A Blue Pantomime

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

I. HOW I DINED AT THE "INDIAN QUEENS."The sensation was odd; for I could have made affidavit I had nevervisited the place in my life, nor come within fifty miles of it.Yet every furlong of the drive was earmarked for me, as it were, by somedetail perfectly familiar. The high-road ran straight ahead to a notchin the long chine of Huel Tor; and this notch was filled with the yellowball of the westering sun. Whenever I turned my head and blinked, redsimulacra of this ball hopped up and down over the brown moors. Milesof wasteland, dotted with peat-ricks and cropping ponies, stretched tothe northern horizon: on our left three long coombes radiated seaward,and in the gorge of the midmost was a building stuck like a fish-bone,its twisted Jacobean chimneys overtopping a plantation of ash-trees thatnow, in November, allowed a glimpse, and no more, of the grey facade. Ihad looked down that coombe as we drove by; and catching sight of thesechimneys felt something like reassurance, as if I had been counting, allthe way, to find them there.But here let me explain who I am and what brought me to these parts.My name is Samuel Wraxall--the Reverend Samuel Wraxall, to be precise:I was born a Cockney and educated at Rugby and Oxford. On leaving theUniversity I had taken orders; but, for reasons impertinent to thisnarrative, was led, after five years of parochial work in Surrey, toaccept an Inspectorship of Schools. Just now I was bound for Pitt'sScawens, a desolate village among the Cornish clay-moors, there toexamine and report upon the Board School. Pitt's Scawens lies some ninemiles off the railway, and six from the nearest market-town;consequently, on hearing there was a comfortable inn near the village, Ihad determined to make that my resting-place for the night and do mybusiness early on the morrow."Who lives down yonder?" I asked my driver."Squire Parkyn," he answered, not troubling to follow my gaze."Old family?""May be: Belonged to these parts before I can mind.""What's the place called?""Tremenhuel."I had certainly never heard the name before, nevertheless my lips wereforming the syllables almost before he spoke. As he flicked up his greyhorse and the gig began to oscillate in more business-like fashion, Iput him a fourth question--a question at once involuntary and absurd."Are you sure the people who live there are called Parkyn?"He turned his head at this, and treated me quite excusably to a stare ofamazement."Well--considerin' I've lived in these parts five-an'-forty year, manand boy, I reckon I ought to be sure."The reproof was just, and I apologised. Nevertheless Parkyn was not thename I wanted. What was the name? And why did I want it? I had notthe least idea. For the next mile I continued to hunt my brain for theright combination of syllables. I only knew that somewhere, now at theback of my head, now on my tongue-tip, there hung a word I desired toutter, but could not. I was still searching for it when the gig climbedover the summit of a gentle rise, and the "Indian Queens" hove in sight.It is not usual for a village to lie a full mile beyond its inn: yet Inever doubted this must be the case with Pitt's Scawens. Nor was I inthe least surprised by the appearance of this lonely tavern, with theblack peat-pool behind it and the high-road in front, along which itsend windows stare for miles, as if on the look-out for the ghosts ofdeparted coaches full of disembodied travellers for the Land's End.I knew the sign-board over the porch: I knew--though now in the twilightit was impossible to distinguish colours--that upon either side of itwas painted an Indian Queen in a scarlet turban and blue robe, takingtwo black children with scarlet parasols to see a blue palm-tree.I recognised the hepping-stock and granite drinking-trough beside theporch; as well as the eight front windows, four on either side of thedoor, and the dummy window immediately over it. Only the landlord wasunfamiliar. He appeared as the gig drew up--a loose-fleshed, heavy man,something over six feet in height--and welcomed me with an air ofanxious hospitality, as if I were the first guest he had entertained formany years."You received my letter, then?" I asked."Yes, surely. The Rev. S. Wraxall, I suppose. Your bed's aired, sir,and a fire in the Blue Room, and the cloth laid. My wife didn't like torisk cooking the fowl till you were really come. 'Railways be thatuncertain,' she said. 'Something may happen to the train and he'll bedone to death and all in pieces.'"It took me a couple of seconds to discover that these gloomyanticipations referred not to me but to the fowl."But if you can wait half an hour--" he went on."Certainly," said I. "In the meanwhile, if you'll show me up to mybedroom, I'll have a wash and change my clothes, for I've beentravelling since ten this morning."I was standing in the passage by this time, and examined it in the duskwhile the landlord was fetching a candle. Yes, again: I had felt surethe staircase lay to the right. I knew by heart the Ionic pattern ofits broad balusters; the tick of the tall clock, standing at the firstturn of the stairs; the vista down the glazed door opening on thestable-yard. When the landlord returned with my portmanteau and acandle and I followed him up-stairs, I was asking myself for thetwentieth time--'When--in what stage of my soul's history--had I beendoing all this before? And what on earth was that tune that kepthumming in my head?'I dismissed these speculations as I entered the bedroom and began tofling off my dusty clothes. I had almost forgotten about them by thetime I began to wash away my travel-stains, and rinse the coal-dust outof my hair. My spirits revived, and I began mentally to arrange myplans for the next day. The prospect of dinner, too, after my colddrive was wonderfully comforting. Perhaps (thought I), there is goodwine in this inn; it is just the house wherein travellers find, or boastthat they find, forgotten bins of Burgundy or Teneriffe. When mylandlord returned to conduct me to the Blue Room, I followed him down tothe first landing in the lightest of spirits.Therefore, I was startled when, as the landlord threw open the door andstood aside to let me pass, it came upon me again--and this time notas a merely vague sensation, but as a sharp and sudden fear taking melike a cold hand by the throat. I shivered as I crossed the thresholdand began to look about me. The landlord observed it, and said--"It's chilly weather for travelling, to be sure. Maybe you'd be betterdown-stairs in the coffee-room, after all."I felt that this was probable enough. But it seemed a pity to have puthim to the pains of lighting this fire for nothing. So I promised him Ishould be comfortable enough.He appeared to be relieved, and asked me what I would drink with mydinner. "There's beer--I brew it myself; and sherry--"I said I would try his beer."And a bottle of sound port to follow?"Port upon home-brewed beer! But I had dared it often enough in myOxford days, and a long evening lay before me, with a snug armchair, anda fire fit to roast a sheep. I assented.He withdrew to fetch up the meal, and I looked about me with curiosity.The room was a long one--perhaps fifty feet from end to end, and notless than ten paces broad. It was wainscotted to the height of fourfeet from the ground, probably with oak, but the wood had been so lardedwith dark blue paint that its texture could not be discovered.Above this wainscot the walls were covered with a fascinating paper.The background of this was a greenish-blue, and upon it a party ofred-coated riders in three-cornered hats blew large horns while theyhunted a stag. This pattern, striking enough in itself, becameimmeasurably more so when repeated a dozen times; for the stag of onehunt chased the riders of the next, and the riders chased the hounds,and so on in an unbroken procession right round the room. The window atthe bottom of the room stood high in the wall, with short blue curtainsand a blue-cushioned seat beneath. In the corner to the right of itstood a tall clock, and by the clock an old spinet, decorated with twoplated cruets, a toy cottage constructed of shells and gum, and anormolu clock under glass--the sort of ornament that an AgriculturalSociety presents to the tenant of the best-cultivated farm within thirtymiles of somewhere or other. The floor was un-carpeted save for onesmall oasis opposite the fire. Here stood my table, cleanly spread,with two plated candlesticks, each holding three candles. Along thewainscot extended a regiment of dark, leather-cushioned chairs, sostraight in the back that they seemed to be standing at attention.There was but one easy-chair in the room, and this was drawn close tothe fire. I turned towards it.As I sat down I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above thefireplace. It was an unflattering glass, with a wave across the surfacethat divided my face into two ill-fitting halves, and a film upon it,due, I suppose, to the smoke of the wood-fire below. But the setting ofthis mirror and the fireplace itself were by far the most noteworthyobjects in the whole room. I set myself idly to examine them.It was an open hearth, and the blazing faggot lay on the stone itself.The andirons were of indifferently polished steel, and on either side ofthe fireplace two Ionic pilasters of dark oak supported a narrowmantel-ledge. Above this rested the mirror, flanked by a couple ofnaked, flat-cheeked boys, who appeared to be lowering it over the fireby a complicated system of pulleys, festoons, and flowers.These flowers and festoons, as well as the frame of the mirror, were ofsome light wood--lime, I fancy--and reminded me of Grinling Gibbons'work; and the glass tilted forward at a surprising angle, as if about totumble on the hearth-rug. The carving was exceedingly delicate.I rose to examine it more narrowly. As I did so, my eyes fell on threeletters, cut in flowing italic capitals upon a plain boss of woodimmediately over the frame, and I spelt out the word FVI.Fui--the word was simple enough; but what of its associations?Why should it begin to stir up again those memories which were memoriesof nothing? Fui--"I have been"; but what the dickens have I been?The landlord came in with my dinner."Ah!" said he, "you're looking at our masterpiece, I see.""Tell me," I asked; "do you know why this word is written here, over themirror?""I've heard my wife say, sir, it was the motto of the Cardinnocks thatused to own this house. Ralph Cardinnock, father to the last squire,built it. You'll see his initials up there, in the top corners of theframe--R. C.--one letter in each corner."As he spoke it, I knew this name--Cardinnock--for that which had beenhaunting me. I seated myself at table, saying--"They lived at Tremenhuel, I suppose. Is the family gone?--died out?""Why yes; and the way of it was a bit curious, too.""You might sit down and tell me about it," I said, "while I begin mydinner.""There's not much to tell," he answered, taking a chair; "and I'm notthe man to tell it properly. My wife is a better hand at it, but"--here he looked at me doubtfully--"it always makes her cry.""Then I'd rather hear it from you. How did Tremenhuel come into thehands of the Parkyns?--that's the present owner's name, is it not?"The landlord nodded. "The answer to that is part of the story.Old Parkyn, great-great-grandfather to the one that lives there now,took Tremenhuel on lease from the last Cardinnock--Squire PhilipCardinnock, as he was called. Squire Philip came into the property whenhe was twenty-three: and before he reached twenty-seven, he was forcedto let the old place. He was wild, they say--thundering wild; adrinking, dicing, cock-fighting, horse-racing young man; poured out hismoney like water through a sieve. That was bad enough: but when it cameto carrying off a young lady and putting a sword through her father andrunning the country, I put it to you it's worse.""Did he disappear?""That's part of the story, too. When matters got desperate and he wasforced to let Tremenhuel, he took what money he could raise and clearedout of the neighbourhood for a time; went off to Tregarrick when themilitia was embodied, he being an officer; and there he cast hisaffections upon old Sir Felix Williams's daughter. Miss Cicely--"I was expecting it: nevertheless I dropped my fork clumsily as I heardthe name, and for a few seconds the landlord's voice sounded like thatof a distant river as it ran on--"And as Sir Felix wouldn't consent--for which nobody blamed him--Squire Philip and Miss Cicely agreed to go off together one dark night.But the old man found them out and stopped them in the nick of time andgot six inches of cold steel for his pains. However, he kept his girl,and Squire Philip had to fly the country. He went off that same night,they say: and wherever he went, he never came back.""What became of him?""Ne'er a soul knows; for ne'er a soul saw his face again. Year afteryear, old Parkyn, his tenant, took the rent of Tremenhuel out of hisright pocket and paid it into his left: and in time, there being noheir, he just took over the property and stepped into Cardinnock's shoeswith a 'by your leave' to nobody, and there his grandson is to thisday.""What became of the young lady--of Miss Cicely Williams?" I asked."Died an old maid. There was something curious between her and her onlybrother who had helped to stop the runaway match. Nobody knows what itwas: but when Sir Felix died--as he did about ten years after--she packed up and went somewhere to the North of England and settled.They say she and her brother never spoke: which was carrying her angerat his interference rather far, 'specially as she remained good friendswith her father."He broke off here to fetch up the second course. We talked no more, forI was pondering his tale and disinclined to be diverted to other topics.Nor can I tell whether the rest of the meal was good or ill. I supposeI ate: but it was only when the landlord swept the cloth, and produced abottle of port, with a plate of biscuits and another of dried raisins,that I woke out of my musing. While I drew the arm-chair nearer thefire, he pushed forward the table with the wine to my elbow.After this, he poured me out a glass and fell to dusting a high-backedchair with vigour, as though he had caught it standing at ease and weregiving it a round dozen for insubordination in the ranks. "Was thereanything more?" "Nothing, thank you." He withdrew.I drank a couple of glasses and began meditatively to light my pipe.I was trying to piece together these words "Philip Cardinnock--Cicely Williams--fui," and to fit them into the tune that kept runningin my head.My pipe went out. I pulled out my pouch and was filling it afresh whena puff of wind came down the chimney and blew a cloud of blue smoke outinto the room.The smoke curled up and spread itself over the face of the mirrorconfronting me. I followed it lazily with my eyes. Then suddenly Ibent forward, staring up. Something very curious was happening to theglass.II. WHAT I SAW IN THE MIRROR.The smoke that had dimmed the mirror's face for a moment was rolling offits surface and upwards to the ceiling. But some of it still lingeredin filmy, slowly revolving eddies. The glass itself, too, was stirringbeneath this film and running across its breadth in horizontal waveswhich broke themselves silently, one after another, against the darkframe, while the circles of smoke kept widening, as the ripples widenwhen a stone is tossed into still water.I rubbed my eyes. The motion on the mirror's surface was quickeningperceptibly, while the glass itself was steadily becoming more opaque,the film deepening to a milky colour and lying over the surface in heavyfolds. I was about to start up and touch the glass with my hand, whenbeneath this milky colour and from the heart of the whirling film, therebegan to gleam an underlying brilliance after the fashion of the lightin an opal, but with this difference, that the light here was blue--a steel blue so vivid that the pain of it forced me to shut my eyes.When I opened them again, this light had increased in intensity.The disturbance in the glass began to abate; the eddies revolved moreslowly; the smoke-wreaths faded: and as they died wholly out, the bluelight went out on a sudden and the mirror looked down upon me as before.That is to say, I thought so for a moment. But the next, I found thatthough its face reflected the room in which I sat, there was oneomission.I was that omission. My arm-chair was there, but no one sat in it.I was surprised; but, as well as I can recollect, not in the leastfrightened. I continued, at any rate, to gaze steadily into the glass,and now took note of two particulars that had escaped me. The table Isaw was laid for two. Forks, knives and glasses gleamed at either end,and a couple of decanters caught the sparkle of the candles in thecentre. This was my first observation. The second was that the coloursof the hearth-rug had gained in freshness, and that a dark spot justbeyond it--a spot which in my first exploration I had half-amusedlytaken for a blood-stain--was not reflected in the glass.As I leant back and gazed, with my hands in my lap, I remember there wassome difficulty in determining whether the tune by which I was stillhaunted ran in my head or was tinkling from within the old spinet by thewindow. But after a while the music, whencesoever it came, faded awayand ceased. A dead silence held everything for about thirty seconds.And then, still looking in the mirror, I saw the door behind me openslowly.The next moment, two persons noiselessly entered the room--a young manand a girl. They wore the dress of the early Georgian days, as well asI could see; for the girl was wrapped in a cloak with a hood that almostconcealed her face, while the man wore a heavy riding-coat. He wasbooted and spurred, and the backs of his top-boots were splashed withmud. I say the backs of his boots, for he stood with his back to mewhile he held open the door for the girl to pass, and at first I couldnot see his face.The lady advanced into the light of the candles and threw back her hood.Her eyes were dark and frightened: her cheeks damp with rain andslightly reddened by the wind. A curl of brown hair had broken loosefrom its knot and hung, heavy with wet, across her brow. It was abeautiful face; and I recognised its owner. She was Cicely Williams.With that, I knew well enough what I was to see next. I knew it evenwhile the man at the door was turning, and I dug the nails of my righthand into the palm of my left, to repress the fear that swelled up as awave as I looked straight into his face and saw--my own self.But I had expected it, as I say: and when the wave of fear had passedover me and gone, I could observe these two figures steadfastly enough.The girl dropped into a chair beside the table, and stretching her armsalong the white cloth, bowed her head over them and wept. I saw hershoulders heave and her twined fingers work as she struggled with hergrief. The young Squire advanced and, with a hand on her shoulder,endeavoured by many endearments to comfort her. His lips movedvehemently, and gradually her shoulders ceased to rise and fall.By-and-by she raised her head and looked up into his face with wet,gleaming eyes. It was very pitiful to see. The young man took her facebetween his hands, kissed it, and pouring out a glass of wine, held itto her lips. She put it aside with her hand and glanced up towards thetall clock in the corner. My eyes, following hers, saw that the handspointed to a quarter to twelve.The young Squire set down the glass hastily, stepped to the window and,drawing aside the blue curtain, gazed out upon the night. Twice helooked back at Cicely, over his shoulder, and after a minute returned tothe table. He drained the glass which the girl had declined, poured outanother, still keeping his eyes on her, and began to walk impatiently upand down the room. And all the time Cicely's soft eyes never ceased tofollow him. Clearly there was need for hurry, for they had not laidaside their travelling-cloaks, and once or twice the young man paused inhis walk to listen. At length he pulled out his watch, glanced from itto the clock in the corner, put it away with a frown and, striding up tothe hearth, flung himself down in the arm-chair--the very arm-chair inwhich I was seated.As he sat there, tapping the hearth-rug with the toe of his thickriding-boot and moving his lips now and then in answer to somequestion from the young girl, I had time to examine his every feature.Line by line they reproduced my own--nay, looking straight into his eyesI could see through them into the soul of him and recognised that soulfor my own. Of all the passions there I knew that myself contained thegerms. Vices repressed in youth, tendencies to sin starved in my ownnature by lack of opportunity--these flourished in a rank growth.I saw virtues, too, that I had once possessed but had lost by degrees inmy respectable journey through life--courage, generosity, tenderness ofheart. I was discovering these with envy, one by one, when he raisedhis head higher and listened for a moment, with a hand on either arm ofthe chair.The next instant he sprang up and faced the door. Glancing at Cicely, Isaw her cowering down in her chair.The young Squire had hardly gained his feet when the door flew open andthe figures of two men appeared on the threshold--Sir Felix Williams andhis only son, the father and brother of Cicely.There, in the doorway, the intruders halted; but for an instant only.Almost before the Squire could draw, his sweetheart's brother had sprungforward. Like two serpents their rapiers engaged in the candle-light.The soundless blades crossed and glittered. Then one of them flickeredin a narrow circle, and the brother's rapier went spinning from his handacross the room.Young Cardinnock lowered his point at once, and his adversary steppedback a couple of paces. While a man might count twenty the pair lookedeach other in the face, and then the old man, Sir Felix, stepped slowlyforward.But before he could thrust--for the young Squire still kept his pointlowered--Cicely sprang forward and threw herself across her lover'sbreast. There, for all the gentle efforts his left hand made todisengage her, she clung. She had made her choice. There was no signof faltering in her soft eyes, and her father had perforce to hold hishand.The old man began to speak. I saw his face distorted with passion andhis lips working. I saw the deep red gather on Cicely's cheeks and theanger in her lover's eyes. There was a pause as Sir Felix ceased tospeak, and then the young Squire replied. But his sentence stoppedmidway: for once more the old man rushed upon him.This time young Cardinnock's rapier was raised. Girdling Cicely withhis left arm he parried her father's lunge and smote his blade aside.But such was the old man's passion that he followed the lunge with allhis body, and before his opponent could prevent it, was wounded high inthe chest, beneath the collar-bone.He reeled back and fell against the table. Cicely ran forward andcaught his hand; but he pushed her away savagely and, with anotherclutch at the table's edge, dropped upon the hearth-rug. The young man,meanwhile, white and aghast, rushed to the table, filled a glass withwine, and held it to the lips of the wounded man. So the two loversknelt.It was at this point that I who sat and witnessed the tragedy wasassailed by a horror entirely new. Hitherto I had, indeed, seen myselfin Squire Philip Cardinnock; but now I began also to possess his souland feel with his feelings, while at the same time I continued to sitbefore the glass, a helpless onlooker. I was two men at once; the manwho knelt all unaware of what was coming and the man who waited in thearm-chair, incapable of word or movement, yet gifted with a torturingprescience. And as I sat this was what I saw:--The brother, as I knelt there oblivious of all but the wounded man,stepped across the room to the corner where his rapier lay, picked it upsoftly and as softly stole up behind me. I tried to shout, to warnmyself; but my tongue was tied. The brother's arm was lifted. Thecandlelight ran along the blade. Still the kneeling figure neverturned.And as my heart stiffened and awaited it, there came a flash of pain--one red-hot stroke of anguish.III. WHAT I SAW IN THE TARN.As the steel entered my back, cutting all the cords that bound me tolife, I suffered anguish too exquisite for words to reach, too deep formemory to dive after. My eyes closed and teeth shut on the taste ofdeath; and as they shut a merciful oblivion wrapped me round.When I awoke, the room was dark, and I was standing on my feet. A coldwind was blowing on my face, as from an open door. I staggered to meetthis wind and found myself groping along a passage and down a staircasefilled with Egyptian darkness. Then the wind increased suddenly andshook the black curtain around my senses. A murky light broke in on me.I had a body. That I felt; but where it was I knew not. And so I feltmy way forward in the direction where the twilight showed least dimly.Slowly the curtain shook and its folds dissolved as I moved against thewind. The clouds lifted; and by degrees I grew aware that I wasstanding on the barren moor. Night was stretched around to the horizon,where straight ahead a grey bar shone across the gloom. I pressed ontowards it. The heath was uneven under my feet, and now and then Istumbled heavily; but still I held on. For it seemed that I must get tothis grey bar or die a second time. All my muscles, all my will, werestrained upon this purpose.Drawing nearer, I observed that a wave-like motion kept passing overthis brighter space, as it had passed over the mirror. The glimmerwould be obscured for a moment, and then re-appear. At length a gentleacclivity of the moor hid it for a while. My legs positively raced upthis slope, and upon the summit I hardly dared to look for a moment,knowing that if the light were an illusion all my hope must die with it.But it was no illusion. There was the light, and there, before my feet,lay a sable sheet of water, over the surface of which the light wasplaying. There was no moon, no star in heaven; yet over this desolatetarn hovered a pale radiance that ceased again where the edge of itswaves lapped the further bank of peat. Their monotonous wash hardlybroke the stillness of the place.The formless longing was now pulling at me with an attraction I couldnot deny, though within me there rose and fought against it a horroronly less strong. Here, as in the Blue Room, two souls were strugglingfor me. It was the soul of Philip Cardinnock that drew me towards thetarn and the soul of Samuel Wraxall that resisted. Only, what was thething towards which I was being pulled?I must have stood at least a minute on the brink before I descried ablack object floating at the far end of the tarn. What this object wasI could not make out; but I knew it on the instant to be that for whichI longed, and all my will grew suddenly intent on drawing it nearer.Even as my volition centred upon it, the black spot began to move slowlyout into the pale radiance towards me. Silently, surely, as though mywish drew it by a rope, it floated nearer and nearer over the bosom ofthe tarn; and while it was still some twenty yards from me I saw it tobe a long black box, shaped somewhat like a coffin.There was no doubt about it. I could hear the water now sucking at itsdark sides. I stepped down the bank, and waded up to my knees in theicy water to meet it. It was a plain box, with no writing upon the lid,nor any speck of metal to relieve the dead black: and it moved with thesame even speed straight up to where I stood.As it came, I laid my hand upon it and touched wood. But with the touchcame a further sensation that made me fling both arms around the box andbegin frantically to haul it towards the shore.It was a feeling of suffocation; of a weight that pressed in upon myribs and choked the lungs' action. I felt that I must open that box ordie horribly; that until I had it upon the bank and had forced the lidup I should know no pause from the labour and torture of dying.This put a wild strength into me. As the box grated upon the fewpebbles by the shore, I bent over it, caught it once more by the sides,and with infinite effort dragged it up out of the water. It was heavy,and the weight upon my chest was heavier yet: but straining, panting,gasping, I hauled it up the bank, dropped it on the turf, and knelt overit, tugging furiously at the lid.I was frenzied--no less. My nails were torn until the blood gushed.Lights danced before me; bells rang in my ears; the pressure on my lungsgrew more intolerable with each moment; but still I fought with thatlid. Seven devils were within me and helped me; and all the while Iknew that I was dying, that unless the box were opened in a moment ortwo it would be too late.The sweat ran off my eyebrows and dripped on the box. My breath cameand went in sobs. I could not die. I could not, must not die. And soI tugged and strained and tugged again.Then, as I felt the black anguish of the Blue Room descending a secondtime upon me, I seemed to put all my strength into my hands. From thelid or from my own throat--I could not distinguish--there came a creakand a long groan. I tore back the board and fell on the heath with oneshuddering breath of relief.And drawing it, I raised my head and looked over the coffin's edge.Still drawing it, I tumbled back.White, cold, with the last struggle fixed on its features and open eyes,it was my own dead face that stared up at me!IV. WHAT I HAVE SINCE LEARNT.They found me, next morning, lying on the brink of the tarn, and carriedme back to the inn. There I lay for weeks in a brain fever and talked--as they assure me--the wildest nonsense. The landlord had first guessedthat something was amiss on finding the front door open when he camedown at five o'clock. I must have turned to the left on leaving thehouse, travelled up the road for a hundred yards, and then struck almostat right angles across the moor. One of my shoes was found a furlongfrom the highway, and this had guided them. Of course they found nocoffin beside me, and I was prudent enough to hold my tongue when Ibecame convalescent. But the effect of that night was to shatter myhealth for a year and more, and force me to throw up my post of SchoolInspector. To this day I have never examined the school at Pitt'sScawens. But somebody else has; and last winter I received a letter,which I will give in full:-- 21, Chesterham Road, KENSINGTON, W.

　　December 3rd, 1891.Dear Wraxall,--It is a long time since we have corresponded, but I have justreturned from Cornwall, and while visiting Pitt's Scawensprofessionally, was reminded of you. I put up at the inn whereyou had your long illness. The people there were delighted tofind that I knew you, and desired me to send "their duty" whennext I wrote. By the way, I suppose you were introduced to theirstate apartment--the Blue Room--and its wonderful chimney carving.I made a bid to the landlord for it, panels, mirror, and all, buthe referred me to Squire Parkyn, the landlord. I think I may getit, as the Squire loves hard coin. When I have it up over mymantel-piece here you must run over and give me your opinion on it.By the way, clay has been discovered on the Tremenhuel Estate, justat the back of the "Indian Queens": at least, I hear that SquireParkyn is running a Company, and is sanguine. You remember thetarn behind the inn? They made an odd discovery there whendraining it for the new works. In the mud at the bottom wasimbedded the perfect skeleton of a man. The bones were quite cleanand white. Close beside the body they afterwards turned up asilver snuff-box, with the word "Fui" on the lid. "Fui" was themotto of the Cardinnocks, who held Tremenhuel before it passed tothe Parkyns. There seems to be no doubt that these are the bonesof the last Squire, who disappeared mysteriously more than ahundred years ago, in consequence of a love affair, I'm told.It looks like foul play; but, if so, the account has long sincepassed out of the hands of man.Yours ever, David E. Mainwaring.P.S.--I reopen this to say that Squire Parkyn has accepted my offerfor the chimney-piece. Let me hear soon that you'll come and lookat it and give me your opinion.

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