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And now the silent and majestic figure of my employer became an objectof greater interest to me. I began to understand that strangely humanlook in his eyes, those deep lines upon his careworn face. He was a manwho was fighting a ceaseless battle, holding at arm’s length, frommorning till night, a horrible adversary, who was for ever trying toclose with him—an adversary which would destroy him body and soul couldit but fix its claws once more upon him. As I watched the grim,round-backed figure pacing the corridor or walking in the garden, thisimminent danger seemed to take bodily shape, and I could almost fancythat I saw this most loathsome and dangerous of all the fiends crouchingclosely in his very shadow, like a half-cowed beast which slinks besideits keeper, ready at any unguarded moment to spring at his throat. Andthe dead woman, the woman who had spent her life in warding off thisdanger, took shape also to my imagination, and I saw her as a shadowybut beautiful presence which intervened for ever with arms uplifted toscreen the man whom she loved.
In some subtle way he divined the sympathy which I had for him, and heshowed in his own silent fashion that he appreciated it. He even invitedme once to share his afternoon walk, and although no word passed betweenus on this occasion, it was a mark of confidence which he had nevershown to any one before. He asked me also to index his library (it wasone of the best private libraries in England), and I spent many hours inthe evening in his presence, if not in his society, he reading at hisdesk and I sitting in a recess by the window reducing to order the chaoswhich existed among his books. In spite of these close relations I wasnever again asked to enter the chamber in the turret.
And then came my revulsion of feeling. A single incident changed all mysympathy to loathing, and made me realize that my employer stillremained all that he had ever been, with the additional vice ofhypocrisy. What happened was as follows.
One evening Miss Witherton had gone down to Broadway, the neighbouringvillage, to sing at a concert for some charity, and I, according to mypromise, had walked over to escort her back. The drive sweeps roundunder the eastern turret, and I observed as I passed that the light waslit in the circular room. It was a summer evening, and the window, whichwas a little higher than our heads, was open. We were, as it happened,engrossed in our own conversation at the moment, and we had paused uponthe lawn which skirts the old turret, when suddenly something broke inupon our talk and turned our thoughts away from our own affairs.
It was a voice—the voice undoubtedly of a woman. It was low—so low thatit was only in that still night air that we could have heard it, but,hushed as it was, there was no mistaking its feminine timbre. It spokehurriedly, gaspingly for a few sentences, and then was silent—a piteous,breathless, imploring sort of voice. Miss Witherton and I stood for aninstant staring at each other. Then we walked quickly in the directionof the hall-door.
“It came through the window,” I said.
“We must not play the part of eavesdroppers,” she answered. “We mustforget that we have ever heard it.”
There was an absence of surprise in her manner which suggested a newidea to me.
“You have heard it before,” I cried.
“I could not help it. My own room is higher up on the same turret. Ithas happened frequently.”
“Who can the woman be?”
“I have no idea. I had rather not discuss it.”
Her voice was enough to show me what she thought. But granting that ouremployer led a double and dubious life, who could she be, thismysterious woman who kept him company in the old tower? I knew from myown inspection how bleak and bare a room it was. She certainly did notlive there. But in that case where did she come from? It could not beany one of the household. They were all under the vigilant eyes of Mrs.Stevens. The visitor must come from without. But how?
And then suddenly I remembered how ancient this building was, and howprobable that some mediæval passage existed in it. There is hardly anold castle without one. The mysterious room was the basement of theturret, so that if there were anything of the sort it would open throughthe floor. There were numerous cottages in the immediate vicinity. Theother end of the secret passage might lie among some tangle of bramblein the neighbouring copse. I said nothing to any one, but I felt thatthe secret of my employer lay within my power.
And the more convinced I was of this the more I marvelled at the mannerin which he concealed his true nature. Often as I watched his austerefigure, I asked myself if it were indeed possible that such a man shouldbe living this double life, and I tried to persuade myself that mysuspicions might after all prove to be ill-founded. But there was thefemale voice, there was the secret nightly rendezvous in the turretchamber—how could such facts admit of an innocent interpretation? Iconceived a horror of the man. I was filled with loathing at his deep,consistent hypocrisy.
Only once during all those months did I ever see him without that sadbut impassive mask which he usually presented towards his fellow-man.For an instant I caught a glimpse of those volcanic fires which he haddamped down so long. The occasion was an unworthy one, for the object ofhis wrath was none other than the aged charwoman whom I have alreadymentioned as being the one person who was allowed within his mysteriouschamber. I was passing the corridor which led to the turret—for my ownroom lay in that direction—when I heard a sudden, startled scream, andmerged in it the husky, growling note of a man who is inarticulate withpassion. It was the snarl of a furious wild beast. Then I heard hisvoice thrilling with anger. “You would dare!” he cried. “You would dareto disobey my directions!” An instant later the charwoman passed me,flying down the passage, white faced and tremulous, while the terriblevoice thundered behind her. “Go to Mrs. Stevens for your money! Neverset foot in Thorpe Place again!” Consumed with curiosity, I could nothelp following the woman, and found her round the corner leaning againstthe wall and palpitating like a frightened rabbit.
“What is the matter, Mrs. Brown?” I asked.
“It’s master!” she gasped. “Oh ‘ow ‘e frightened me! If you had seen ‘iseyes, Mr. Colmore, sir. I thought ‘e would ‘ave been the death of me.”
“But what had you done?”
“Done, sir! Nothing. At least nothing to make so much of. Just laid my‘and on that black box of ‘is—‘adn’t even opened it, when in ‘e came andyou ‘eard the way ‘e went on. I’ve lost my place, and glad I am of it,for I would never trust myself within reach of ‘im again.”
So it was the japanned box which was the cause of this outburst—the boxfrom which he would never permit himself to be
separated. What was theconnection, or was there any connection between this and the secretvisits of the lady whose voice I had overheard? Sir John Bollamore’swrath was enduring as well as fiery, for from that day Mrs. Brown, thecharwoman, vanished from our ken, and Thorpe Place knew her no more.
And now I wish to tell you the singular chance which solved all thesestrange questions and put my employer’s secret in my possession. Thestory may leave you with some lingering doubt as to whether my curiositydid not get the better of my honour, and whether I did not condescend toplay the spy. If you choose to think so I cannot help it, but can onlyassure you that, improbable as it may appear, the matter came aboutexactly as I describe it.
The first stage in this _dénouement_ was that the small room on theturret became uninhabitable. This occurred through the fall of theworm-eaten oaken beam which supported the ceiling. Rotten with age, itsnapped in the middle one morning, and brought down a quantity ofplaster with it. Fortunately Sir John was not in the room at the time.His precious box was rescued from amongst the _débris_ and brought intothe library, where, henceforward, it was locked within his bureau. SirJohn took no steps to repair the damage, and I never had an opportunityof searching for that secret passage, the existence of which I hadsurmised. As to the lady, I had thought that this would have brought hervisits to an end, had I not one evening heard Mr. Richards asking Mrs.Stevens who the woman was whom he had overheard talking to Sir John inthe library. I could not catch her reply, but I saw from her manner thatit was not the first time that she had had to answer or avoid the samequestion.
“You’ve heard the voice, Colmore?” said the agent.
I confessed that I had.
“And what do _you_ think of it?”
I shrugged my shoulders, and remarked that it was no business of mine.
“Come, come, you are just as curious as any of us. Is it a woman ornot?”
“It is certainly a woman.”
