There are, indeed, many less agreeable ways in which an unbeneficedparson may contrive to scorn delights and live laborious days. Inremote places where strangers are scarce, his annual visit is animportant event; and though at the close of a long day's work he wouldsometimes prefer the quiet of a country inn, he generally findshimself the destined guest of the rector or the squire. It rests withhimself to turn these opportunities to account. If he makes himselfpleasant, he forms agreeable friendships and sees English home-lifeunder one of its most attractive aspects; and sometimes, even in thesedays of universal common-placeness, he may have the luck to meet withan adventure.
My first appointment was to a West of England district largely peopledwith my personal friends and connections. It was, therefore, much tomy annoyance that I found myself, after a couple of years of verypleasant work, transferred to what a policeman would call 'a newbeat,' up in the North. Unfortunately for me, my new beat-a rambling,thinly populated area of something under 1,800 square miles-was threetimes as large as the old one, and more than pro-portionatelyunmanageable. Intersected at right angles by two ranges of barrenhills and cut off to a large extent from the main lines of railway,itunited about every inconvenience that a district could possess. Thevillages lay wide apart, often separated by long tracts of moorland;and in place of the well-warmed railway compartment and the frequentmanor-house, I now spent half my time in hired vehicles and lonelycountry inns.
I had been in possession of this district for some three months or so,and winter was near at hand, when I paid my first visit of inspectionto Pit End, an outlying hamlet in the most northerly corner of mycounty, just twenty-two miles from the nearest station. Haying sleptovernight at a place called Drumley, and inspected Drumley schools inthe morning, I started for Pit End, with fourteen miles of railway andtwenty-two of hilly cross-roads between myself and my journey's end. Imade, of course, all the enquiries I could think of before leaving;but neither the Drumley schoolmaster nor the landlord of the Drumley'Feathers' knew much more of Pit End than its name. My predecessor, itseemed, had been in the habit of taking Pit End 'from the other side',the roads, though longer, being less hilly that way. That the placeboasted some kind of inn was certain; but it was an inn unknown tofame, and to mine host of the 'Feathers'. Be it good or bad, however,I should have to put up at it.
Upon this scant information I started. My fourteen miles of railwayjourney soon ended at a place called Bramsford Road, whence an omnibusconveyed passengers to a dull little town called Bramsford Market.Here I found a horse and 'trap' to carry me on to my destination; thehorse being a rawboned grey with a profile like a camel, and the trapa ricketty high gig which had probably done commercial travelling inthe days of its youth. From Bramsford Market the way lay over asuccession of long hills, rising to a barren, high-level plateau. Itwas a dull, raw afternoon of mid-November, growing duller and more rawas the day waned and the east wind blew keener...'How much furthernow, driver?' I asked, as we alighted at the foot of a longer and astiffer hill than any we had yet passed over.
He turned a straw in his mouth, and grunted something about 'fewer orfoive mile by the rooad'.
And then I learned that by turning off at a point which he describedas 't'owld tollus', and taking a certain footpath across the fields,this distance might be considerably shortened. I decided, therefore,to walk the rest of the way; and, setting off at a good pace, I soonleft driver and trap behind. At the top of the hill I lost sight ofthem, and coming presently to a little road-side ruin which I at oncerecognized as the old toll-house, I found the footpath withoutdifficulty.
It led me across a barren slope divided by stone fences, with here andthere a group of shattered sheds, a tall chimney, and a blackenedcinder-mound, marking the site of a deserted mine. A light fog,meanwhile, was creeping up from the east, and the dusk was gatheringfast.
Now, to lose one's way in such a place and at such an hour would bedisagreeable enough, and the footpath-a trodden track already halfobliterated-would be indistinguishable in the course of another tenminutes. Looking anxiously ahead, therefore, in the hope of seeingsome sign of habitation, I hastened on, scaling one stone stile afteranother, till I all at once found myself skirting a line of park-palings. Following these, with bare boughs branching out overhead anddead leaves rustling underfoot, I came presently to a point where thepath divided; here continuing to skirt the enclosure, and striking offyonder across a space of open meadow.
Which should I take?
By following the fence, I should be sure to arrive at a lodge where Icould enquire my way to Pit End; but then the park might be of anyextent, and I might have a long distance to go before I came to thenearest lodge. Again, the meadow-path, instead of leading to Pit End,might take me in a totally opposite direction. But there was no timeto be lost in hesitation; so I chose the meadow, the further end ofwhich was lost to sight in a fleecy bank of fog.
Up to this moment I had not met a living soul of whom to ask my way;it was, therefore, with no little sense of relief that I saw a manemerging from the fog and coming along the path. As we neared eachother-I advancing rapidly; he slowly-I observed that he dragged theleft foot, limping as he walked. It was, however, so dark and somisty, thatt not till we were within half a dozen yards of each othercould I see hat he wore a dark suit and an Anglican felt hat, andlooked something like a dissenting minister. As soon as we were withinspeaking distance, I addressed him.
'Can you tell me', I said, 'if I am right for Pit End, and how far Ihave to go?'
He came on, looking straight before him; taking no notice of myquestion; apparently not hearing it.
'I beg your pardon,' I said, raising my voice; 'but will this pathtake me to Pit End, and if so'--He had passed on without pausing;without looking at me; I could almost have believed, without seeingme!
I stopped, with the words on my lips; then turned to look after-perhaps, to follow-him.
But instead of following, I stood bewildered.
What had become of him? And what lad was that going up the path bywhich I had just come-that tall lad, half-running, half-walking, witha fishing-rod over his shoulder? I could have taken my oath that I hadneither met nor passed him. Where then had he come from? And where wasthe man to whom I had spoken not three seconds ago, and who, at hislimping pace, could not have made more than a couple of yards in thetime? My stupefaction was such that I stood quite still, looking afterthe lad with the fishing-rod till he disappeared in the gloom underthe park-palings.
Was I dreaming?
Darkness, meanwhile, had closed in apace, and, dreaming or notdreaming, I must push on, or find myself benighted. So I hurriedforward, turning my back on the last gleam of daylight, and plungingdeeper into the fog at every step. I was, however, close upon myjourney's end. The path ended at a turnstile; the turnstile openedupon a steep lane; and at the bottom of the lane, down which Istumbled among stones and ruts, I came in sight of the welcome glareof a blacksmith's forge.
Here, then, was Pit End. I found my trap standing at the door of thevillage inn; the rawboned grey stabled for the night; the landlordwatching for my arrival.
The 'Greyhound' was a hostelry of modest pretensions, and I shared itslittle parlour with a couple of small farmers and a young man whoinformed me that he 'travelled in' Thorley's Food for Cattle. Here Idined, wrote my letters, chatted awhile with the landlord, and pickedup such scraps of local news as fell in my way.
There was, it seemed, no resident parson at Pit End; the incumbentbeing a pluralist with three small livings, the duties of which, bythe help of a rotatory curate, he discharged in a somewhat easyfashion. Pit End, as the smallest and furthest off, came in for butone service each Sunday, and was almost wholly relegated to thecurate. The squire was a more confirmed absentee than even the vicar.He lived chiefly in Paris, spending abroad the wealth of his Pit Endcoal-fields.
He happened to be at home just now, the landlord said, after fiveyears' absence; but he would be off again next week, and another fiveyears might probably elapse before they should again see him atBlackwater Chase.
Blackwater Chase!-the name was not new to me; yet I could not rememberwhere I had heard it. When, however, mine host went on to say that,despite his absenteeism, Mr Wolstenholme was 'a pleasant gentleman anda good landlord', and that, after all, Blackwater Chase was 'alonesome sort of world-end place for a young man to bury himself in',then I at once remembered Phil Wolstenholme of Balliol, who, in hisgrand way, had once upon a time given me a general invitation to theshooting at Blackwater Chase. That was twelve years ago, when I wasreading hard at Wadham, and Wolstenholme-the idol of a clique to whichI did not belong-was boating, betting, writing poetry, and giving wineparties at Balliol.
Yes; I remembered all about him-his handsome face, his luxuriousrooms, his boyish prodigality, his utter indolence, and the blindfaith of his worshippers, who believed that he had only 'to pullhimself together' in order to carry off every honour which theUniversity had to bestow. He did take the Newdigate; but it was hisfirst and last achievement, and he left college with the reputation ofhaving narrowly escaped a plucking. How vividly it all came back uponmy memory-the old college life, the college friendships, the pleasanttime that could never come again! It was but twelve years ago; yet itseemed like half a century. And now, after these twelve years, herewere Wolstenholme and I as near neighbours as in our Oxford days! Iwondered if he was much changed, and whether, if changed, it were forthe better or the worse.
Had his generous impulses developed into sterling virtues, or had hisfollies hardened into vices?
Should I let him know where I was, and so judge for myself? Nothingwould be easier than to pencil a line upon a card tomorrow morning,and send it up to the big house. Yet, merely to satisfy a purposelesscuriosity, was it worthwhile to reopen the acquaintanceship? Thusmusing, I sat late over the fire, and by the time I went to bed, I hadwell nigh forgotten my adventure with the man who vanished somysteriously and the boy who seemed to come from nowhere.
Next morning, finding I had abundant time at my disposal, I did pencilthat line upon my card-a mere line, saving that I believed we hadknown each other at Oxford, and that I should be inspecting theNational Schools from nine till about eleven. And then, havingdispatched it by one of my landlord's sons, I went off to my work. Theday was brilliantly fine. The wind had shifted round to the north, thesun shone clear and cold, and the smoke-grimed hamlet, and the gauntbuildings clustered at the mouths of the coalpits round about, lookedas bright as they could look at any time of the year. The village wasbuilt up a long hill-side; the church and schools being at the top,and the 'Greyhound' at the bottom. Looking vainly for the lane bywhich I had come the night before, I climbed the one rambling street,followed a path that skirted the churchyard, and found myself at theschools. These, with the teachers' dwellings, formed three sides of aquadrangle; the fourth side consisting of an iron railing and a gate.An inscribed tablet over the main entrance-door recorded how 'Theseschool-houses were re-built by Philip Wolstenholme, Esquire: AD 18-.'
Mr Wolstenholme, sir, is the Lord of the Manor,' said a soft,obsequious voice.
I turned, and found the speaker at my elbow, a square-built, sallowman, all in black, with a bundle of copy-books under his arm.
'You are the-the schoolmaster?' I said; unable to remember his name,and puzzled by a vague recollection of his face.
'Just so, sir. I conclude I have the honour of addressing Mr Frazer?'
It was a singular face, very pallid and anxious-looking. The eyes,too, had a watchful, almost a startled, look in them, which struck meas peculiarly unpleasant.
'Yes,' I replied, still wondering where and when I had seen him. 'Myname is Frazer. Yours, I believe, is-is-,' and I put my hand into mypocket for my examination papers.
'Skelton-Ebenezer Skelton. Will you please to take the boys first,sir?'
The words were commonplace enough, but the man's manner wasstudiously, disagreeably deferential; his very name being given, as itwere, under protest, as if too insignificant to be mentioned.
I said I would begin with the boys; and so moved on. Then, for we hadstood still till now, I saw that the schoolmaster was lame. In thatmoment I remembered him. He was the man I met in the fog.
'I met you yesterday afternoon, Mr Skelton,' I said, as we went intothe school-mom.
'Yesterday afternoon, sir?' he repeated.
'You did not seem to observe me,' I said, carelessly. 'I spoke to you,in fact; but you did not reply to me.'
'But-indeed, I beg your pardon, sir-it must have been someone else,'said the schoolmaster, 'I did not go out yesterday afternoon.'
How could this be anything but a falsehood? I might have been mistakenas to the man's face; though it was such a singular face, and I hadseen it quite plainly. But how could I be mistaken as to his lameness?Besides, that curious trailing of the right foot, as if the ankle wasbroken, was not an ordinary lameness.
I suppose I looked incredulous, for he added, hastily:.'Even if I hadnot been preparing the boys for inspection, sir, I should not havegone out yesterday afternoon. It was too damp and foggy. I am obligedto be careful-I have a very delicate chest.'
My dislike to the man increased with every word he uttered. I did notask myself with what motive he went on heaping lie upon lie; it wasenough that, to serve his own ends, whatever those ends might be, hedid lie with unparallelled audacity.
'We will proceed to the examination, Mr Skelton,' I said,contemptuously.
He turned, if possible, a shade paler than before, bent his headsilently, and called up the scholars in their order.
I soon found that, whatever his shortcomings as to veracity, MrEbenezer Skelton was a capital schoolmaster. His boys were uncommonlywell taught, and as regarded attendance, good conduct, and the like,left nothing to be desired. When, therefore, at the end of theexamination, he said he hoped I would recommend the Pit End Boys'School for the Government grant, I at once assented. And now I thoughtI had done with Mr Skelton for, at all events, the space of one year.Not so, however. When I came out from the Girls' School, I found himwaiting at the door.
Profusely apologizing, he begged leave to occupy five minutes of myvaluable time. He wished, under correction, to suggest a littleimprovement. The boys, he said, were allowed to play in thequadrangle, which was too small, and in various ways inconvenient; butround at the back there was a piece of waste land, half an acre ofwhich, if enclosed, would admirably answer the purpose. So saying, heled the way to the back of the building, and I followed him.
'To whom does this ground belong?' I asked.
'To Mr Wolstenholme, sir.'
'Then why not apply to Mr Wolstenholme? He gave the schools, and Idare say he would be equally willing to give the ground.'
'I beg your pardon, sir. Mr Wolstenholme has not been over here sincehis return, and it is quite possible that he may leave Pit End withouthonouring us with a visit. I could not take the liberty of writing tohim, sir.'
'Neither could I in my report suggest that the Government should offerto purchase a portion of Mr Wolstenholme's land for a playground toschools of Mr Wolstenholme's own building.' I replied. 'Under othercircumstances'.
I stopped and looked round.
The schoolmaster repeated my last words.
'You were saying, sir-under other circumstances?'
I looked round again.
'It seemed to me that there was someone here,' I said; 'some thirdperson, not a moment ago.'
'I beg your pardon, sir-a third person?'
'I saw his shadow on the ground, between yours and mine.'
The schools faced due north, and we were standing immediately behindthe buildings, with our backs to the sun. The place was bare, andopen, and high; and our shadows, sharply defined, lay stretched beforeour feet.
'A-a shadow?' he faltered. 'Impossible.'
There was not a bush or a tree within half a mile. There was not acloud in the sky. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that couldhave cast a shadow.
I admitted that it was impossible, and that I must have fancied it;and so went back to the matter of the playground..'Should you see MrWolstenholme,' I said, 'you are at liberty to say that I thought it adesirable improvement.'
'I am much obliged to you, sir. Thank you-thank you very much,' hesaid, cringing at every word. 'But-but I had hoped that you mightperhaps use your influence'-'Look there!' I interrupted. 'Is thatfancy?'
We were now close under the blank wall of the boys' schoolroom. Onthis wall, lying to the full sunlight, our shadows-mine and theschoolmaster's-were projected. And there, too-no longer between hisand mine, but a little way apart, as if the intruder were standingback-there, as sharply defined as if cast by lime-light on a preparedbackground, I again distinctly saw, though but for a moment, thatthird shadow. As I spoke, as I looked round, it was gone!
'Did you not see it?' I asked.
He shook his head.
'I-I saw nothing,' he said, faintly. 'What was it?'
His lips were white. He seemed scarcely able to stand.
'But you must have seen it!' I exclaimed. 'It fell just there-wherethat bit of ivy grows. There must be some boy hiding-it was a boy'sshadow, I am confident.'
'A boy's shadow!' he echoed, looking round in a wild, frightened way.'There is no place-for a boy-to hide.'
'Place or no place,' I said, angrily, 'if I catch him, he shall feelthe weight of my cane!'
I searched backwards and forwards in event direction, theschoolmaster, with his scared face, limping at my heels; but, roughand irregular as the ground was, there was not a hole in it big enoughto shelter a rabbit.
'But what was it?' I said, impatiently.
'An-an illusion. Begging your pardon, sir-an illusion.'
He looked so like a beaten hound, so frightened, so fawning, that Ifelt I could with lively satisfaction have transferred the threatenedcaning to his own shoulders.
'But you saw it?' I said again.
'No, sir. Upon my honour, no, sir. I saw nothing-nothing whatever.'
His looks belied his words. I felt positive that he had not only seenthe shadow, but that he knew more about it than he chose to tell. Iwas by this time really angry. To be made the object of a boyishtrick, and to be hoodwinked by the connivance of the schoolmaster, wastoo much. It was an insult to myself and my office.
I scarcely knew what I said; something short and stern at all events.Then, having said it, I turned my back upon Mr Skelton and theschools, and walked rapidly back to the village.
As I neared the bottom of the hill, a dog-cart drawn by a high-stepping chestnut dashed up to the door of the 'Greyhound', and thenext moment I was shaking hands with Wolstenholme, of Balliol.Wolstenholme, of Balliol, as handsome as ever, dressed with the samecareless dandyism, looking not a day older than when I last saw him atOxford! He gripped me by both hands, vowed that I was his guest forthe next three days, and insisted on carrying me off at once toBackwater Chase. In vain I urged that I had two schools to inspecttomorrow ten miles the other side of Drumley; that I had a horse andtrap waiting; and that my room was ordered at the 'Feathers'.Wolstenholme laughed away my objections.
My dear fellow,' he said, 'you will simply send your horse and trapback with a message to the "Feathers", and a couple of telegrams to bedispatched to the two schools from Drumley station.
Unforeseen circumstances compel you to defer those inspections tillnext week!'.And with this, in his masterful way, he shouted to thelandlord to send my portmanteau up to the manor-house, pushed me upbefore him into the dog-cart, gave the chestnut his head, and rattledme off to Backwater Chase.
It was a gloomy old barrack of a place, standing high in the midst ofa sombre deer-park some six or seven miles in circumference. An avenueof oaks, now leafless, led up to the house; and a mournful heron-haunted tarn in the loneliest part of the park gave to the estate itsname of Blackwater Chase. The place, in fact, was more like a borderfastness than an English north-country mansion. Wolstenholme took methrough the picture gallery and reception rooms after luncheon, andthen for a canter round the park; and in the evening we dined at theupper end of a great oak hall hung with antlers, and armour, andantiquated weapons of warfare and sport.
'Now, tomorrow,' said my host, as we sat over our claret in front of ablazing log-fire; 'tomorrow, if we have decent weather, you shall havea day's shooting on the moors; and on Friday, if you will but bepersuaded to stay a day longer, I will drive you over to Broomhead andgive you a run with the Duke's hounds. Not hunt? My dear fellow, whatnonsense! All our parsons hunt in this part of the world. By the way,have you ever been down a coal pit? No?
Then a new experience awaits you. I'll take you down Carshalton shaft,and show you the home of the gnomes and trolls.'
'Is Carshalton one of your own mines?' I asked.
'All these pits are mine,' he replied. 'I am king of Hades, and rulethe under world as well as the upper. There is coal everywhereunderlying these moors. The whole place is honeycombed with shafts andgalleries. One of our richest seams runs under this house, and thereare upwards of forty men at work in it a quarter of a mile below ourfeet here every day. Another leads right away under the park, heavenonly knows how far! My father began working it five-and-twenty yearsago, and we have gone on working it ever since; yet it shows no signof failing.'
'You must be as rich as a prince with a fairy godmother!'
He shrugged his shoulders.
'Well,' he said, lightly, 'I am rich enough to commit what follies Iplease; and that is saying a good deal. But then, to be alwayssquandering money-always rambling about the world--always gratifyingthe impulse of the moment-is that happiness? I have been trying theexperiment for the last ten years; and with what result? Would youlike to see?'
He snatched up a lamp and led the way through a long suite ofunfurnished rooms, the floors of which were piled high with packingcases of all sizes and shapes, labelled with the names of variousforeign ports and the addresses of foreign agents innumerable. Whatdid they contain?
Precious marbles from Italy and Greece and Asia Minor; pricelesspaintings by old and modern masters; antiquities from the Nile, theTigris, and the Euphrates; enamels from Persia, porcelain from China,bronzes from Japan, strange sculptures from Peru; arms, mosaics,ivories, wood-carvings, skins, tapestries, old Italian cabinets,painted bride-chests, Etruscan terracottas; treasures of allcountries, of all ages, never even unpacked since they crossed thatthreshold which the master's foot had crossed but twice during the tenyears it had taken to buy them!
Should he ever open them, ever arrange them, ever enjoy them? Perhaps-if he became weary of wandering-if he married-if he built a gallery toreceive them. If not-well, he might found and endow a museum; or leavethe things to the nation. What did it matter? Collecting was like fox-hunting; the pleasure was in the pursuit, and ended with it!
We sat up late that first night, I can hardly say conversing, forWolstenholme did the talking, while I, willing to be amused, led himon to tell me something of his wanderings by land and sea.
So the time passed in stories of adventure, of perilous peaksascended, of deserts traversed, of unknown ruins explored, of'hairbreadth 'scapes' from icebergs and earthquakes and storms; andwhen at last he flung the end of his cigar into the fire anddiscovered that it was time to go to bed, the clock on the mantel-shelf pointed far on among the small hours of the morning.
Next day, according to the programme made out for my entertainment, wedid some seven hours' partridge-shooting on the moors; and the daynext following I was to go down Carshalton shaft before breakfast, andafter breakfast ride over to a place some fifteen miles distant calledPicts' Camp, there to see a stone circle and the ruins of aprehistoric fort.
Unused to field sports, I slept heavily after those seven hours withthe guns, and was slow to wake when Wolstenholme's valet came nextmorning to my bedside with the waterproof suit in which I was toeffect my descent into Hades.
'Mr Wolstenholme says, sir, that you had better not take your bathtill you come back,' said this gentlemanly vassal, disposing theungainly garments across the back of a chair as artistically as if hewere laying out my best evening suit. 'And you will be pleased todress warmly underneath the waterproofs, for it is very chilly in themine.'
I surveyed the garments with reluctance. The morning was frosty, andthe prospect of being lowered into the bowels of the earth, cold,tasting, and unwashed, was anything but attractive.
Should I send word that I would rather not go? I hesitated; but whileI was hesitating, the gentlemanly valet vanished, and my opportunitywas lost. Grumbling and shivering, I got up, donned the cold and shinysuit, and went downstairs.
A murmur of voices met my ear as I drew near the breakfast-room. Goingin, I found some ten or a dozen stalwart colliers grouped near thedoor, and Wolstenholme, looking somewhat serious, standing with hisback to the fire.
'Look here, Frazer,' he said, with a short laugh, 'here's a pleasantpiece of news. A fissure has opened in the bed of Blackwater tarn; thelake has disappeared in the night; and the mine is flooded! NoCarshalton shaft for you today!'
'Seven foot o' wayter in Jukes's seam, an' eight in th' owd north andsouth galleries,' growled a huge red-headed fellow, who seemed to bethe spokesman.
'An' it's the Lord's own marcy a' happened o' noight-time, or we'd bedead men all,' added another.
'That's true, my man,' said Wolstenholme, answering the last speaker.'It might have drowned you like rats in a trap; so we may thank ourstars it's no worse. And now, to work with the pumps! Lucky for usthat we know what to do, and how to do it.'
So saying, he dismissed the men with a good-humoured nod, and an orderfor unlimited ale.
I listened in blank amazement. The tarn vanished! I could not believeit. Wolstenholme assured me, however, that it was by no means asolitary phenomenon. Rivers had been known to disappear before now, inmining districts; and sometimes, instead of merely cracking, theground would cave in, burying not merely houses, but whole hamlets inone common ruin. The foundations of such houses were, however,generally known to be insecure long enough before the crash came; andthese accidents were not therefore often followed by loss of life.
'And now,' he said, lightly, 'you may doff your fancy costume; for Ishall have time this morning for nothing but business. It is not everyday that one loses a lake, and has to pump it up again!'
Breakfast over, we went round to the mouth of the pit, and saw the menfixing the pumps.
Later on, when the work was fairly in train, we started off across thepark to view the scene of the catastrophe. Our way lay far from thehouse across a wooded upland, beyond which we followed a broad gladeleading to the tarn. Just as we entered this glade-Wolstenholmerattling on and turning the whole affair into jest-a tall, slenderlad, with a fishing-rod across his shoulder, came out from one of theside paths to the right, crossed the open at a long slant, anddisappeared among the tree-trunks on the opposite side. I recognizedhim instantly. It was the boy whom I saw the other day, just aftermeeting the schoolmaster in the meadow.
'If that boy thinks he is going to fish in your tarn,' I said, 'hewill find out his mistake.'
'What boy?' asked Wolstenholme, looking back.
'That boy who crossed over yonder, a minute ago.'
'Yonder!-in front of us?'
'Certainly. You must have seen him?'
'Not I.'
'You did not see him?-a tall, thin boy, in a grey suit, with afishing-rod over his shoulder. He disappeared behind those Scotchfirs.'
Wolstenholme looked at me with surprise.
'You are dreaming!' he said. 'No living thing-not even a rabbit-hascrossed our path since we entered the park gates.'
'I am not in the habit of dreaming with my eyes open,' I replied,quickly.
He laughed, and put his arm through mine.
'Eyes or no eyes,' he said, 'you are under an illusion this time!'
An illusion-the very word made use of by the schoolmaster! What did itmean? Could I, in truth, no longer rely upon the testimony of mysenses? A thousand half-formed apprehensions flashed across me in amoment. I remembered the illusions of Nicolini, the bookseller, andother similar cases of visual hallucination, and I asked myself if Ihad suddenly become afflicted in like manner.
'By Jove! this is a queer sight!' exclaimed Wolstenholme. And then Ifound that we had emerged from the glade, and were looking down uponthe bed of what yesterday was Blackwater Tarn.
It was indeed a queer sight-an oblong, irregular basin of blackestslime, with here and there a sullen pool, and round the margin anirregular fringe of bulrushes. At some little distance along the bank-less than a quarter of a mile from where we were standing-a gapingcrowd had gathered. All Pit End, except the men at the pumps, seemed ohave turned out to stare at the bed of the vanished tarn.
Hats were pulled off and curtsies dropped at Wolstenholme's approach.He, meanwhile, came up smiling, with a pleasant word for everyone.
'Well,' he said, 'are you looking for the lake, my friends? You'llhave in go down Carshalton shaft to find it! It's an ugly sight you'vecome to sue, anyhow!'
'Tes an ugly soight, squoire,' replied a stalwart blacksmith in aleathern apron; 'but thar's summat uglier, mebbe, than the mud, ow'ryonder.'
'Something uglier than the mud?' Wolstenholme repeated.
'Wull yo be pleased to stan' this way, squoire, an' look strite acrossat yon little tump o' bulrashes-doan't yo see nothin'?'
I see a log of rotten timber sticking half in and half out of themud,' said Wolstenholme; 'and something-a long reed, apparently...bylove! I believe it's a fishing rod!'
'It is a fishin' rod, squoire,' said the blacksmith with roughcarnesmess; 'an' if yon rotten timber bayn't an unburied corpse, mun Inever stroike hammer on anvil agin!'
There was a buzz of acquiescence from the bystanders. 'Twas anunburied corpse, sure enough. Nobody doubted it..Wolstenholme made afunnel with his hands, and looked through it long and steadfastly.
'It must come out, whatever it is,' he said presently. 'Five feet ofmud, do you say? Then here's a sovereign apiece for the first twofellows who wade through it and bring that object to land!'
The blacksmith and another pulled off their shoes and stockings,turned up their trousers, and went in at once.
They were over their ankles at the first plunge, and, sounding theirway with sticks, went deeper at every tread. As they sank, ourexcitement rose. Presently they were visible from only the waistupwards. We could see their chests heaving, and the muscular effortsby which each step was gained. They were yet full twenty yards fromthe goal when the mud mounted to their armpits...a few feet more, andonly their heads would remain above the surface!
An uneasy movement ran through the crowd.
'Call 'em back, for God's sake!' cried a woman's voice.
But at this moment-having reached a point where the ground graduallysloped upwards-they began to rise above the mud as rapidly as they hadsunk into it. And now, black with clotted slime, they emerge waist-high...now they are within three or four yards of the spot...andnow...now they are there!
They part the reeds-they stoop low above the shapeless object on whichall eyes are turned--they half-lift it from its bed of mud-theyhesitate-lay it down again-decide, apparently, to leave it there; andturn their faces shorewards. Having come a few paces, the blacksmithremembers the fishing-rod; turns back; disengages the tangled linewith some difficulty, and brings it over his shoulder.
They had not much to tell-standing, all mud from head to heel, on dryland again-but that little was conclusive. It was, in truth, anunburied corpse; part of the trunk only above the surface. They triedto lift it; but it had been so long under water, and was in soadvanced a stage of decomposition, that to bring it to shore without ashutter was impossible. Being cross-questioned, they thought, from theslenderness of the form, that it must be the body of a boy.
'Thar's the poor chap's rod, anyhow,' said the blacksmith, laying itgently down upon the turf.
I have thus far related events as I witnessed them. Here, however, myresponsibility ceases. I give the rest of my story at second-hand,briefly, as I received it some weeks later, in the following letterfrom Philip Wolstenholme:
'Blackwater Chase, Dec. 20th, 18-.
Dear Frazer, My promised letter has been a long time on the road, butI did not see the use of writing till I had something definite to tellyou. I think, however, we have now found out all that we are everlikely to know about the tragedy in the tarn; and it seems that-but,no; I will begin at the beginning. That is to say, with the day youleft the Chase, which was the day following the discovery of the body.
You were but just gone when a police inspector arrived from Drumley(you will remember that I had immediately sent a man over to thesitting magistrate); but neither the inspector nor anyone else coulddo anything till the remains were brought to shore, and it took us thebest part of a week to accomplish this difficult operation. We had tosink no end of big stones in order to make a rough and ready causewayacross the mud. This done, the body was brought over decently upon ashutter. It proved to be the corpse of a boy of perhaps fourteen orfifteen years of age.
There was a fracture three inches long at the back of the skull,evidently fatal. This might, of course, have been an accidentalinjury; but when the body came to be raised from where it lay, it wasfound to be pinned down by a pitchfork, the handle of which had beenafterwards whittled off, so as not to show above the water, adiscovery tantamount to evidence of murder. The features of the victimwere decomposed beyond recognition; but enough of the hair remained toshow that it had been short and sandy As for the clothing, it was amere mass of rotten shreds; but on being subjected to some chemicalprocess, proved to have once been a suit of lightish grey cloth.
A crowd of witnesses came forward at this stage of the inquiry-for Iam now giving you the main facts as they came out at the coroner'sinquest-to prove that about a year or thirteen months ago, Skelton theschoolmaster had staying with him a lad whom he called his nephew, andto whom it was supposed that he was not particularly kind. This ladwas described as tall, thin, mud sandy-haired. He habitually wore asuit corresponding in colour and texture to the shreds of clothingdiscovered on the body in the tarn; and he was much addicted toangling about the pools and streams, wherever he might have the chanceof a nibble.
And now one thing led quickly on to another. Our Pit End shoemakeridentified the boy's boots as being a pair of his own making andselling. Other witnesses testified to angry scenes between the uncleand nephew. Finally, Skelton gave himself up to justice, confessed thedeed, and was duly committed to Drumley gaol for wilful murder.
And the motive? Well, the motive is the strangest part of my story.The wretched lad was, after all, not Skelton's nephew, but Skelton'sown illegitimate son. The mother was dead, and the boy lived with hismaternal grandmother in a remote part of Cumberland. The old woman waspoor, and the schoolmaster made her an annual allowance for his son'skeep and clothing. He had not seen the boy for some years, when hesent for him to come over on a visit to Pit End. Perhaps he was wearyof the tax upon his purse. Perhaps, as he himself puts it in hisconfession, he was disappointed to find the boy, if not actually half-witted, stupid, wilful, and ill brought-up. He at all events took adislike to the poor brute, which dislike by and by developed intopositive hatred.
Some amount of provocation there would seem to have been. The boy wasas backward as a child of five years old. That Skelton put him intothe Boys' School, and could do nothing with him; that he defieddiscipline, had a passion for fishing, and was continually wanderingabout the country with his rod and line, are facts borne out by theindependent testimony of various witnesses. Having hidden his fishing-tackle, he was in the habit of slipping away at school-hours, andshowed himself the more cunning and obstinate the more he waspunished.
At last there came a day when Skelton tracked him to the place wherehis rod was concealed, and thence across the meadows into the park,and as far as the tarn. His (Skelton's) account of what followed iswandering and confused. He owns to having beaten the miserable ladabout the head and arms with a heavy stick that he had brought withhim for the purpose; but denies that he intended to murder him. Whenhis son fell insensible and ceased to breathe, he for the first timerealized the force of the blows he had dealt. He admits that his firstimpulse was one, not of remorse for the deed, but of fear for his ownsafety. He dragged the body in among the bulrushes by the water'sedge, and there concealed it as well as he could. At night, when theneighbours were in bed and asleep, he stole out by starlight, takingwith him a pitchfork, a coil of rope, a couple of old iron-bars, and aknife. Thus laden, he struck out across the moor, and entered the parkby a stile and footpath on the Stoneleigh side; so making a circuit ofbetween three and four miles. A rotten old punt used at that time tobe kept on the tarn. He loosed this punt from its moorings, brought itround, hauled in the body, and paddled his ghastly burden out into themiddle of the lake as far as a certain clump of reeds which he hadnoted as a likely spot for his purpose. Here he weighted and sunk thecorpse, and pinned it down by the neck with his pitchfork. He then cutaway the handle of the fork; hid the fishing-rod among the reeds; andbelieved, as murderers always believe, that discovery was impossible.As regarded the Pit End folk, he simply gave out that his nephew hadgone back to Cumberland; and no one doubted it.
Now, however, he says that accident has only anticipated him; and thathe was on the point of voluntarily confessing his crime. His dreadfulsecret had of late become intolerable. He was haunted by an invisiblePresence. That Presence sat with him at table, followed him in hiswalks stood behind him in the school-room, and watched by his bedside.He never saw it; but he felt that it was always there. Sometimes heraves of a shadow on the wall of his cell. The gaol authorities are ofopinion that he is of unsound mind.
I have now told you all that there is at present to tell. The trialwill not take place till the spring assizes. In the meanwhile I am offtomorrow to Paris, and thence, in about ten days, on to Nice, whereletters will find me at the Hotel des Empereurs.
Always, dear Frazer.
Yours, e., c..
P. W.
P.S.-Since writing the above, I have received a telegram from Drumleyto say that Skelton has committed suicide. No particulars given. Soends this strange eventful history.
By the way, that was a curious illusion of yours the other day when wewere crossing the park; and I have thought of it many times. Was it anillusion?-that is the question.'
Ay, indeed! that is the question; and it is a question which I havenever yet been able to answer.
Certain things I undoubtedly saw-with my mind's eye, perhaps-and as Isaw them, I have described them; withholding nothing, adding nothing,explaining nothing. Let those solve the mystery who can. For myself, Ibut echo Wolstenholme's question: Was it an illusion?
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