Round the Fire Stories

o one as one goes through life. I lost the best situation which I am ever likely to have through it. But I a

t. It is a land of rolling pastures, rising in higher folds to the westward, until they swell into the Malvern Hills. There are no towns, but numerous villages, each with its grey Norman church. You have left the br

ower—his wife had died three years before—and 86he had been left with these 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. I was

ill to my heart when first I came there, those enormously thick grey walls, the rude crumbling stones, the smell as from a sick animal which exhaled from the rotting plaster

s. Colmore is now—myself, Frank Colmore, aged thirty, Mrs. Stevens, the housekeeper, a dry, silent woman, and Mr. Richards, a tall, military-looking man, who acted as steward to the Bollamo

histophelian beard, and lines upon his brow and round his eyes as deep as if they had been carved with a penknife. He had grey eyes, weary, hopeless-looking eyes, proud and yet pathetic, eyes whic

egular was his routine that one could always say at any hour exactly where he would be. Twice in the day he would visit his study, once after breakfast, and once about ten at night. You might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door. For the rest of the day he would be in his library—save that for an hour or two

ard, were too loyal to talk easily of their 88employer’s affairs. As to the governess, she knew no more than I did, and our common interest was one of the causes which

e him. Dripping and exhausted—for I was far more spent than the child—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. I told h

e have the details!” said he, tu

s situated, with a low ceiling, a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest of furniture. An old carpet, a single chair, a deal table, and a small shelf of books made up the whole contents. On the table stood a full-length photograph of a wom

wever, to an instructive talk with Richards, the agent, who had never penetrated into the chamber which chance had opened to me. That very afte

o regular and consistent, that an almost superstitious feeling has arisen about it in the household. I assure you that if I were to repeat to you the tales whic

say relaps

at me in

at Sir John Bollamore’s previo

olut

if it were not that you are now 90one of ourselves, and that the facts might come to your ears in some harsher form if

‘Devil’?”

lamore was one of the best known in London. He was the leader of the fastest set, bruiser

at him in

that quiet, studio

, Colmore. But you understand now what I mean when I say that a w

an have cha

l drink, but they taboo a drunkard. He had become a slave to it—hopeless and helpless. Then she stepped in, saw the possibilities of a fine man in the wreck, took her chance in marrying him, though she might have had the pick of a dozen, and, by

fluence stil

nto his old ways. She feared it herself, and the thought gave a terror to death, for she was like a guardian a

es

more than I should, but I shall expect you to reciprocate if anything of interest should come to your knowledge.” I could see that the worthy man was consumed with curiosity and just a little piqued that

im—an adversary which would destroy him body and soul could it but fix its claws once more upon him. As 92I watched the grim, round-backed figure pacing the corridor or walking in the garden, this imminent danger seemed to take bodily shape, and I could almost fancy that I saw this most loathsome and dangerous of all the fiends crouching closely in his very s

sion, it was a mark of confidence which he had never shown to any one before. He asked me also to index his library (it was one of the best private libraries in England), and I spent many hours in the evening in his presence, if not

to loathing, and made me realize that my employer still remained all that he ha

under the eastern turret, and I observed as I passed that the light was lit in the circular room. It was a summer evening, and the window, which was a little higher than our heads, was open. We were, as it happ

as it was, there was no mistaking its feminine timbre. It spoke hurriedly, gaspingly for a few sentences, and then was silent—a piteous, breathless

ough the win

sdroppers,” she answered. “We must

rprise in her manner which

ard it befor

om is higher up on the same tur

n the w

a. I had rather

ept him company in the old tower? I knew from my own inspection how bleak and bare a room it was. She certainly did not live there. But in that case where di

room was the basement of the turret, so that if there were anything of the sort it would open through the floor. There were numerous cottages in the immediate vicinity. The other

at such a man should be living this double life, and I tried to persuade myself that my suspicions might after all prove to be ill-founded. But there was the female voice, there was the secret n

allowed within his mysterious chamber. I was passing the corridor which led to the turret—for my own room lay in that direction—when I heard a sudden, startled scream, and merged in it the husky, growling note of a man who is inarticulate with passion. It was the snarl of a furious wild beast. Then I heard his voice thrilling with anger. “You would dare!” he cried. “You would dare to disobe

atter, Mrs. Br

d me! If you had seen ‘is eyes, Mr. Colmore, si

t had yo

box of ‘is—‘adn’t even opened it, when in ‘e came and you ‘eard the way ‘e went on. I’ve l

the connection, or was there any connection between this and the secret visits of the lady whose voice I had overheard? Sir John Bollamore’

leave you with some lingering doubt as to whether my curiosity did not get the better of my honour, and whether I did not condescend to play the spy.

the time. His precious box was rescued from amongst the débris and brought into the library, where, henceforward, it was locked 97within his bureau. Sir John took no steps to repair the damage, and I never had an opportunity of searching for that secret passage, the existence of which I had surmised. As to the lady, I had thoug

e voice, Colmore

ssed th

do you thi

, and remarked that it

t as curious as any of u

ertainly

did you he

-room, before th

e doors as I was going to bed, and I heard something wailing

t else co

ed at m

and earth,” said he. “If it is

n’t k

ine of conversation.” He turned away, but I saw that he felt even more than he had said. To all the old ghost stories of Thorpe Place a new one was b

of Sir John Bollamore’s library, and it was my custom to work there from five till seven. On this particular day I struggled against the double effect of my bad night and the narcotic. I have already mentione

at his study table. His well-set head and clearly cut profile were sharply outlined against the glimmering square behind him. He bent as I watched him, and I heard the sharp turning of a key and the rasping of metal upon metal. As if 99in a dream I was vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box which stood in front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it, something s

and with yearning love, that it will ring for ever in my ears. It came with a curious far-away tinkl

elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. I die happy to think that morning and

ng distant musical words. And he—he was so absorbed that even if I had spoken he might not have heard me. But with the silence of the voice came my half articulated apologies and explanations. He sprang

. “You here! What is th

ess sleep and singular awakening. As he listened the glow of anger faded fr

now so much. The story may go where you will when I have passed away, but until then I rely upon your sense of honour that no human soul shall hear it from your lips. I am proud still—G

of the rumours to which it has given rise. These speculations, whether scandalous or superstitious, are such as I can disregard and forgive. What I

living who has drank more deeply he is not a man whom I envy. My purse suffered, my character suffered, my constitution suffered, stimulants became a necessity to me, I was a creature from whom my memory recoils. And it was at that time, the time of my blackest degra

one pang which her fate brought to her was the fear that when her influence was removed I should revert to that which I had been. It was in vain that I made oath to her that no drop of wine would ever

o London to procure the best which money could buy. With her dying breath she gasped into it the words which have held me straight ever since. Lonely and 102broken, what else have I in all the world to