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It _was_ a curious thing, said the private tutor; one of those grotesqueand whimsical incidents which occur to one as one goes through life. Ilost the best situation which I am ever likely to have through it. But Iam glad that I went to Thorpe Place, for I gained—well, as I tell youthe story you will learn what I gained.
I don’t know whether you are familiar with that part of the Midlandswhich is drained by the Avon. It is the most English part of England.Shakespeare, the flower of the whole race, was born right in the middleof it. It is a land of rolling pastures, rising in higher folds to thewestward, until they swell into the Malvern Hills. There are no towns,but numerous villages, each with its grey Norman church. You have leftthe brick of the southern and eastern counties behind you, andeverything is stone—stone for the walls, and lichened slabs of stone forthe roofs. It is all grim and solid and massive, as befits the heart ofa great nation.
It was in the middle of this country, not very far from Evesham, thatSir John Bollamore lived in the old ancestral home of Thorpe Place, andthither it was that I came to teach his two little sons. Sir John was awidower—his wife had died three years before—and he had been left withthese two lads aged eight and ten, and one dear little girl of seven.Miss Witherton, who is now my wife, was governess to this little girl. Iwas tutor to the two boys. Could there be a more obvious prelude to anengagement? She governs me now, and I tutor two little boys of our own.But, there—I have already revealed what it was which I gained in ThorpePlace!
It was a very, very old house, incredibly old—pre-Norman, some of it—andthe Bollamores claimed to have lived in that situation since long beforethe Conquest. It struck a chill to my heart when first I came there,those enormously thick grey walls, the rude crumbling stones, the smellas from a sick animal which exhaled from the rotting plaster of the agedbuilding. But the modern wing was bright and the garden was well kept.No house could be dismal which had a pretty girl inside it and such ashow of roses in front.
Apart from a very complete staff of servants there were only four of usin the household. These were Miss Witherton, who was at that timefour-and-twenty and as pretty—well, as pretty as Mrs. Colmore isnow—myself, Frank Colmore, aged thirty, Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, adry, silent woman, and Mr. Richards, a tall, military-looking man, whoacted as steward to the Bollamore estates. We four always had our mealstogether, but Sir John had his usually alone in the library. Sometimeshe joined us at dinner, but on the whole we were just as glad when hedid not.
For he was a very formidable person. Imagine a man six feet three inchesin height, majestically built, with a high-nosed, aristocratic face,brindled hair, shaggy eyebrows, a small, pointed Mephistophelian beard,and lines upon his brow and round his eyes as deep as if they had beencarved with a penknife. He had grey eyes, weary, hopeless-looking eyes,proud and yet pathetic, eyes which claimed your pity and yet dared youto show it. His back was rounded with study, but otherwise he was asfine a looking man of his age—five-and-fifty perhaps—as any woman wouldwish to look upon.
But his presence was not a cheerful one. He was always courteous, alwaysrefined, but singularly silent and retiring. I have never lived so longwith any man and known so little of him. If he were indoors he spent histime either in his own small study in the Eastern Tower, or in thelibrary in the modern wing. So regular was his routine that one couldalways say at any hour exactly where he would be. Twice in the day hewould visit his study, once after breakfast, and once about ten atnight. You might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door. For therest of the day he would be in his library—save that for an hour or twoin the afternoon he would take a walk or a ride, which was solitary likethe rest of his existence. He loved his children, and was keenlyinterested in the progress of their studies, but they were a little awedby the silent, shaggy-browed figure, and they avoided him as much asthey could. Indeed, we all did that.
It was some time before I came to know anything about the circumstancesof Sir John Bollamore’s life, for Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, and Mr.Richards, the land-steward, were too loyal to talk easily of theiremployer’s affairs. As to the governess, she knew no more than I did,and our common interest was one of the causes which drew us together. Atlast, however, an incident occurred which led to a closer acquaintancewith Mr. Richards and a fuller knowledge of the life of the man whom Iserved.
The immediate cause of this was no less than the falling of MasterPercy, the youngest of my pupils, into the mill-race, with imminentdanger both to his life and to mine, since I had to risk myself in orderto save him. Dripping and exhausted—for I was far more spent than thechild—I was making for my room when Sir John, who had heard the hubbub,opened the door of his little study and asked me what was the matter. Itold him of the accident, but assured him that his child was in nodanger, while he listened with a rugged, immobile face, which expressedin its intense eyes and tightened lips all the emotion which he tried toconceal.
“One moment! Step in here! Let me have the details!” said he, turningback through the open door.
And so I found myself within that little sanctum, inside which, as Iafterwards learned, no other foot had for three years been set save thatof the old servant who cleaned it out. It was a round room, conformingto the shape of the tower in which it was situated, with a low ceiling,a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest of furniture. Anold carpet, a single chair, a deal table, and a small shelf of booksmade up the whole contents. On the table stood a full-length photographof a woman—I took no particular notice of the features, but I rememberthat a certain gracious gentleness was the prevailing impression. Besideit were a large black japanned box and one or two bundles of letters orpapers fastened together with elastic bands.
Our interview was a short one, for Sir John Bollamore perceived that Iwas soaked, and that I should change without delay. The incident led,however, to an instructive talk with Richards, the agent, who had neverpenetrated into the chamber which chance had opened to me. That veryafternoon he came to me, all curiosity, and walked up and down thegarden path with me, while my two charges played tennis upon the lawnbeside us.
“You hardly realize the exception which has been made in your favour,”said he. “That room has been kept such a mystery, and Sir John’s visitsto it have been so regular and consistent, that an almost superstitiousfeeling has arisen about it in the household. I assure you that if Iwere to repeat to you the tales which are flying about, tales ofmysterious visitors there, and of voices overheard by the servants, youmight suspect that Sir John had relapsed into his old ways.”
“Why do you say relapsed?” I asked.
He looked at me in surprise.
“Is it possible,” said he, “that Sir John Bollamore’s previous historyis unknown to you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You astound me. I thought that every man in England knew something ofhis antecedents. I should not mention the matter if it were not that youare now one of ourselves, and that the facts might come to your ears insome harsher form if I were silent upon them. I always took it forgranted that you knew that you were in the service of ‘Devil’Bollamore.”
“But why ‘Devil’?” I asked.
“Ah, you are young and the world moves fast, but twenty years ago thename of ‘Devil’ Bollamore was one of the best known in London. He wasthe leader of the fastest set, bruiser, driver, gambler, drunkard—asurvival of the old type, and as bad as the worst of them.”
I stared at him in amazement.
“What!” I cried, “that quiet, studious, sad-faced man?”
“The greatest rip and debauchee in England! All between ourselves,Colmore. But you understand now what I mean when I say that a woman’svoice in his room might even now give rise to suspicions.”
“But what can have changed him so?”
“Little Beryl Clare, when she took the risk of becoming his wife. Thatwas the turning point. He had got so far that his own fast set hadthrown him over. There
is a world of difference, you know, between a manwho drinks and a drunkard. They all drink, but they taboo a drunkard. Hehad become a slave to it—hopeless and helpless. Then she stepped in, sawthe possibilities of a fine man in the wreck, took her chance inmarrying him, though she might have had the pick of a dozen, and, bydevoting her life to it, brought him back to manhood and decency. Youhave observed that no liquor is ever kept in the house. There never hasbeen any since her foot crossed its threshold. A drop of it would belike blood to a tiger even now.”
“Then her influence still holds him?”
“That is the wonder of it. When she died three years ago, we allexpected and feared that he would fall back into his old ways. Shefeared it herself, and the thought gave a terror to death, for she waslike a guardian angel to that man, and lived only for the one purpose.By the way, did you see a black japanned box in his room?”
“Yes.”
“I fancy it contains her letters. If ever he has occasion to be away, ifonly for a single night, he invariably takes his black japanned box withhim. Well, well, Colmore, perhaps I have told you rather more than Ishould, but I shall expect you to reciprocate if anything of interestshould come to your knowledge.” I could see that the worthy man wasconsumed with curiosity and just a little piqued that I, the new-comer,should have been the first to penetrate into the untrodden chamber. Butthe fact raised me in his esteem, and from that time onwards I foundmyself upon more confidential terms with him.
