Then it is certain death,” he said.
“Yes, certain death; but, if you like, we’ll fetch a doctor.”
“Never mind. Were enquiries set on foot, things would go badly
with you. I die, I hope, as a man——”
He paused, struggling for breath.
“I always knew,” he continued, “that the fate I have met might be
mine. There is no hope, you say. I may live for—two hours.”
“You may, mate, but it is not certain. You are taking the dose
hard,” said Scrivener.
“I want you to do something for me, Scrivener.”
“Anything,” replied the man, falling on his knees.
“Fetch my wife here.”
“Your wife!” said Simpkins suddenly. “Dare you see her, mate?”
“I dare anything. I have one last—desperate wish; it must be
granted. I must see my wife.”
“But if she is in Yorkshire, Silver?” queried Scrivener.
“I have a premonition that she is in London,” replied Rowton. His
words came more and more slowly, with longer and longer gasps
between. “Scrivener—you know Rowton Heights? Wire there at once
—get Mrs. Rowton’s address in London, and then fetch her here. You
don’t object, do you? If so, at any cost, I’ll get back to my hotel.”
“I’ll do what you wish,” said Scrivener.
“It seems reasonable enough,” echoed Simpkins.
“Of course, you’ll take an oath, pal,” continued Scrivener, “that
you’ll let out nothing.”
The ghost of a smile played round Rowton’s white lips.
“Heaven knows I am a deeply-dyed scoundrel,” he said, “but
honour among thieves. You may bring Mrs. Rowton to this house
without danger to the Silver School.”
Scrivener left the room without another word, and Simpkins
seated himself by the dying man.
As Scrivener ran downstairs he could not help muttering some
words to himself.
“Ours is a beastly calling; there’s no mercy in a school like ours. If
it were anyone but Rowton I should not mind a brass button—but
Rowton! ’Tain’t that he was soft; ’tain’t that he was specially kind;
but he was straight, although he belonged to us. We’ll go to pieces
now without him. Long John made a huge mistake.”
Scrivener sprang into a cab and drove to the nearest post-office.
From there he wired to Rowton Heights, remaining in the office until
the message bearing Mrs. Rowton’s address in town was sent to
him. He then hailed another hansom and drove straight to the
Universal Hotel.
This was the night on which Nance had come to London and had
received Crossley’s awful communication. She had driven straight to
the hotel with Lady Georgina, and when Scrivener was suddenly
announced the two ladies were in a private sitting-room. From the
moment she left Clapham Common Nance had talked incessantly.
She had seemed to all appearances in the highest spirits. She had
refused to disclose the faintest hint with regard to her interview with
Crossley. Beyond telling Lady Georgina that she believed the man to
be altogether mistaken about a certain business which he had
undertaken for her, she turned her conversation resolutely from the
subject.
“I feel in good spirits,” she said once or twice. “I have the same
feeling which possessed me the night of the ball at Rowton Heights.
How long ago did the ball take place, Lady Georgina?”
“Only two days ago, child,” was the reply.
“It seems months back,” said Nance, pushing her hair from her
flushed face. “I told Adrian then that my excitement and high spirits
were almost ‘fey,’ as the saying is. I have the same feeling to-night.
Never mind; while I feel happy let me enjoy life. I believe that I shall
soon hear news of the boy and also of my husband. Ah! who is
that?”
At this moment Scrivener was announced. Nance, with the flush
on her cheeks and the queer bright light in her eyes, went forward
at once to meet him. She felt stimulated all over to an extraordinary
degree. Crossley had spoken the most utter nonsense. His tidings
had not given her the slightest pain. A shadow of doubt of the man
she loved could not visit her loyal heart.
“I seem to know your face,” she said, looking into that of
Scrivener with a puzzled expression. “Ah, yes, I remember now.
Surely I saw you once at Rowton Heights.”
“I saw you also, madam,” said the man.
He bowed awkwardly. Then his eyes travelled to Lady Georgina,
who, bold, upright, and firm, stood not far away.
“I have a message for you alone, Mrs. Rowton,” he said.
“Please leave us, Lady Georgina,” said Nance.
“I will not,” replied Lady Georgina. “You are left in my charge by
your husband, Nance, and I prefer to remain with you whatever
happens. Sir, I do not know what your business can be with this
young lady, but I must ask you to say it before me.”
“Very well, madam,” replied the man. “We have not a moment to
lose, Mrs. Rowton,” he continued; “your husband has sent for you. I
am commissioned to bring you to him immediately.”
“To bring me to him!” said Nance, her eyes lighting up with
sudden tumultuous joy. “I won’t keep you. But why can he not come
to me?”
“He cannot, madam: he is very ill.”
“Ill!” said Nance. She started violently. Her face grew white. “I
won’t keep you a single moment,” she said.
“I’ll go with you, dear,” said Lady Georgina.
“I am sorry, madam,” said Scrivener, “but on that point I am
obliged to be firm. I cannot possibly take you with Mrs. Rowton. If
she wishes to see her husband alive she must trust herself to me
alone. I swear no harm will happen to her.”
“If I wish to see my husband alive?” repeated Nance. “Oh! for
Heaven’s sake, don’t put obstacles in the way now, Lady Georgina. I
won’t keep you a moment,” she said, again turning to the man.
She flew out of the room, returning in less than a minute in her
hat and cloak.
“I am ready,” she said, “let us come.”
“This is an awful situation,” exclaimed Lady Georgina. “I promised
to look after that child. How do I know, sir, that you are not
deceiving me?”
“I swear on the Bible, madam, that I am not. Mr. Rowton has sent
for his wife. He is very ill. If you refuse to let Mrs. Rowton come with
me I must go away without her.”
“In that case, I have no alternative,” said Lady Georgina; “I only
trust I am not doing wrong.”
Nance and Scrivener left the room. A hansom was in waiting
outside the hotel.
Nance entered and Scrivener immediately followed her. He gave
directions in a low voice to the driver, and the cab started forward at
a quick pace. Presently Scrivener put his hand through the little
window in the roof.
“A sovereign,” he called to the driver, “if you get us to our
destination in a quarter of an hour from now.”
The man whipped up his horse.
“You said that my husband was very ill; is he in danger?” asked
Nance.
“He is, madam, in extreme danger.”
Nance did not ask another question. She locked her hands tightly
under her cloak. Her face was deathlike. She looked like one carved
in stone.
By-and-by the cab entered a squalid street leading off the
Embankment. It turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left
again, and finally drew up at a shabby-looking door. Scrivener
jumped out.
“This way, Mrs. Rowton,” he said.
He flung the sovereign to the driver, and then knocked in a
peculiar way on the door.
It was opened immediately by a shabbily-dressed girl, whose eyes
were red from violent weeping.
“All right upstairs, Sophy?” asked Scrivener.
“Silver is still alive,” answered Sophy with a catch in her voice.
“Silver,” repeated Nance to herself in a low tone.
It was at this awful moment of her life that a memory came back
to her. She had forgotten it until now. Earlier in that same evening
Crossley had told her that her husband, her brave husband, whom
he presently accused of the most ghastly crime, was also known as
Silver, the leader of a school or mob of burglars, called the Silver
School. The information seemed to her so baseless and false, and
was also so completely swallowed up in the grave and monstrous
accusation which followed it, that until now it was completely blotted
out of her memory.
“Silver,” she said, looking with dilated eyes at Scrivener as they
mounted the stairs. “Who is Silver?”
“Never mind about Silver now, madam; I am taking you to see
your husband, Mr. Rowton, of Rowton Heights.”
Nance asked no more questions. The next moment they found
themselves inside the club room. The greater part of the long room
was in complete darkness, but at the farther end a paraffin lamp
flared. Nance saw dimly as she entered the figure of a man lying on
the floor.
When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an effort.
“When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an
effort.”—Page 305.
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.
Nephelé
By F. W. Bourdillon. Crown 8vo, artistically bound, $1.00.
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