Tales of Terror and Mystery Page 10

  The Japanned Box

  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. ButI am glad that I went to Thorpe Place, for I gained--well, as I tellyou the 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 thewestwards, until they swell into the Malvern Hills. There are notowns, but numerous villages, each with its grey Norman church. Youhave left the brick of the southern and eastern counties behind you,and everything is stone--stone for the walls, and lichened slabs ofstone for the roofs. It is all grim and solid and massive, as befitsthe heart of a 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 wasa widower--his wife had died three years before--and he had been leftwith these two lads aged eight and ten, and one dear little girl ofseven. Miss Witherton, who is now my wife, was governess to thislittle girl. I was tutor to the two boys. Could there be a moreobvious prelude to an engagement? She governs me now, and I tutor twolittle boys of our own. But, there--I have already revealed what itwas which I gained in Thorpe Place!

  It was a very, very old house, incredibly old--pre-Norman, some ofit--and the Bollamores claimed to have lived in that situation sincelong before the Conquest. It struck a chill to my heart when first Icame there, those enormously thick grey walls, the rude crumblingstones, the smell as from a sick animal which exhaled from the rottingplaster of the aged building. But the modern wing was bright and thegarden was well kept. No house could be dismal which had a pretty girlinside it and such a show 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,a dry, silent woman, and Mr. Richards, a tall military-looking man, whoacted as steward to the Bollamore estates. We four always had ourmeals together, but Sir John had his usually alone in the library.Sometimes he joined us at dinner, but on the whole we were just as gladwhen he did not.

  For he was a very formidable person. Imagine a man six feet threeinches in height, majestically built, with a high-nosed, aristocraticface, brindled hair, shaggy eyebrows, a small, pointed Mephistophelianbeard, and lines upon his brow and round his eyes as deep as if theyhad been carved with a penknife. He had grey eyes, weary,hopeless-looking eyes, proud and yet pathetic, eyes which claimed yourpity and yet dared you to show it. His back was rounded with study,but otherwise he was as fine a looking man of his age--five-and-fiftyperhaps--as any woman would wish to look upon.

  But his presence was not a cheerful one. He was always courteous,always refined, but singularly silent and retiring. I have never livedso long with any man and known so little of him. If he were indoors hespent his time either in his own small study in the Eastern Tower, orin the library in the modern wing. So regular was his routine that onecould always say at any hour exactly where he would be. Twice in theday he would visit his study, once after breakfast, and once about tenat night. You might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door. Forthe rest of the day he would be in his library--save that for an houror two in the afternoon he would take a walk or a ride, which wassolitary like the rest of his existence. He loved his children, andwas keenly interested in the progress of their studies, but they were alittle awed by the silent, shaggy-browed figure, and they avoided himas much as they 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, andMr. 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.At last, however, an incident occurred which led to a closeracquaintance with Mr. Richards and a fuller knowledge of the life ofthe man whom I served.

  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 inorder to save him. Dripping and exhausted--for I was far more spentthan the child--I was making for my room when Sir John, who had heardthe hubbub, opened the door of his little study and asked me what wasthe matter. I told him of the accident, but assured him that his childwas in no danger, while he listened with a rugged, immobile face, whichexpressed in its intense eyes and tightened lips all the emotion whichhe tried to conceal.

  "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 savethat of the old servant who cleaned it out. It was a round room,conforming to the shape of the tower in which it was situated, with alow ceiling, a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window, and the simplest offurniture. An old carpet, a single chair, a deal table, and a smallshelf of books made up the whole contents. On the table stood afull-length photograph of a woman--I took no particular notice of thefeatures, but I remember, that a certain gracious gentleness was theprevailing impression. Beside it were a large black japanned box andone or two bundles of letters or papers fastened together with elasticbands.

  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'svisits to it have been so regular and consistent, that an almostsuperstitious feeling has arisen about it in the household. I assureyou that if I were to repeat to you the tales which are flying about,tales of mysterious visitors there, and of voices overheard by theservants, you might suspect that Sir John had relapsed into his oldways."

  "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 thatyou are now one of ourselves, and that the facts might come to yourears in some harsher form if I were silent upon them. I always took itfor granted 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 aman who drink
s and a drunkard. They all drink, but they taboo adrunkard. He had become a slave to it--hopeless and helpless. Thenshe stepped in, saw the possibilities of a fine man in the wreck, tookher chance in marrying him though she might have had the pick of adozen, and, by devoting her life to it, brought him back to manhood anddecency. You have observed that no liquor is ever kept in the house.There never has been any since her foot crossed its threshold. A dropof it would be like 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,if only for a single night, he invariably takes his black japanned boxwith him. Well, well, Colmore, perhaps I have told you rather morethan I should, but I shall expect you to reciprocate if anything ofinterest should come to your knowledge."

  I could see that the worthy man was consumed with curiosity and just alittle piqued that I, the newcomer, should have been the first topenetrate into the untrodden chamber. But the fact raised me in hisesteem, and from that time onwards I found myself upon moreconfidential terms with him.

  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 care-worn face. He was aman who was fighting a ceaseless battle, holding at arm's length, frommorning till night, a horrible adversary who was forever trying toclose with him--an adversary which would destroy him body and soulcould it 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 fiendscrouching closely in his very shadow, like a half-cowed beast whichslinks beside its keeper, ready at any unguarded moment to spring athis throat. And the dead woman, the woman who had spent her life inwarding off this danger, took shape also to my imagination, and I sawher as a shadowy but beautiful presence which intervened for ever witharms uplifted to screen 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 eveninvited me once to share his afternoon walk, and although no wordpassed between us on this occasion, it was a mark of confidence whichhe had never shown to anyone before. He asked me also to index hislibrary (it was one of the best private libraries in England), and Ispent many hours in the evening in his presence, if not in his society,he reading at his desk and I sitting in a recess by the window reducingto order the chaos which existed among his books. In spite of theseclose relations I was never again asked to enter the chamber in theturret.

  And then came my revulsion of feeling. A single incident changed allmy sympathy 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,which was a little higher than our heads, was open. We were, as ithappened, engrossed in our own conversation at the moment and we hadpaused upon the lawn which skirts the old turret, when suddenlysomething broke in upon our talk and turned our thoughts away from ourown affairs.

  It was a voice--the voice undoubtedly of a woman. It was low--so lowthat it 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. Itspoke hurriedly, gaspingly for a few sentences, and then was silent--apiteous, breathless, imploring sort of voice. Miss Witherton and Istood for an instant staring at each other. Then we walked quickly inthe direction of 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 thatour employer 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 beanyone 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 mediaeval 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 openthrough the floor. There were numerous cottages in the immediatevicinity. The other end of the secret passage might lie among sometangle of bramble in the neighbouring copse. I said nothing to anyone,but I felt that the 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 manshould be living this double life, and I tried to persuade myself thatmy suspicions might after all prove to be ill-founded. But there wasthe female voice, there was the secret nightly rendezvous in theturret-chamber--how could such facts admit of an innocentinterpretation. I conceived a horror of the man. I was filled withloathing 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 objectof his 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 myown 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 inarticulatewith passion. It was the snarl of a furious wild beast. Then I heardhis voice thrilling with anger. "You would dare!" he cried. "You woulddare to disobey my directions!" An instant later the charwoman passedme, flying down the passage, white-faced and tremulous, while theterrible voice thundered behind her. "Go to Mrs. Stevens for yourmoney! Never set foot in Thorpe Place again!" Consumed withcuriosity, I could not help following the woman, and found her roundthe corner leaning against the wall and palpitating like a frightenedrabbit.

  "What is the matter, Mrs. Brown?" I asked.

  "It's master!" she gasped. "Oh, 'ow 'e frightened me! If you had seen'is eyes, Mr. Colmore, sir. I thought 'e would 'ave been the death ofme."

  "But what had you done?"

  "Done, sir! Nothing. At least nothing to make so much of. Just laidmy 'and on that black box of 'is--'adn't even opened it, when in 'ecame and you 'eard the way 'e went on. I've lost my place, and glad Iam 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--thebox from which he would never permit himself to be separated. What wasthe connection, or was there any connection between this and the secretvisits of the lady whose voice I had overhea
rd? 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 doubts as to whether mycuriosity did not get the better of my honour, and whether I did notcondescend to play the spy. If you choose to think so I cannot helpit, but can only assure you that, improbable as it may appear, thematter came about exactly as I describe it.

  The first stage in this denouement was that the small room in 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 debris 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 broughther visits to an end, had I not one evening heard Mr. Richards askingMrs. Stevens who the woman was whom he had overheard talking to SirJohn in the library. I could not catch her reply, but I saw from hermanner that it was not the first time that she had had to answer oravoid the same question.

  "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."

  "Which room did you hear it from?"

  "From the turret-room, before the ceiling fell."

  "But I heard it from the library only last night. I passed the doorsas I was going to bed, and I heard something wailing and praying justas plainly as I hear you. It may be a woman----"

  "Why, what else COULD it be?"

  He looked at me hard.

  "There are more things in heaven and earth," said he. "If it is awoman, how does she get there?"

  "I don't know."

  "No, nor I. But if it is the other thing--but there, for a practicalbusiness man at the end of the nineteenth century this is rather aridiculous line of conversation." He turned away, but I saw that hefelt even more than he had said. To all the old ghost stories ofThorpe Place a new one was being added before our very eyes. It may bythis time have taken its permanent place, for though an explanationcame to me, it never reached the others.

  And my explanation came in this way. I had suffered a sleepless nightfrom neuralgia, and about midday I had taken a heavy dose of chlorodyneto alleviate the pain. At that time I was finishing the indexing ofSir John Bollamore's library, and it was my custom to work there fromfive till seven. On this particular day I struggled against the doubleeffect of my bad night and the narcotic. I have already mentioned thatthere was a recess in the library, and in this it was my habit to work.I settled down steadily to my task, but my weariness overcame me and,falling back upon the settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep.

  How long I slept I do not know, but it was quite dark when I awoke.Confused by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay motionless in asemi-conscious state. The great room with its high walls covered withbooks loomed darkly all round me. A dim radiance from the moonlightcame through the farther window, and against this lighter background Isaw that Sir John Bollamore was sitting at his study table. Hiswell-set head and clearly cut profile were sharply outlined against theglimmering square behind him. He bent as I watched him, and I heardthe sharp turning of a key and the rasping of metal upon metal. As ifin a dream I was vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box whichstood in front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it,something squat and uncouth, which now lay before him upon the table.I never realized--it never occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brainthat I was intruding upon his privacy, that he imagined himself to bealone in the room. And then, just as it rushed upon my horrifiedperceptions, and I had half risen to announce my presence, I heard astrange, crisp, metallic clicking, and then the voice.

  Yes, it was a woman's voice; there could not be a doubt of it. But avoice so charged with entreaty and with yearning love, that it willring for ever in my ears. It came with a curious faraway tinkle, butevery word was clear, though faint--very faint, for they were the lastwords of a dying woman.

  "I am not really gone, John," said the thin, gasping voice. "I am hereat your very elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. I die happyto think that morning and night you will hear my voice. Oh, John, bestrong, be strong, until we meet again."

  I say that I had risen in order to announce my presence, but I couldnot do so while the voice was sounding. I could only remain halflying, half sitting, paralysed, astounded, listening to those yearningdistant musical words. And he--he was so absorbed that even if I hadspoken he might not have heard me. But with the silence of the voicecame my half articulated apologies and explanations. He sprang acrossthe room, switched on the electric light, and in its white glare I sawhim, his eyes gleaming with anger, his face twisted with passion, asthe hapless charwoman may have seen him weeks before.

  "Mr. Colmore!" he cried. "You here! What is the meaning of this, sir?"

  With halting words I explained it all, my neuralgia, the narcotic, myluckless sleep and singular awakening. As he listened the glow ofanger faded from his face, and the sad, impassive mask closed once moreover his features.

  "My secret is yours, Mr. Colmore," said he. "I have only myself toblame for relaxing my precautions. Half confidences are worse than noconfidences, and so you may know all since you know so much. The storymay go where you will when I have passed away, but until then I relyupon your sense of honour that no human soul shall hear it from yourlips. I am proud still--God help me!--or, at least, I am proud enoughto resent that pity which this story would draw upon me. I have smiledat envy, and disregarded hatred, but pity is more than I can tolerate.

  "You have heard the source from which the voice comes--that voice whichhas, as I understand, excited so much curiosity in my household. I amaware of the rumours to which it has given rise. These speculations,whether scandalous or superstitious, are such as I can disregard andforgive. What I should never forgive would be a disloyal spying andeavesdropping in order to satisfy an illicit curiosity. But of that,Mr. Colmore, I acquit you.

  "When I was a young man, sir, many years younger than you are now, Iwas launched upon town without a friend or adviser, and with a pursewhich brought only too many false friends and false advisers to myside. I drank deeply of the wine of life--if there is a man living whohas drunk more deeply he is not a man whom I envy. My purse suffered,my character suffered, my constitution suffered, stimulants became anecessity to me, I was a creature from whom my memory recoils. And itwas at that time, the time of my blackest degradation, that God sentinto my life the gentlest, sweetest spirit that ever descended as aministering angel from above. She loved me, broken as I was, loved me,and spent her life in making a man once more of that which had degradeditself to the level of the beasts.

  "But a fell disease struck her, and she withered away before my eyes.In the hour of her agony it was never of herself, of her own sufferingsand her own death that she thought. It was all of me. The one pangwhich her fate brought to her was the fear that when her influence wasremoved I should revert to that which I had been. It was in vain thatI made oath to her that no drop of wine would ever cross my lips. Sheknew only too well the hold that the devil had upon me--she who hadstriven so to loosen it--and it haunted her night and day the thoughtthat my soul might again be within his grip.

  "It was from some friend's gossip of the sick room that she heard ofthis invention--this phonograph--and with t
he quick insight of a lovingwoman she saw how she might use it for her ends. She sent me to Londonto procure the best which money could buy. With her dying breath shegasped into it the words which have held me straight ever since.Lonely and broken, what else have I in all the world to uphold me? Butit is enough. Please God, I shall face her without shame when He ispleased to reunite us! That is my secret, Mr. Colmore, and whilst Ilive I leave it in your keeping."