Bellombre had retired from the stage some years before, when at
his father's death he inherited this farm and a small fortune. The parts
that he excelled in required a certain degree of youth, and he was not
sorry to withdraw before wrinkles and whitening locks should make it
necessary for him to abandon his favourite roles. In the world he was
believed to be dead, but his splendid acting was often quoted by his
former admirers--who were wont to declare that there had been nothing to
equal it seen on the stage since he had made his last bow to the public.
The room into which he led his guests was very spacious, and served
both as kitchen and sitting-room--there was also a large curtained bed
standing in an alcove at the end farthest from the fire, as was not
unusual in ancient farm-houses. The blaze from the four or five immense
logs of wood heaped up on the huge andirons was roaring up the broad
chimney flue, and filling the room with a bright, ruddy glow--a most
welcome sight to the poor half-frozen travellers, who gathered around it
and luxuriated in its genial warmth. The large apartment was plainly and
substantially furnished, just as any well-to-do farmer's house might be,
but near one of the windows stood a round table heaped up with books,
some of them lying open as if but just put down, which showed that the
owner of the establishment had not lost his taste for literary pursuits,
but devoted to them his long winter evenings.
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