fled on. Now and again Kitty murmured a word, now she seemed to sleep.
The night was wearing on. At last it seemed to him that the beast was
tiring; and he scarce dared believe it. But breasting the next long
hill it slowed and slowed; its moan hushed; it came to a crawl. Thirty
yards from the top it stopped a moment, moved on again, then stopped
for good. For all its danger he sighed that their ride was at an end.
Kitty never stirred; he gave her a little shake; and she sighed too,
and raised herself. They looked down on a great stretch of country;
here and there the dim twinkling showed the lights of a town.
[Illustration: "KITTY LAY STILL IN HIS ARMS."]
"There are some biscuits and a flask of cherry brandy, if it isn't
broken, in the box of your seat," said Kitty, slipping into the
place at his side. He fished them out unharmed, and they munched the
biscuits, and drank from the flask by turns.
He looked at his watch, and said, "Ten past three! By Jove, we've had
a narrow squeak!"
"Three in the morning, and miles from anywhere. I'm hopelessly
compromised," said Kitty.
Jack knitted his brows, thinking it out; he could not gainsay it. He
said nothing. "Oh!" said Kitty, almost in a wail, "I thought you were
a man of honour, Jack."
"Well?" said Jack.
"There is only one course open to you," said Kitty.
"Well, I suppose there is," said Jack, a little stiffly. "Will you
marry me?"
"Yes: I will--I must--I must," said Kitty, with a deep sigh.
Presently she said in a very low voice, "Have you no sense of what is
fitting?" As she spoke she looked into his eyes, swiftly and away.
He caught her to him, and kissed her; it seemed to him that her lips
were responsive.
A sudden jealous pang wrung his heart. "But--but--the other man: the
man you want to marry?" he said.
"Ah, yes," said Kitty, carelessly--"the other man. It's no use
talking about him now. Let us forget him. I will tell you about him
when--when--we are married."
She threw her arms round his neck and whispered, "Do you think you
will learn to love me, Jack?"
He pressed her to him and cried passionately, "For four years I have
loved you more and more every day. Every day I have cursed your money
more!"
"Poor Jack!" said Kitty, and her eyes were full of tears. He lifted
her out of the car, putting his arm round her, and supporting her;
and they began to walk down the hill in search of a railway station,
careless, in the glow of their happiness, of that bitter cold, and of
the inevitable long wait for a train.
HOW WE GET OUR WEATHER.
BY GAVIN MACDONALD.
_With photographs illustrating the queer side of the matter._
In most of the morning papers we are accustomed to the luxury of a
detailed weather report and forecast. The majority glance at it with
a sceptical smile. They are of opinion that in order to be on the safe
side they must invert its message. If fine weather and sunshine
are predicted, they sagely nod and take down the homely gamp. The
prediction of a hurricane or stormy showers is the signal for leaving
umbrellas and overcoats at home.
However, those who know anything of the gigantic strides meteorology
has made within the past few years are aware that in the main its
prognostications are accurate. In fact, it is a matter for great
surprise that its practical uses are not more generally recognised and
taken advantage of.
If you meet your best friend in the street his first six words contain
some reference to the weather. The merest stranger looks questioningly
at the sky when he has made his bow. Two-thirds of the daily
conversation of the British Isles has to do with this subject; nor is
this surprising, for it is a matter of vital importance, affecting all
classes alike.
[Illustration: CHURCH LIFTED INTO THE AIR BY A TORNADO AND DROPPED
ROOF-DOWN ON A HOUSE 100 FEET AWAY.]
A wet Bank Holiday may mean thousands of pounds out of a railway
company's pocket, not to mention the disappointment and chagrin of
countless thousands of prospective holiday makers. A severe frost may
disorganise a whole trade. In 1881, for instance, the whole building
trade was at a standstill for a period of nearly three weeks, owing
to the severity of the frost. And to the farmers, horticulturists, and
fruit-growers the weather is a matter of financial life or death.
Meteorology is of invaluable assistance in other ways: in warning
our coasts of coming storms; in deciding the climate and consequent
healthfulness of the different parts of the country.
You can't even build a new town successfully without it, for only by
accurate meteorological observation can the two most important factors
of water-supply and sewerage be dealt with. For example, in planning
a new waterworks, the ground subject to the greatest rainfall, and
having the utmost gathering capacity, must be selected; while in
constructing the system of sewerage, it is essential for the
surveyor to accurately gauge the force and volume of the heaviest
thunder-shower. If this is miscalculated, pipes of insufficient
capacity may be laid with disastrous results to the city and its
inhabitants.
These things are only to be learned by a study of meteorology.
Few people have any knowledge of the science beyond that supplied
them by the forecasts and charts in the daily papers. Consequently the
charts, which are more or less abstruse, are only understood by the
few, and the forecasts are indulgently tolerated as a description
of useless fortune-telling, rendered respectable by scientific
recognition.
[Illustration: HOUSES WRECKED BY A TORNADO.]
The popular idea seems to be that certain scientific men who have
given the subject considerable study, cast a knowing eye on the
evening sky, and pass on written prognostications for use in the
morning papers.
As a matter of fact the method by which we obtain our weather reports
and forecasts is very different, and savours even more strongly of
romance than the clairvoyant system usually identified with the seers
of the weather office.
Two institutions look after our weather--the Meteorological Office, a
Government department with a grant of £15,000 per annum, and the Royal
Meteorological Society, a scientific institution maintained by the
subscriptions and donations of its members.
The Meteorological Office occupies a dull set of rooms in Victoria
Street over a shop, and, other than the latest weather chart, hung
up outside the street door, there is nothing to intimate that the
presiding wizards of the weather sit upstairs, and that if you
are particularly anxious to have the latest information in their
possession you have only to walk up and pay the nominal sum of one
shilling.
Likewise you may receive the latest information by letter for the same
fee, or by wiring to "Weather," London, the shilling fee and the cost
of a telegraphic reply.
Farmers and others to whom the question of weather is a vital one,
especially at the hay and harvest seasons, are supplied with harvest
forecasts for the nominal sum of 2_s._ 6_d._ per quarter, in addition
to the cost of the telegrams.
In addition to this, a set of forecasts is daily supplied to the
newspapers, and about twenty-eight well-known agriculturists, for
public exhibition in their neighbourhoods.
The system employed in making up the weather is of more than usual
interest, and is worthy of some description.
In connection with the office are some 140 observing stations,
including 17 belonging to the Royal Meteorological Society and 19 to
the Scottish Meteorological Society. These stations are divided
into classes according to the value and quantity of the observations
supplied by them. Excepting the cases of telegraphic stations,
which are subsidised by the central office, the observers are mostly
volunteers who are interested in meteorology, and who provide their
own instruments.
The office receives sixty telegraphic weather reports each morning,
eighteen every afternoon, and twenty-nine each evening, in addition to
an enormous mass of data supplied by volunteer and casual observers.
The forecast we are accustomed to find in our morning paper is
compiled from the telegraphic reports of the subsidised stations.
There is something peculiarly fascinating in the idea of the clerk of
the weather scenting out a big gale and issuing a warning hours before
its arrival on our coasts. One associates him with a prophet or witch,
and very naturally wonders how it is done.
As a matter of fact forecast work is far from romantic, entails
very great mental labour, excellent judgment, and great scientific
knowledge and experience.
The forecasts are made three times a day--at 11 a.m., 3.30 p.m., and
8.30 p.m. They are, of course, based on the telegraphic reports
and observations. The 8.30 p.m. forecast is made for the morning
newspapers.
Among the volunteer observers are representatives of all professions.
In one case a deaf and dumb gentleman presides over a station of
considerable importance.
The stations themselves are mostly situated in the observers' grounds,
and the surroundings of some of them are very picturesque. The
stations at Rousdon and Chapel Hill, Torquay, are both beautifully
situated. Princetown station is particularly interesting, because of
its situation in the yard of the great Dartmoor penal establishment!
We may be quite sure that its presence in such surroundings has
nothing to do with the well-being of the convicts themselves, the
dreary routine of whose lives is little affected by considerations of
weather. In another case, the meteorological observatory is found
on the tower of a church--that of Boston, Lincolnshire. Among the
instruments on the tower is an electrical thermometer connected with
the ground by a wire so that it may be read without the necessity
of ascending. It is impossible to over-estimate the usefulness of
a station such as this, situated as it is in the midst of purely
agricultural country. The farmers round Boston avail themselves, it
need scarcely be said, of the valuable information furnished by the
mysterious little instruments on their church tower.
More interesting, perhaps, than any of these is the observatory
situated in a London churchyard.
Although every day a ceaseless throng of human beings crowd and jostle
in the streets of the City of London, yet it has always been difficult
to obtain observations there, for the very good reason that scarcely
anybody lives within its precincts. The only station of the kind is to
be found in the churchyard of St. Luke's, Old Street, one of the few
restful spots in this busiest corner of the world.
The highest station in Great Britain is that on the summit of Ben
Nevis, 4,407 feet above the sea. The northmost station is in the
Shetland Isles.
Many gentlemen among the volunteer observers are leading
meteorological experts, and spend much time and money on the equipment
and maintenance of their stations.
[Illustration: _Messrs. Metcalfe, photo., Richmond, Yorks_ HAILSTONES
(ACTUAL SIZE) THAT FELL AT YORK, JULY 8, 1893.]
A very fine private observatory is that belonging to Col. Knight, of
Harestock, Winchester, of which an illustration appears on page 60.
The scaffolding in the foreground was erected for the purpose of
lowering an earth thermometer into the ground. This instrument, which
is constructed to register the temperature seventy feet below the
surface, is contained in the wooden chamber standing at an angle to
the scaffolding, and was photographed during the sinking process.
Besides the work of preparing weather reports and forecasts, the
office fulfils many other functions, such as the study of ocean
meteorology, climatology, and so forth. In connection with the former
work, the office annually receives some hundreds of reports and
observations from officers of ships of the Royal Navy and Mercantile
Marine.
The fishermen and sailors round our coasts have much to thank the
office for. Besides supplying all the ports with daily weather reports
and forecasts, it has lent over 200 barometers to fishing villages and
other places on the coast for the benefit of the seafaring population.
Fortunately in this country we suffer comparative immunity from
tornados, sirrocos, cyclones, and other dangerous natural phenomena.
That we can produce something more ferocious than an April shower,
however, is amply demonstrated by our illustration of two huge rents
torn in a hillside at Langtoft, East Yorkshire, by the bursting of a
waterspout.
Hailstorms are another great source of destruction. Most people will
remember the damage caused by a hailstorm in Essex last year, when
several farms and homesteads were utterly wrecked, and great numbers
of cattle killed.
Many people who have not encountered the big hailstorm regard it with
the cheerful scepticism with which they view the sea serpent and
the abnormal gooseberry. However, by permission of the Royal
Meteorological Society, we are enabled to reproduce a photograph of
some of the hailstones--actual size--which fell in a great storm at
York on July 8th, 1893, together with a section of corrugated iron,
showing holes and damage caused by hailstones which fell in a similar
storm at Tulcumbah, N.S.W., on Oct. 13th, 1892.
[Illustration: CORRUGATED IRON PIERCED BY HAILSTONES.]
However, most people would rather lose a section of corrugated roofing
than encounter the flash of lightning that struck the man whose
clothes appear in the illustration on the next page. As will be seen,
the clothes are literally shredded to rags, and the strong leather
boots are torn as though they were tissue paper.
[Illustration: MIDNIGHT PHOTOGRAPH OF LIGHTNING FLASH IN SHANGHAI
HARBOUR.]
Photographs of lightning are no longer novel; but our picture of
a flash taken at midnight in Shanghai Harbour is one of the most
remarkable ever seen. It is some distance behind the anchored
steamer, but the reflection on the water is so vivid as to give it the
appearance of moonlight.
The tornado is a phenomenon we can very well do without, and we
sincerely hope the clerk of the weather will give us ample notice of
the very faintest indication that one of these inanimate monsters is
coming our way.
The tornado is soon over, it is true, but hailstorms are to be
preferred. On May 27th, 1893, a storm of this nature put in an
appearance at Wellington, Kansas, and practically wrecked the whole
city. A horse was picked up, stable and all, and blown some hundreds
of yards to leeward. The stable was smashed, but curiously enough the
horse came down on his feet and escaped unhurt.
[Illustration: CLOTHES OF MAN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING.]
In the same storm the Lutheran church was lifted bodily from its
foundations into the air, and fell, bottom upwards, on top of a new
residence 100 feet away, as it appears in the photograph.
In another photograph are some collapsed houses, the result of a
similar storm in Lawrence, U.S.A.
Although our own Meteorological Office and Society have no such
startling instances to record, yet they possess much data of equal
interest.
For instance, how many people know that on Dec. 4th, 1879, the
thermometer registered 23 degrees below zero at a place called Black
Adder, in Berwickshire? This is the greatest degree of frost ever
known in Great Britain. The coldest spot in the world is Verkoianski,
a town in Siberia, where 120 degrees of frost have been registered.
The hottest is the Red Sea, where 120 degrees of heat are often
experienced.
The hottest place in Great Britain, curiously enough, is London,
or rather the Thames Valley. The wettest, Seathwaite, in the Lake
District, where 8.03 inches of rainfall have been registered in 24
hours.
Taking 1 inch of rain to represent 101 tons of water per acre, it will
be seen that the farmers cannot complain of drought in the Seathwaite
district.
However, the greatest rainfall ever measured in this country occurred
in Camden Square, London, on June 28, 1878, when 3-1/4 inches fell in
1-1/2 hours.
Lately several meteorological experiments have been made with kites
and balloons, which are expected to enrich the science with many new
discoveries.
Many people have curious ideas of the capabilities and functions of
"The clerk of the weather." Mr. Robert H. Scott. M.A., F.R.S., the
gentleman at present occupying this position, in his book on "Weather
Charts and Storm Warnings," tells some curious stories illustrative of
this.
For instance, in June 1886 he received a letter bearing no less than
ten postmarks. It was addressed "Weather Office, Strand, London." Its
contents were--"Three next days order to be fine."
A Boston letter was addressed--Right Hon. Clerk of Weather, 9, Downing
Street, London, W.C.
Its contents were--
"My Lord Clerk,--May it please your lordship you will greatly oblige
your humble servant by writing or sending me a telegraph whether it
will be fine or no on the 5th of November, 1867.
"I have the honour to remain,
"Your lordship's most obedient servant,
"Joseph William ----."
Such letters are by no means rare, though such ignorance seems
scarcely credible in the nineteenth century.
[Illustration: _Boak & Co., Photo, Bridlington Quay_
HILL TORN BY WATERSPOUT, LANGTOFT, E. YORKS]
Further, there are many false prophets who prophesy without science,
and they rarely miss the opportunity of sending along a forecast in
order to give the constituted clerk of the weather a leg up in his
arduous duties.
There are also many amateur weather prophets.
One of these gentlemen issued monthly postcard forecasts for more than
twelve months between 1882 and 1883.
If they are wrong, nobody bothers, but if the S.W. gale predicted from
the Meteorological Office fails to put in an appearance, woe to the
unfortunate clerk of the weather. People forget how many times his
predictions have been verified.
If one is interested in meteorological work and is anxious to become
an observer, the path is by no means difficult. On application at the
office a form is sent, which must be filled up. Certain particulars as
to the observer's fitness are naturally required, and he is invited to
forward a description of his residence and a plan of the spot on which
he would suggest erecting his instruments.
He must also describe the natural surroundings, so that the office may
decide whether they are likely to have any prejudicial effect on the
instruments, and therefore affect the accuracy of the records.
Each observer supplies his own instruments, and if his application is
accepted, a book of instructions on their correct use is sent to him.
Or he may obtain instruction at the London office, or any of its chief
agencies. In all these places sets of instruments are kept in working
order for the express purpose of instructing observers in the methods
of observation.
[Illustration: COLONEL KNIGHT'S 70-FOOT EARTH THERMOMETER,
WINCHESTER.]
I suppose most of our readers, during a stay at some port or favourite
watering place, have observed a curious triangular black object
suspended from the pier or jetty signal-mast.
Those who have enquired as to its nature will know that it is the
signal of an approaching storm. On receiving telegraphic notice of
an atmospheric disturbance on or near the British coasts, the
Meteorological Office telegraphs to all the chief ports and fishing
stations.
The telegram is exhibited at the foot of the signal-mast, and the
warning signal, a black canvas cone 3 feet high and 3 feet wide at the
base, is immediately hoisted.
The nature and direction of the approaching storm is indicated by the
position of the cone.
At night three lanterns hung on a triangular frame supply its place.
Storm warning telegrams are supplied to some 215 stations, of which
117 are in England and Wales, 63 in Scotland, 28 in Ireland, 4 in the
Isle of Man, and 3 in the Channel Islands.
Another branch of the work, of invaluable service to navigators, is
the preparation of monthly current charts of the oceans of the world.
Observations are constantly being made by captains of ocean-going
vessels, and the data are forwarded whenever possible to the Weather
Office. A strict account of the currents recorded in each month has
been kept for 60 years!
HER LETTER!
ONE OF J. HARWOOD PANTING'S INTERESTING NARRATIVES.
_Illustrations by W. B. Wollen, R.I._
Brussels--evening--an evening which preceded a still more memorable
morn. To be precise, it was the 15th of June, in the year of grace
eighteen hundred and fifteen.
Captain John Durnford, of the Guards, stood outside the Chapelle du
Saint Sacrament des Miracles. The air was full of rumours. Napoleon
had been striding Europe like a Colossus. No one knew what would be
his next move on the strategical chessboard. But it was not of him,
nor of the events connected with him, that John Durnford was thinking
as he stood before the Chapelle.
He had heard of the death of a woman whom he had tenderly loved. Years
ago, before he entered the army, they had been sweethearts. Then they
had drifted apart; and now he had discovered, quite accidentally,
that she had died but two days ago, homeless, friendless. And yet
not entirely that. Her last moments had been tended by Sister Anne, a
_religieuse_, and it was to see her that Jack was waiting outside the
Chapelle.
Presently, the hour of nine was chimed from the surrounding belfries.
Almost simultaneously, the door of the Chapelle was opened, and the
_religieuse_ came out.
"Pardon me," said Jack, approaching her, hat in hand; "but am I
speaking to Sister Anne?"
[Illustration: "'AM I SPEAKING TO SISTER ANNE?'"]
"Yes, my son."
"You are the lady, are you not, who so charitably befriended Mdlle.
Denton?"
"I but did my duty, my son."
"Ah, if all the world would but interpret duty in the same way! I am
an old friend of Mdlle. Denton's, and it was only by chance I heard of
her death. Could you let me see her before--before----"
Jack's voice faltered. He did not complete the sentence.
"Before she is buried, you would say? I understand," said Sister Anne,
sympathetically. "Poor child! I thought she hadn't a friend in the
world. It seems I was mistaken. Will you follow me?"
She took him through a labyrinth of streets, and paused before a
ramshackle old house which had seen and withstood the storms of more
than one revolution.
"You would like to be alone with the dead?" asked the Sister.
"If Madame will grant me that favour."
She rang the bell, whispered to the drowsy old _concierge_, and,
with a _Benedicite_, was gone. The _concierge_ conducted him up
the staircase, pointed to a door, gave him a lighted candle, and
descended.
Jack opened the door, and as he did so a gust of wind blew out his
light and left him in darkness. He had just time, however, to see
the white-shrouded figure stretched on the bed in the corner. He
approached it reverently, and stood by the side of the shroud, with
thoughts which choked themselves for utterance.
"Poor, poor Minnie! This, then, is the finish!"
What was that? His moan, he thought, was echoed by another. He quickly
put the thought from him.
He put his hand gently forward to feel the face of the dead woman, and
in doing so it rested upon something warm, palpable. He could almost
have shrieked, the transition of feeling was so great--between the
ice-cold rigour he had anticipated, and the warmth of animate life.
What could it mean?
He had no time for conjecture, for the hand which he had extended
to the face of the dead was clasped by another hand--the hand of the
living.
"In Heaven's name, who are you?" demanded Jack.
There was no answer; then Jack repeated his question in French. This
time there came an answer.
"One--one who loved her, Monsieur! By what right are you here?
"By as great a right as yours--as one who loved her, too."
Jack thought he heard a curse between clenched teeth.
"Love? _Peste!_ What does a cold-blooded Anglais know of love? You
come here as a thief in the night."
"Thief!" Jack exclaimed. "I suppose you know the meaning of the words
you have used?"
"_Parbleu!_ How could I do otherwise, since Monsieur himself has
provided me with an illustration? Is it the act of an honest man to
steal into a chamber? Is it the act of a gentleman to encroach upon
another's grief? No; it is the act of a _vauvien_; for it is insult to
the living and profanation to the dead."