Mr Varley, Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ valet and factotum, and majordomo
in the baronet’s town residence, Grosvenor Square, was by no means
devoid of courage; but the contents of the note he was reading in the
hall one fine morning early in May were sufficient to put to flight
for the moment any vengeful schemes he was harbouring against the wily
gentleman who has just quitted the house, and that gentleman no less a
person than our old friend Le Gautier.
Timothy Varley was an Irishman, and had been in his youth what is
termed a patriot. In his hot blood he had even joined a League for
the ‘removal of tyrants;’ but the League, in spite of its solemn form
and binding oaths, had died a natural death. At times, however, the
recollection of it troubled Mr Varley’s conscience sorely. It was
destined to be brought to his mind now in a startling manner.
‘G. S. I. You will be at the corner of Chapel Place to-night at
nine. A girl will meet you, and show you the way. You are wanted;
your turn has come. Do not fail.—NUMBER XI.’
Never did Bob Acres, in that celebrated comedy, _The Rivals_, feel
the courage oozing from his finger-tips as did Timothy Varley now. He
turned the missive over in his fingers; but no consolation was to be
derived from that; and bitterly did he revile the juvenile folly that
had placed him in such a position at this time of life.
‘It is no sham,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God save Ireland—that is the
old countersign; and to think of it turning up now! I had forgotten the
thing years ago. This comes of joining secret societies—a nice thing to
bring a respectable family man to! Now, by the powers! who was Number
Eleven? That used to be Pat Mahoney; and a mighty masterful man he was,
always ready with his hands if anything crossed him. O dear, O dear!
this is a pretty thing. Maybe they want to mix me up with dynamite; but
if they do, I won’t do it, and that’s flat. I suppose I shall have to
go.’
Giving vent to these words in a doleful tone of voice, he betook
himself to his private sanctum. His spirits were remarked to be the
reverse of cheerful, and he declined a glass of sherry at lunch, a
thing which roused much speculation below stairs.
Punctual to the moment, Timothy Varley stood in Chapel Place waiting
for his unknown guide. Just as he was beginning to imagine the affair
to be a hoax, and congratulating himself thereon, a woman passed him,
stopped, and walked in his direction again. ‘God save Ireland!’ she
said as she repassed.
‘Amen, not forgetting one Timothy Varley,’ he returned piously.
‘It is well,’ the woman replied calmly, ‘that you are here. Follow me!’
‘With the greatest of pleasure.—But hark here; my legs are not so young
as yours: if we are going far, let us have a cab, and I’ll stand the
damage.’
‘There is no occasion,’ the stranger said in a singularly sweet voice.
‘We have not a great distance to travel.’
‘Not good enough to ride in the same carriage with a gentleman’s
gentleman,’ Varley muttered, for he did not fail to note the stranger’s
refined tones.
His guide led him along Tottenham Court Road, and thence to Fitzroy
Square. Turning into a little side-street, she reached at length a
door, at which she knocked.
In a room on the first floor, Isodore and Valerie le Gautier were
seated, waiting the advent of Lucrece and the stranger. Varley began
to feel bewildered in the presence of so much beauty and grace; for
Isodore’s loveliness overpowered him, as it did all men with whom she
came in contact. Scarcely deigning to notice his presence, she motioned
him to a chair, where he sat the picture of discomfiture, all traces of
the audacious Irishman having disappeared.
‘Your name is Timothy Varley?’ Isodore said.
‘Yes, miss; leastways, it was when I came here, though, if you were to
tell me I was the man in the moon, I couldn’t say nay to you.’
‘I know you,’ Isodore continued. ‘You were born near Mallow, joined the
United Brotherhood thirty years ago, and your Number was Twenty-six. If
I am wrong, you will please correct me.’
‘For goodness’ sake, miss—my lady, I mean—don’t speak so loud. Think
what might happen to me if any one knew!’
‘No wonder your countrymen fail, with such chicken-hearts among them,’
Isodore observed scornfully. ‘I do not want to do you any harm; quite
the contrary. There is an advertisement in to-day’s _Times_. Your
mistress is in search of a maid. Is that so?’
Timothy Varley began to breathe a little more freely. ‘Yes,’ he
answered glibly; ‘she does want a maid. She must be honest, sober, and
industrious; ready to sit up all night if necessary, and have a good
temper—not that Miss Enid will try any one’s temper much. The last girl
was discharged’——
‘Now, Mr Varley, I know a girl who must fill that vacancy. I do not
wish to threaten you or hold any rod of terror over your head; but I
shall depend upon you to procure it for my protégée.’
The conversation apparently was not going to be so pleasant. Timothy
Varley’s mind turned feebly in the direction of diamond robberies.
‘Well, miss—that is, my lady—if I may make so bold as to ask you a
question: why, if the matter is so simple, don’t you write to my young
mistress and settle the matter that way?’
‘Impossible,’ Isodore replied, ‘for reasons I cannot enter into with
you. You must do what I ask, and that speedily.—You have a certain
Monsieur le Gautier at your house often?’
This question was so abruptly asked, that Varley could not repress a
start. ‘We have,’ he growled—‘a good deal too often, to please me. My
master dare not call his body his own since he first began to come to
the house with his signs and manifestations.—You see,’ he explained,
‘servants are bound to hear these things.’
‘At keyholes and such places,’ Isodore smiled. ‘Yes, I understand such
things do happen occasionally. So this Le Gautier is a spiritualist, is
he; and Sir Geoffrey is his convert?’
‘Indeed, you may say that,’ Varley burst out in tones of great
grievance. ‘The baronet sees visions and all sorts of things.’
‘Is it possible,’ Valerie whispered to her friend, ‘that Hector has
really succeeded in gaining an influence over this Sir Geoffrey by
those miserable tricks he played so successfully at Rome?’
‘It is very probable,’ Isodore murmured in reply. ‘This Sir Geoffrey
is very weak in intellect.—Tell me, Mr Varley,’ she continued, turning
in his direction, ‘does the baronet keep much of Monsieur le Gautier’s
company? Does he visit at his rooms?’
‘I believe he does; anyway, he goes out at nights, and always comes
back looking as if he had seen a ghost. Whatever his game may be—and
sure enough there is some game on—it’s killing him by inches, that’s
what it’s doing.’
‘And this change you put down to Le Gautier? Perhaps you are right. And
now, another question. Is not there another reason, another attraction
besides discussing spiritualism with Sir Geoffrey, that takes him to
Grosvenor Square?’
Varley so far forgot himself as to wink impressively. ‘You might have
made a worse guess than that,’ he said. ‘I am not the only one who can
see what his designs are. Miss Enid is the great attraction.’
‘And she?’
‘Hates him, if looks count for anything.—And so do I,’ he continued;
‘and so do all of us, for the matter of that. I would give a year’s
salary to see his back turned for good!’
‘Mr Varley,’ Isodore said in grave tones, ‘I sent for you here to work
upon your fears, and to compel you, if necessary, to do my bidding.
That, I see, is not necessary, for we have a common bond of sympathy.
For reasons I need not state here, we have good reasons for keeping a
watch over this Le Gautier; but rest assured of one thing—that he will
never wed your mistress. I shall hold you to secrecy.—And now, you must
promise to get my protégée this situation.’
‘Well, I will do my best,’ Varley replied cheerfully. ‘But how it is
going to be done, I really can’t see.’
‘Irishmen are proverbial for their inventive powers, and doubtless
you will discover a way.—The new maid is a French girl, remember,
the daughter of an old friend. Perhaps you would like to see her?’
With a gesture she indicated Lucrece, who came forward, turning to
the Irishman with one of her most dazzling smiles. The feeling of
bewilderment came on again.
‘She!’ he cried; ‘that beautiful young lady a servant?’
‘When she is plainly dressed, as suitable to her lowly station, she
will appear different.’
‘Ah, you may pull the leaves from the flowers, but the beauty remains
to them still,’ Varley replied, waxing poetical. ‘However, if it must
be, it must; so I will do my best.’
Varley’s diplomacy proved successful, for, a week later, Lucrece was
installed at Grosvenor Square.
MINERAL SUBSIDENCE.
The alarming subsidence which took place some time ago in Scotland, on
the North British Railway near Prestonpans, and which was fortunately
unattended with any accident, has doubtless added a fresh source
of fear to the nervous railway passenger. That the permanent way
of a railway for a distance of about fifty yards should suddenly
sink to the extent of two feet is almost incomprehensible at first;
and had this subsidence occurred whilst the train was passing,
instead of immediately afterwards, the consequences might have been
disastrous. It is the case, however, though it may not be generally
known, that subsidences—fortunately only gradual, and comparatively
inappreciable—are taking place over many of our railway lines, and that
‘minerals’ are actually being extracted from underneath nearly every
line of railway under which there is any mineral to get.
The damage done to the line at Prestonpans was reported to have been
caused by coal-workings which were there long before the railway was
laid; but if it was caused by them at all, it was on account of their
being influenced by the working of a seam of coal below them, which was
going on at the time the subsidence occurred. It is the fact, however,
that when a Railway Company acquires ground under its parliamentary
powers, the minerals underneath the ground do not pass along with it.
This may seem a little surprising at first; but it is not so when it is
considered that very frequently the proprietor of the surface of the
ground and the proprietor of the minerals underneath it are different
persons. Of course the proprietor of an estate under no reservations
is proprietor as high as he can get and as deep as he cares to go; but
he may sell or lease the minerals and retain the surface, or _vice
versâ_. Thus it is that a Railway Company has only, as it were, a right
of passage over the surface; and that its right goes no deeper, except
for the construction or up-keep of its lines. By Act of Parliament,
however, the proprietor of minerals below any railway line, before
proceeding to work them, must give notice to the Railway Company of
his intention to do so, so as to give the Company an opportunity of
buying him off, should it feel disposed. If it does not declare its
option to purchase the minerals, the workings proceed, and the railway
has to take its chance. The mineral owner will, however, be held
liable, should any damage occur owing to improper working.
The subsidence of a railway line underneath which the minerals
have been worked is as a rule very gradual, and extends over some
length of time. Many railway passengers must have noticed the walls
of waiting-rooms disfigured by ungainly cracks, the stone lintels
displaced, the hearthstones awry, and many other signs, which are
caused by the working of minerals underneath. Some station-masters
can show you on the stone face of the platform the number of inches
the line has sunk. As a matter of fact, were it not for the gangs of
surfacemen the Railway Companies employ to watch any irregularities
in their lines, in a very short space of time the permanent way would
in many places probably represent something like the proposed line of
the Undulating Railway, a fantastical scheme of long ago. The railway
in Ayrshire which runs over the old workings of the famous Wishaw
coal-seam, especially suffers in the way of subsidence; and some parts
of the railway in the west of Fife are known to have gradually sunk to
an extent of over ten feet.
But railway lines are not the only parts of the surface which are
subsiding owing to the working of minerals. The whole surface of
the land surrounding the many pits and mines which are continually
belching forth their wagon-loads of coal or other mineral, is gradually
subsiding as the extraction of the mineral proceeds; and damage
amounting to thousands of pounds is annually being done to the surface
and the buildings on it owing to mineral workings. As the period and
extent of the subsidence and the damage following on it depend greatly
on the method employed in working the coal, a word or two here on this
subject may not be out of place.
There are two recognised methods of working out coal. The old method
is what is known as the ‘stoop-and-room’ or ‘pillar-and-room’ system;
and the method introduced into Scotland about the beginning of the
present century is known as the ‘longwall’ or ‘Shropshire’ system of
working. The first system explains itself by its name. After the bed of
coal is struck, ‘rooms’ are worked out, leaving ‘pillars’ or ‘stoops’
to support the superincumbent strata. The object to be attained in
this system, as practised in the olden times, was to have as large a
room worked out, and as small a stoop or pillar of the coal itself
left, as was consistent with the safety of the mine and the support
of the surface, while the mine was open. But this system entailed the
entire loss of the pillars so left. To obviate this loss, the method
now generally adopted is to drive narrow rooms or passages, seldom
exceeding fourteen feet, through the seam, leaving large pillars—about
seventy-five per cent. of the mineral—until the extremity of the
available coal is reached. When, however, no regard is to be had for
the surface, and the coal has been thus worked out as far as can be
done, the miner commences to work backwards, taking out the stoops or
pillars as he goes. The whole roof of the mine then comes down; and
this is the most dangerous kind of subsidence. It does not only take
effect immediately above the place where ‘stooping’ has been going on,
but it also ‘draws’ round about it.
The ‘longwall’ or Shropshire method of working is what is known as
the system of complete excavation; that is, the miner takes out the
whole coal as he proceeds, leaving only perhaps a foot on the roof,
should the overlying strata be soft, and props up a passage with wooden
supports as he proceeds, to enable him to keep an open way to the face
of the coal. The portions worked out are packed on each side of the
‘road’ with the waste material taken out with the coal. This method
of working, though it necessarily implies subsidence, is on the whole
the safest for the surface, and is generally the one adopted. In fact,
as mineral landlords are paid, in lieu of rent, a royalty or lordship
on every ton of coal or other mineral brought to the surface, and as
the tenant can more quickly extract the mineral by the wooden props
method, he is generally bound in his lease to work in this manner, when
practicable.
Should the coal be worked on the stoop-and-room system, and pillars of
coal of sufficient size be left in, the surface will not be injured
to any appreciable extent, at least not for many years. As is often
the case, however, seams of coal are worked out one below the other;
and when the lower one gives way, the pillars above may fall like a
pack of cards. There is no saying where the subsidence would reach in
such a case. If the pillars do not break, the way in which the ‘rooms’
close up, if the floor is soft, is rather peculiar. The roof does not
all fall in, as would be expected; but the enormous weight of the
superincumbent strata pressing on the pillars causes the floor between
them to rise up or ‘creep,’ and the room becomes closed. On the other
hand, if the stoops of coal are taken out, the roof comes down with a
crash, and the effects on the surface may be disastrous; but of course
it sometimes pays better to get out all the coal and let the surface
go, than to allow the workings to get closed up and the coal in the
pillars to be lost for ever.
The subsidence following on a ‘longwall’ working is gradual, but sure.
The surface is not broken to any great extent, but comes down in one
sheet, and not irregularly, as in stoop-and-room workings. The strata
generally come to rest in about three or four years. A row of houses
which have been cracked through and through on the subsidence reaching
the surface, have been known to close up again when the strata have
settled.
The damage done by pillar-and-room workings is irregular both as
regards effect and time. It may commence, stop, and commence again.
Houses are literally wrecked by it. So palpable is it, indeed, that
actually the sound of the crushing and subsiding of the house can be
distinctly heard. The slates are twisted off the roof, the chimneys
hang in all directions, the walls are rent asunder, the foundations
give way, and the house is rendered uninhabitable. An instance of this
is to be found in the salt-workings of Cheshire, in the neighbourhood
of which, houses are constantly being wrecked. Thousands of pounds are
paid every year by mine-owners for damages done to surface proprietors,
farmers, and others; and there is no more fruitful source of litigation
than surface-damage.
Even under public roads, we find the minerals being worked. The public
have only a right of passage, the minerals underneath belonging to the
adjoining proprietor, and it is not an uncommon circumstance in mining
districts for a road to suddenly sink several feet.
In the case of a proprietor of minerals in lands adjoining the sea, his
right, as a general rule, extends only to high-water mark. Below that
line, underneath the foreshore and the sea itself, the minerals belong
to the Crown. The Crown, of course, can lease the minerals, and they
are very frequently worked under the sea itself. In such a case, great
precautions have to be observed in the workings, to prevent any chance
of the sea breaking in, though, when the stratum above is rock, the
mineral is sometimes worked out within a very few feet of the bottom of
the sea! In some mines, the roar of the ocean above can be distinctly
heard.
This, however, is a digression from the subject of subsidence.
Subsidence of the surface above our almost inexhaustible beds of coal
has been going on, and will go on more or less, until that day in
the dim futurity which has been foretold, when our coal-seams will
have become exhausted, but when, let us hope, the inventive genius of
posterity will have discovered another fuel, or done away with the
necessity of fuel altogether.
GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.