_See me back!_ Was it possible that this woman believed I intended to
make friends with her?
“We’ve been parted long enough, it strikes me,” she continued; “and
now your father’s gone, and left no one behind him but yourself I
suppose you’ll be looking out for my share of the property at my
death, so we may as well let bye-gones be bye-gones, eh?”
“I wish for none of your property, madam,” I answered haughtily,
“since the law gives it to you you are welcome to keep it.”
“Charlie, dear, think what you may be resigning,” urged my mother in
my ear.
“I think of nothing but _you_, mother!”
“Hoity, toity! here’s manners,” cried the other woman. “You seem to
forget, Master Charlie, that _I’m your mother!_”
Still holding my mother’s hand, I turned and confronted her.
“I forget nothing, madam! I wish I could; but I remember that _here_
stands the woman who laboured where you refused to work; who loved,
where you had insulted and betrayed; who was faithful where you were
faithless and undeserving; and, I say, that here stands my dead
father’s true wife; and here stands, in God’s sight, _my mother!_ The
blessing of man may not have sanctified her union, but the blessing of
heaven shall be upon it and upon her--upon the creatures she rescued
from a living death and upon the gracious hand with which she did it,
until time itself shall be no more.”
So saying, I passed with _my mother_ beyond the gates of Lilyfields,
to make a new life for her in some quiet spot where she might outlive
her grief, and to repay, if possible, by the protection and support of
my manhood, the love she had given me as a little child.
IN THE HEART OF THE
ARDENNES.
Fever is raging in Brussels, and we are advised to quit the town as
soon as possible. The question is, where to go. I suggest Rochefort in
the Ardennes, having ascertained previously that the place is healthy;
but my friends laugh at me. “Rochefort in February! We shall all be
frozen to death.” “At least,” I argue, “there is pure air to breathe.”
“But you can have no idea of the dulness,” is all the reply I receive;
“Rochefort, with its one street and its one resident is bad enough in
the summer, but at this season it will be unendurable.” Yet I am not
to be turned from my purpose. I consider it is better to be frozen
outwardly than burned inwardly; and that when one is flying from a
pestilence, there is no time to regret the numerous pleasures left
behind, or the few that loom in the future. And so we settle finally
that, notwithstanding its promised disadvantages, we will thankfully
accept the refuge Rochefort can afford us; and having made up our
minds to go, we start twenty-four hours afterwards.
Being pent-up in a railway carriage with half-a-dozen manikins and
womanikins, who suck oranges half the time, and obtrude their little
persons between your view and the window the other half, is not
perhaps the most favourable situation from which to contemplate the
beauties of nature; for which reason, perhaps, it is as well that for
the first part of our journey nature presents no beauties for our
contemplation, and thereby our naturally mild tempers are prevented
from boiling over. But when we have accomplished about fifty miles
(Rochefort being distant from Brussels seventy miles) the country
begins to assume a different and far more engaging aspect. The flat
table-land, much of it marshy and undrained, which has scarcely been
varied hitherto, gives place to swelling hills, half rock, half
heather, and charming copses of fir, some of which are very extensive.
The scenery becomes altogether more wooded and naturally
fertile-looking; and houses and farmsteads lose all trace of British
contiguity, and become proportionately interesting to curious English
eyes. The train is an express, and as it dashes past the fragile,
roughly-built little stations with which the road is bordered, it is
amusing, or rather I should say it would be amusing, did it not
suggest the idea of accidents, to see the signal-flags displayed by
peasant-women in every variety of attitude and costume.
Here stands a stolid, solid Belgian girl, of eighteen years of age
probably, and stout enough for forty, with a waist like a tar-barrel,
and legs to match, who nurses her flag as if it were a baby, and gazes
at the flying train with a countenance which could not be more
impassive were it carved in wood. We have hardly finished laughing at
her, when the train rushes past another station, at which appears a
withered old crone, her head tied up in a coloured handkerchief, and
her petticoats, cut up to her knees, looking cruelly short for such a
wintry day, and displaying a pair of attenuated legs and feet for
which the huge wooden _sabots_ look miles too large. She waves about
the signal-flag in a nervous, agitated manner, which suggests the idea
that she is not quite sure whether she has caught up the right one or
not; but before we have time to be made uncomfortable by the fact, we
are passing another of these Belgic “shanties,” at the door of which
appears for a moment a middle-aged woman, who waves the signal at us
in a menacing manner, and rushes back immediately to her children or
her cooking.
Remembering our own signalmen, and the importance attached to their
capabilities and education for the important office assigned them, it
ceases to be a matter of amusement to see the lives of hundreds daily
intrusted to the direction of such ignorant creatures as these. I
suppose that “Monsieur,” smoking at his ease by the fireside in the
little wooden station-house, directs the actions of his mother, wife,
or daughter; but what are the authorities about not to insist on his
performing his duty himself?
Notwithstanding all which, however, our train reaches Jemelle (the
nearest station to Rochefort) in safety, and in the midst of a wind
sufficient, if not to take our heads, to take our hats off, we and our
belongings come to the ground. It takes some minutes to get our nine
packages together; and when we present ourselves at the door of the
diligence, it is nearly full. I look despairingly at the nurse and all
the children, and decide that the younger members of the family must
go by diligence, and the elder shall walk with me to Rochefort. But
the Rochefortians are too polite to permit such a thing. Two of them
insist upon getting out and giving up their places to the children. I
protest against such a proceeding, of course, as in duty bound, but
they will hear of no excuse, and start off walking at such a pace that
they are out of sight before the diligence is set in motion. At last
the luggage is all packed away on the top, and we are all packed away
inside, in company with two gentlemen, who open the conversation
pleasantly by asking us where we come from, and telling us that we
must not expect to find Rochefort as large as Brussels, which, to say
truth, we had scarcely anticipated. The talk becomes fragmentary, for
the diligence rattles and jolts over the stony, hilly road, and the
bells on the horses’ collars jangle in unison; and the baby is so
enchanted with the noise, that he shouts till no one can be heard but
himself. But twenty minutes’ purgatory brings us into a long, steep,
narrow street, paved with stones, and bordered with grey-and-white
houses; and I have hardly time to ask, “Is this Rochefort?” when the
diligence draws up before a whitewashed house with a sign swinging
before the door, and I am asked if we are for the Hôtel Biron. No, we
are for the Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or; and as no one seems to be for
the Hôtel Biron, the diligence continues to climb the stony street
until it reaches the summit, and halts before the Hôtel de la Cloche
d’Or.
Here we all unpack ourselves; and a buxom German landlady, with a
kind, motherly face, comes down the steps to greet us. She has
received my letter; the beds are all ready for us; the dinner will be
on the table in half-an-hour; we are to be pleased to enter, and make
ourselves at home. We _are_ very pleased; for we are dreadfully tired
(not cold, for the weather is unnaturally mild), and have not had
anything substantial to eat all the day. We climb up the steps of the
hotel, which looks just like a farmhouse abutting on the main street,
and find ourselves in a sanded room, containing a long wooden table,
with benches either side of it, and bearing evident reminiscences of
smoking and drinking--in fact, “not to put too fine a point on it,”
the public tap-room--but where we are met by the landlady’s two eldest
daughters, Thérèse and Josephine, who are beaming in their welcome.
They usher us into a second room, where the children scream at the
sight of a table laid for dinner, and the four corners of which bear
bowls of whipped cream and custard, and rosy Ardennes apples, and
biscuits just out of the oven. The little people want to begin at
once, and cannot be brought to see the necessity of washing their
faces and hands first or waiting till the meat and potatoes shall be
placed upon the table. Would Madame like to see the _chambres à
coucher_ at once? Madame saying yes, Thérèse catches up the youngest
child but one, and, preceded by Josephine, we enter first a scullery,
next a bricked passage, thence mount a most perilous set of dark
narrow stairs, and stumble into a long whitewashed corridor, which
terminates in a glass-door opening on to a garden. Here three doors
successively thrown open introduce us to our bedrooms; and the trunks
having been brought up the breakneck stairs, we take possession at
once. The little white-curtained beds are small, but beautifully
clean, and each one is surmounted by its eider-down quilt in a
coloured cotton case. Two little islands of carpet in a sea of painted
boards represent the coverings of the floors; and the washing-stands
are only deal-tables, and there are no chests of drawers; but we
inhale the fresh, vigorous breeze which is pouring through the windows
(open even at that season), and think of fever-infected Brussels, and
are content. But though it is all very nice and clean, we cannot
possibly wash without water, nor dry our hands without towels.
An imbecile shout from the door for anybody or anything brings a
broad-featured, rosy, grinning German girl to our aid, who, when she
is asked her name, says it is Katrine, but we can call her by any name
we please. The pronunciation of “Katrine” not presenting those
difficulties to our foreign tongues which the owner of it seems to
anticipate, we prefer to adhere to her baptismal cognomen, instead of
naming her afresh, and desire Katrine to bring us some hot water and
towels; on which she disappears, still on the broad grin, and returns
with a pail of warm water, which she sets down in the middle of the
room. We manage well enough with that, however, but are at our wits’
end when, on being asked for more of the same fluid with which to mix
the baby’s bottle, she presents it to us in a washing-basin. But as, a
few minutes after, I encounter her in the corridor carrying a
coffee-pot full to E----’s room, I conclude that in Rochefort it is
the fashion to use vessels indiscriminately, and resolve thenceforth
to take the goods the gods provide, without questioning.
On descending to the dining-room, we find that the gods have been very
munificent in their gifts. After the soup appears roast beef; and as
we are very hungry, we cause it to look foolish, and are just
congratulating each other on having made an excellent dinner, when in
trots Thérèse, pops our dirty knives and forks upon the table-cloth,
whips away our plates, with that which contains the remainder of the
beef, and puts down a dish of mutton-chops in its stead. We look at
one another in despair; we feel it to be perfectly impossible to begin
again upon mutton-chops, and I am obliged to hint the same to
Thérèse in the most delicate manner in the world. She expostulates;
but to no purpose, and leaves the room, mutton-chops in hand. But only
to give place to her mother, who enters with a countenance of dismay
to inquire what is wrong with the cooking that we cannot eat.
Nothing is wrong; we have eaten remarkably well. It is our
capabilities of stowage which are at fault. Will we not have the hare,
which is just ready to be served up?
Sorry as we are to do it, we must decline the hare; and as we affirm
that we are ready for the pudding, and nothing else, we feel we have
sunk in Madame’s estimation.
The pudding, a _compote_ of apples and preserves, with the whipped
cream and custard, is delicious; and as soon as we have discussed it,
we are very thankful to stretch ourselves under the eider-down quilts,
and know the day to be over. We have done work enough that day to
entitle us to twelve hours’ repose; yet we are all wide-awake with the
first beams of the morning sun.
We dress ourselves with the pleasurable anticipation of seeing new
things, however simple, and come down-stairs to a breakfast-table, in
its way as plentifully spread as the dinner-table of the night before.
We have an abundance of milk,--so fresh from the cow that it is
covered with froth, and the jug which contains it is quite
warm,--eggs, cold meat, home-made bread in huge brown loaves, good
butter, and strong clear coffee. In fact, we come to the conclusion
that our landlady knows how to live, and we no longer marvel at the
rosy cheeks and full forms of Thérèse and Josephine, nor that Madame
herself fills out her dresses in such a magnificent manner.
E---- has been for a stroll before breakfast, and brings back a report
of ruins on the high ground; he has already unpacked his sketch-books
and sharpened his pencils. We, not being walking encyclopædias, seize
our _Continental Bradshaw_, and find that the ruins are those of a
castle in which Lafayette was made prisoner by the Austrians in 1792.
As soon as breakfast is concluded, we rush off to see the ruined
castle, which stands on an eminence just above the hotel, and which
our landlady (who walks into our sitting-room and takes a chair in the
most confiding manner possible whenever she feels so inclined) informs
us, although not open to the public, belongs to a lady whose house is
built on the same ground, and who will doubtless allow us to look over
it. We can see the remains of the castle before we reach them, and
decide that it must have been uglier and less interesting when whole
than now, having been evidently designed with a view to strength
rather than beauty. The little winding acclivitous path which leads to
it, bounded by a low wall fringed with ferns and mosses, is perhaps
the prettiest part of the whole concern; but just as we have scaled
it, and come upon the private dwelling-house, our poetic meditations
are interrupted by the onslaught of half-a-dozen dogs (one of which is
loose, and makes fierce snaps at our unprotected legs), which rush out
of their kennels at chains’ length, and bark so vociferously, that we
feel we have no need to make our presence known by knocking at the
door. A child appears at it; and we inquire politely if we may see the
ruins, at which she shakes her head, and we imagine she doesn’t
understand our Parisian French.
But in another moment we are undeceived, for the shrill, vixenish
voice of a woman (may dogs dance upon her grave!) exclaims sharply
from the open door, “_Fermez, fermez; on ne peut pas entrer_.” The
child obediently claps it to in our faces, and we retrace our steps,
with a conviction that the lady is like her castle--more strong than
beautiful. E--is so disgusted that he will not even sketch the ruins
from the opposite side of the road, up which another precipitous path
leads us to a long walk, which in summer must be a perfect bower, from
the interlacing of the branches of the trees with which it is
bordered; and from which we have a far better view of the ruins than
the utmost politeness of their owner could have afforded us. But no;
judgment has gone out against them; we decide they are heavy and
unpicturesque, and not worth the trouble; and we walk on in hopes of
finding something better: and are rewarded. At the close of the long
overshadowed walk, a quaint little chapel, beside which stands a
painted wooden crucifix nearly the size of life, excites our
curiosity, and, walking round it, we come upon one of the loveliest
scenes, even in the month of February, that Nature ever produced.
A green valley, creeping in sinuous folds between two ranges of high
hills; one rocky and coated with heather, the other clothed with wood.
Beneath the rocky range there winds a road bordered by trees,--along
which we can see the red diligence which brought us from the station
taking its jangling way,--and beside it runs a stream, terminating in
a cascade and a bridge, and the commencement of the lower part of
Rochefort. All the fields are cut upon the sides of hills, and are
diversified by clumps of rock covered with ferns, and usually the
groundwork of a well, protected by a few rough planks, or the
fountain-head of a mountain-stream which trickles down until it joins
the river. This is the valley of Jemelle, to see which in the proper
season would alone be worth a journey to Rochefort. We look and
admire, and lament the impossibility of ever transferring such a scene
to canvas as it should be done; and then we turn back whence we came,
and find we are standing at the entrance of an artificial cave,
situated at the back of the crucifix before alluded to, and which
forms perhaps as great a contrast to the natural loveliness we have
just looked upon, as could well be. Apparently it is the tomb of some
woman, by the framed requests which hang on either side that prayers
may be offered for the repose of her soul; but had her friends turned
out upon her grave all the maimed and motley rubbish to be found in a
nursery playbox of some years’ standing, they could scarcely have
decorated it in a less seemly manner. At the end of the cave is a
wooden grating, behind which is exhibited one of those tawdry
assemblages of horrors which tend more perhaps than all else to bring
ridicule on the Roman Catholic religion, so utterly opposed are they
to our conceived ideas of what is sacred. Two or three rudely-carved
and coarsely-painted, almost grotesque, wooden groups of the dead
Christ, the Holy Family, and the Crucifixion, form the groundwork of
this exhibition: the interstices being filled up with gold-and-white
jars of dirty artificial flowers; framed prints of saints with lace
borders, reminding one of the worst description of valentines; and
composite figures, supposed to represent the same individuals, and
which may have cost fifty centimes apiece. The collection is such as
to make the spectator shudder to see holy things so unholily treated;
and it is difficult to conceive how, in this century, when art has
been carried to such a pitch that even our commonest jugs and basons
have assumed forms consistent with it, anyone, even the lowest, can be
satisfied with such designs and colouring as these things display.
Returning homeward by the lower part of the town, we pass a _maison
religieuse_ dedicated to St. Joseph, and in the garden see the good
little sisters joining their pupils, to the number of forty or fifty,
in a merry game of “Here we go round the mulberry-bush,” and
apparently taking as much pleasure in the exercise as the youngest
there. The church and churchyard stand at this end of Rochefort. There
is nothing in the building to attract one’s notice, except that we
agree that it is the ugliest we have ever seen; but we walk round the
little churchyard, the paucity of graves in which speaks well for the
climate of the place. The crosses and railings, made of the commonest
wood and in the most fragile manner, are all rotting as they stand or
lie (several having assumed the recumbent position); and we are
leaving the spot with the conviction that we have wasted five minutes,
when we come against a crucifix fastened by heavy iron clamps against
the wall of the church. A common iron cross, rusty and red from damp
and age, with a figure nailed on it of the most perfect bronze, old
and hard, and dark and bright, and as unchanged by weather and
exposure as on the day (perhaps hundreds of years ago) it was first
placed there.
Toiling up the street again, and examining the shops as we go, I say
that, much as I like Rochefort, I do not advise any one to come here
in order to purchase their wedding _trousseau_, or lay in a stock of
winter clothing. We look in vain for something to buy in remembrance
of the place; but can see nothing out of the way, except it is a
yellow teapot, holding at the least four quarts, and with a curled
spout to prevent the tea coming out too fast, which must be almost
necessary with such a load of liquid. The teapot is delicious, and
quite unique; but scarcely worth, we think, the trouble of
transportation. We have but just decided this matter to our
satisfaction when we come upon a “miscellaneous warehouse,” upon whose
front is painted “_Cartes pour les grottes de Rochefort_,” and
remember that we must see the famous grotto, and turn in to ask the
price of admission. Five francs a-head; children half-price. We think
the charge is high; but Monsieur C-- (to whom the grotto belongs)
takes us into his house and shows us prints of the different views of
its interior, which fire our imagination to that degree, that we
decide at once to see it the next morning. We look over a book also in
which visitors to the grotto have written down their first
impressions; and these testimonials excite our curiosity still
further. A Persian describes himself as having been suddenly
transported into fairyland; and can liken the vast caverns to nothing
but the palace of his great master the Sultan, and the various forms
assumed by the stalactites to those of lovely houris grouped about
him. A French poet, in rapturous verse, compares the grotto to the
enchanted halls of the Arabian Nights, and the stalactites to “frozen
tears.” Every traveller declares the sight to have been more wonderful
and beautiful than anything he has ever seen before, until we become
quite sorry to think we must put off seeing it until the morning; and
our expectations are heightened by the rapid assurance of Monsieur C--
(who always keeps his hands moving, and never stops to consider his
commas), that it is “_trèsbeautrèsbeautrèsbeau!_” However, we agree
to return the next day at eleven o’clock, when he promises the guides
shall be in readiness for us; and we go home to another excellent
dinner, the pleasure of which is only marred by the fact that
Thérèse _will_ make us use the same knives and forks for every
course; and we haven’t the strength of mind to resist.
Yesterday I spoke to madame on the necessity of engaging someone
during the mornings to read French and German with the girls, as we
shall most likely be here for a month; and it is too long a time for
them to be idle. Madame did not think I should find a _demoiselle_ in
Rochefort who could instruct them; but there is a _professeur_ here
who has passed all his college examinations, and who, if he has the
time, will doubtless be very glad of the employment. I asked her to
send for the _professeur_ that I might speak to him on the subject;
and here, just as we have done dinner, he arrives; for madame throws
open the door, and with a certain pride in her voice (pride that
Rochefort should possess such an article), announces “_Monsieur le
Professeur_.” I glance up, thinking of Charlotte Brontë and her
professor, and hoping this one may not prove as dirty and seedy and
snuffy, and, to my amazement, see standing on the threshold a lad of
about seventeen or eighteen, dressed in green trousers and a blue
blouse, and holding his cap in his hand. The two girls immediately
choke, and bury their faces in their books, which renders my task of
catechising rather a difficult one; and I glance at E-- for aid, but
his countenance is almost level with the table as he pretends to draw.
So I find there is nothing to be done but to beg the _professeur_ to
be seated,--a request which he steadily refuses to comply with; and as
he stands there, twisting his cap in his hands, he looks so like a
butcher-boy, that it is a mercy I do not ask him what meat he has
to-day.
But the poor young man is so horribly nervous, as he tells me that,
though qualified for a tutor, he has never taught before, that I have
not the heart to refuse him on account of his youth; besides, is he
not the sole _professeur_ in Rochefort? So I give him leave to come
the next morning, and try, at all events, what he can do with the
girls; and he looks very happy for the permission. And we see him a
minute afterwards, striding proudly down the street, whistling as he
goes, and holding his head half an inch higher for having “got a
situation.” Of course the children make merry over him for the rest of
the evening, and cannot recall the appearance of their _professeur_
without shrieks of laughter; but he comes the next morning,
nevertheless, to commence his duties, and proves to be quite as
particular as older teachers, and much more competent than some, and
takes the youngest girl completely aback by telling her she shall be
punished if she is not steady.
At eleven o’clock the next morning we are all ready to view the
grottoes, and E-- and I, with the two eldest children, start off on
our expedition. The way to their entrance lies through Monsieur C--’s
park, which in summer must be a very charming resort. He has collected
here all the wild animals indigenous to the Ardennes, and shows them
to us as we walk to the mouth of the grottoes. Close to his house he
has a splendid wolf and three foxes--the golden, silver, and common
fox. I should have preferred to keep these interesting specimens a
little further off from my own nose; but there is no accounting for
tastes. In the aviary he has squirrels, guinea-pigs, doves, pigeons,
and the most magnificent pair of horned owls I have ever seen. These
birds, which are as fierce as possible, have eyes of jet and amber, as
big as half-crowns, and when in their rage they spring at passers-by,
they make a noise with their beaks just like castanets.
A little farther up the park we come upon the Ardennes deer, which are
thicker built and less graceful than the English fallow-deer, with
which they are consorting; and a wild boar, with fierce tusks and a
savage grunt, wallowing in a _parterre_ of clay, which, nevertheless,
knows his master, and puts his ugly snout out to be scratched between
the palisades of his domain. Monsieur C-- only conducts us as far as
the entrance of the grotto, and there delivers us over to the care of
the guides, two in number, who each carry a couple of petroleum lamps,
and have “Grottes de Rochefort” written on their hatbands. They ask us
if we will have costumes to enter the caves with, and we decline, not
knowing the dirt we shall encounter; but we exchange our own hats for
little, grey linen ones, trimmed with a cockade and bunch of small red
feathers in front, made after the pattern of those adopted by the
monkeys on the organs, and in which we appear very comical to each
other’s eyes. Everything is ready, and down we go--down the first
flight of steps, which is steep but easy, and which, Monsieur C--
shouts after us, will be the most difficult descent of all (I wonder
if he impresses that fable on all his visitors) until the ivy and
fern-covered entrance is passed, and we enter the very mouth of the
cave, which is yet light enough to let us see that several such
flights have still to be descended. We have hardly reached the middle
of the second, and daylight is not yet left behind us, when E-- calls
out that he cannot breathe, and must go up into the fresh air again.
The guides insist that monsieur must be mistaken, and no one is ever
taken ill there. I insist, on the other hand, that monsieur’s wishes
must be complied with, and we must reaccompany him to the top, which
we do. I would rather not go back again then, and make the dark
pilgrimage alone with the children, but E-- begs we will, and the
girls look disappointed; so we retrace our steps, leaving him in the
park.
I confess that as I go down the second time I feel a little nervous,
and my limbs shake. I don’t like this going down, down, down into the
shades of eternal night, with no companions but two little children.
But at last we stand on level ground again. There is no light anywhere
except from the guides’ lamps, the foremost one (who is always
spokesman) waves his above his head, and introduces _la grande salle_.
I look up and around me, but all is black as pitch. I feel that I am
standing on broken flints and a great deal of mud; and as the guide’s
lamp throws its faint gleam here and there, I see that the cavern we
stand in is very vast and damp, and uncommonly like a huge cellar; but
I can’t say I see anything more. In another minute the guide has
turned, and leads us through a passage cut in the rock. We are not
going up or downstairs now, but picking our way over slippery stones
and between places sometimes so narrow and sometimes so low, that our
shoulders get various bumps and bruises, and the guide’s warning of
“_Garde tête!_” sounds continuously. Every now and then we come upon
a larger excavation, which is called a _salle_, and given some name
consequent on the likeness assumed by the stalactites contained in it.
Thus one is called _salle de Brahma_, because it contains a large
stalactite, somewhat resembling the idol of that name. Another _salle
du sacrifice_, because its principal attraction is a large flat stone,
at the foot of which is another, shaped sausage-wise, and entitled
_tombeau de la victime_. We pace after the guides through these
cavernous passages for what appears to me miles, my mind meanwhile
being divided between fear that I should leave my boots behind me in
the slushy clay, or that either of my children should tumble down or
knock her head. Every cavern is like the other, and I look in vain for
stalactites which shall remind me of “houris grouped about the
sultan,” or “frozen tears.” The guides occasionally produce a fine
effect by burning a little red fire, or letting-off a rocket, or
climbing singly up the more perilous places, that we may watch the
gradual ascent of their flickering lamps, and judge of the height of
the larger _salles_. But I suppose the enthusiastic scribblers in the
visitors’ book would consider me the possessor of a very darkened
intellect if they heard me affirm that I have seen better effects on
the stage, and climbed greater heights with much more convenience.
Perhaps I have not a sufficiently appreciative soul for grottoes; but
the greater part of the grotto of Rochefort comes up exactly to my
idea of a mine, and nothing more.
The “glittering” stalactites are nowhere. The cave is lined with
stalactites, but (with the exception of a few white ones) they are all
of a uniform pale-brown colour, and have no idea of glittering or
being prismatic. The greatest wonder of the grotto is its vastness,
which may be estimated from the fact that we are two hours going over
it, and then have not traversed the whole on account of fresh works
being carried on in parts. We penetrate to its very depths to see the
river and the waterfall, but the mud is so excessive that we are
compelled to stop, and let the guide descend with his lamp and flash
it over the water, which is really very pretty, and, strange to
relate, contains good trout.
Then we plough our way upwards again; up fungus-covered ladders, and
wet, slippery stairs, upon which it is most difficult to keep a
footing, until we arrive at decidedly the finest sight there--the
_salle du sabbat_. Here the guides send up a spirit-balloon, to show
us the height and extent of the vast cavern, and we are rather
awe-struck, particularly as, in order that we may see the full effect,
the other guide plants us on three chairs and takes away both the
lamps, leaving us seated in the darkness, on the edge of a precipice.
The blackness is so thick about us that we can almost _feel_ it; and
the silence is that of death. My youngest girl slips her little hand
in mine, and whispers, “Mamma, supposing he weren’t to come back
again!” and I can’t say the prospect pleases. However, the balloon
reaches the top of the cavern, and is hauled back again; and the guide
_does_ come back; and, whilst he is assisting his fellow to pack it
away, I sing a verse of “God save the Queen,” for the children to hear
the echo, which is stupendous.
Then we see the prettiest thing, perhaps, we have seen yet. At the top
of the _salle du sabbat_ there is a kind of breakage in the side, and
a large cluster of stalactites. One guide climbs up to this place and
holds his lamp behind the group, whilst the other calls out “_la femme
qui repose_;” when lo! before us there appears almost an exact
representation of a woman, reclining with crossed legs, and a child on
her bosom. It is so good an imitation, that it might be a figure
carved in stone and placed there, and I think the sight gave us more
pleasure than anything in the grotto. We have come upon several groups
of stalactites already, to which the guides have given names, such as
_l’ange de la résurrection_, _l’oreille de l’éléphant_, and _le
lion Belge_; but though they have, of course, borne some resemblance
to the figures mentioned, the likeness is only admitted for want of a
better. This likeness, however, is excellent, could hardly be more
like; and we are proportionately pleased. With the _salle du sabbat_
and the balloon the exhibition is ended; and we are thankful to emerge
into the fresh air again, and to leave slippery staircases and the
smell of fungi behind us.
We feel very heated when we stand on the breezy hill again, for the
grotto, contrary to our expectation, has proved exceedingly warm, and
the exercise has made us feel more so; and daylight looks so strange
that we can scarcely persuade ourselves we have not been passing the
night down below. We have picked up several little loose bits of stone
and stalactite during our progress, and when we reach home, we spread
them out before us on the table, and try to remember where they came
from. Here is a bit of marble, veined black-and-white; and here is
white stone, glistening and silvery. Here is the stalactite, a
veritable piece of “frozen tears” and _couchant houris_.
Well, we have been a little disappointed with the grottoes of
Rochefort, perhaps; we have not found the crystallisations quite so
purple-and-amber as we anticipated, or the foundations quite so clean;
but, after all, it is what we must expect in this life. If the grotto
is not so brilliant as we expected, it is at least a very wonderful
and uncommon sight; and so in this life, if we can but forget the
purple-and-gold, we may extract a great deal of amusement from very
small things, if we choose to try. With which bit of philosophy I
conclude.
A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE;
OR,
THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE.
I am an author. I am something worse than that--I am a Press writer.
I am worse than that still--I am a Press writer with a large wife and
a small family. And I am an Amateur Detective! I don’t mean, of
course, that I reckon the last item as part of my profession, but my
friends always come to me if they are in any difficulty, and set me to
do all kinds of queer jobs, from restoring and reconciling a truant
husband to his wife, to making the round of the “Homes for Lost Dogs”
in order to find Lady Softsawder’s pet poodle. Even Jones couldn’t
complete his great work, “The Cyclopædia of the Brain,” without
asking my assistance (for a consideration, of course) with his fifth
section, “The Origin of Dreams.” Jones is full of fire and
imagination, but he does not care for plodding, and he knew me of old
for a good steady compiler. I agreed with alacrity. “The Origin of
Dreams” would fill those hungry little mouths of mine for three months
at the very least. But how to do it whilst they gaped around me!--how
to cover the one table in my solitary sitting-room with valuable works
of reference at the risk of their being touched by greasy
fingers!--how to wade through volume after volume, placing a mental
mark there and a material one here, whilst my offspring either
surreptitiously removed the one or irretrievably obliterated
remembrance of the other, by attracting my attention to the manner in
which they attempted to scalp each other’s heads or gouge out each
other’s eyes! I tried it for a week in vain.
My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which
was to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered
tomes which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried
on at home, and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for
reflection, and left me without energy to labour at night. I was about
to resign the task in despair--to tell Jones to give it to some more
capable or more fortunate labourer in the wide field of
speculation--when Fate came to my rescue in the person of the Hon.
Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son.
“My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,” he
remarked to me, in his friendly manner, “and he wants your assistance,
Trueman, if you’ll give it him.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?”
“Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in
love with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person--he,
with his twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor
remonstrated with him--told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and
all that sort of thing, he actually ran away!”
“Left Lord Seaborne’s house?”
“Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want
to make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so
he hasn’t said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out
where Cockleboat is--you’re so clever at that sort of thing--and just
bring him home again.”
“An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad
has gone?”
“Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you
wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of
course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear
something of the young scamp for us.”
“What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?”
“Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it
into his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last
birthday, and will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next
five years--very lucky for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not
be.”
“True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season.
Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?”
“I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to
Norwich for us or not?”
“I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.”
The offer had come most opportunely; even as Captain Rivers was
speaking it had flashed through my mind that here was the very
opportunity that I desired to carry out my project of writing the
fifth section of Jones’ Cyclopædia;--a remote lodging in one of the
back streets of the quiet old city of Norwich, whence I could carry on
my inquiries all day, and where I might sit up and write out my notes
all night. And Lord Seaborne’s generosity in such cases was too well
known to permit of any doubt on the subject whether I should not (by
accepting his proposal) be killing two birds with one stone. So I did
accept it, with gratitude, and having obtained all the information
possible respecting the mysterious disappearance of Master Julian
Cockleboat, I packed up the black-lettered tomes, and, embracing my
smiling wife and children, who appeared rather pleased than otherwise
at the prospect of getting rid of me for a few weeks, started for
Norwich.
I have a great respect for old county towns: there is a dignified
sobriety and sense of unimpeachable respectability about them that
impress me. I like their old-world institutions and buildings--their
butter crosses and market steps; their dingy bye streets with
kerbstones for pavements; their portentous churches and beadles; their
old-fashioned shops and goods and shopmen. I like the quiet that
reigns in their streets, the paucity of gas they light them up with,
the strange conveyances their citizens ply for hire--in fact, I like
everything with which the world in general finds fault. So it was with
a sense of pleasure I found myself wandering about the streets of
Norwich, on the look-out for some place in which to lay my head. I had
rather have been there than at the seaside, although it was bright
July weather, and I knew the waves were frothing and creaming over the
golden sands beneath a canopy of cloudless blue sky. I preferred the
shaded, cloister-like streets of the county town, with its cool flags
under my feet, and its unbroken sense of calm.
I did not turn into the principal thoroughfares, with their gay shops
and gayer passengers, but down the less-frequented bye-ways, where
children playing in the road stopped open-mouthed to watch me pass,
and women’s heads appeared above the window-blinds, as my footfall
sounded on the narrow pavement, as though a stranger were something to
be stared at. Many windows held the announcement of “Rooms to Let,”
but they were too small--too modern, shall I say--too fresh-looking to
take my fancy.
I connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as
if I could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled
with scarlet geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon “The
Origin of Dreams,” to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted.
Down a narrow street, into which the sun seemed never to have
penetrated, I found some tall, irregular, dingy-looking
buildings--most of which appeared to be occupied as insurance, wine,
or law offices,--and in the lower window of one there hung a card with
the inscription, “Apartments for a Single Gentleman.”
It was just the place from which to watch and wait--in which to
ponder, and compare, and compose,--and I ascended its broken steps,
convinced that the birth-place of “The Origin of Dreams” was found. A
middle-aged woman, with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my
summons to the door. The weekly rent she asked for the occupation of
the vacant apartments sounded to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was
due to my experience of the exorbitant demands of London landladies.
But when I explained to her the reason for which I desired her rooms,
namely, that I might sit up at night and write undisturbed, her
countenance visibly fell.
“I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.”
“Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?”
“Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!”
“What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?”
Her face twitched as she answered, “I have no other lodgers, sir.”
“Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?”
“My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are
permitted to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the
upper rooms (which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and
in order. But the clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they
wouldn’t interfere with your night-work.”
“What will, then?”
“I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They
_will_ breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the rats,” I answered, cheerfully. “I’ll catch as
many as I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your
only objection, the rooms are mine. May I see them?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, as she closed the door behind me and led
the way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding
doors, which had once formed the dining saloon of a splendid mansion.
“The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the
basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to
lodgers. They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat
and clean.”
She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and
the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the
unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep
indentation in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked
amazed.
“Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,” I
said, jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest.
“It must be my good man,” she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the
mattress; “perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot
weather makes the best feel weak, sir.”
“Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you
my first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to
fetch my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything
that is most handy, for my dinner.”
All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I
suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her
roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt
very much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window
thinking how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and
how much good work I should get through without fear of interruption
or distraction. The office clerks had long gone home, the upper rooms
were locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide
uncarpeted staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I
remembered the rats, and “The Origin of Dreams;” and thinking it
probable that my honest old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell
to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me a good supply of candles.
“You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?” she
inquired. “I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be
real tired.”
“Not at all, my good Mrs. Bizzey” (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), “I
am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your
friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a
light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.”
“Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you, sir,” she said, earnestly, as
she withdrew to fetch the candles.
I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How
imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that
night. “The Origin of Dreams” required thought--deep and speculative
thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than
stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at
the dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be
allowed to speak so paradoxically) to the silence?--for there is
silence that can be heard.
When Mrs. Bizzey brought me the candles, she asked me if I required
anything else, as she and Mr. Bizzey were about to retire to the
marital couch, which I afterwards ascertained was erected in the
scullery. I answered in the negative, and wished her good-night,
hearing her afterwards distinctly close the door at the head of the
kitchen stairs and descend step by step to the arms of her lord and
master. But Mrs. Bizzey’s intrusion had murdered my reverie. I could
not take up the chain of thought where she had severed the links. The
night air, too, seemed to have grown suddenly damp and chilly, and I
pulled down the window sash with a jerk, and taking out my note-book
and writing-case drew a chair up to the table and commenced to think,
playing idly with my pen the while. Soon the divine afflatus (the
symptoms of which every successful writer knows so well) came down
upon me. I ceased to think--or rather to be aware that I was thinking.
My pen ran over the paper as though some other hand guided it than my
own, and I wrote rapidly, filling page after page with a stream of
ideas that seemed to pour out of my brain involuntarily. Time is of no
account under such circumstances, and I may have been scribbling for
one hour or for three, for aught I knew to the contrary, before I was
roused to a sense of my position by hearing a footfall sound through
the silent, deserted house.
Now, although I have described my condition to be such as to render me
impervious to outer impressions, I am certain of one thing--that no
noise, however slight, had hitherto broken in upon it. It was the
complete absence of sound that had permitted my spirit to have full
play irrespective of my body; and directly the silence was outraged,
my physical life re-asserted its claims, and my senses became all
alive to ascertain the cause of it. In another moment the sound was
repeated, and I discovered that it was over my head--not under my
feet. It could not, then, proceed from either of the old couple, whom
I had heard lock themselves up together down below. Who could it be?
My first idea, emanating from my landlady’s information that the noise
might proceed from rats, I had already dismissed with contempt. It was
the reverberation of a footstep. There could be no doubt about that;
and my next thought naturally flew to burglars, who were making an
attempt on the safes in the offices above. What could I do? I was
utterly unarmed, and to go in pursuit of midnight robbers in so
defenceless a condition would be simply delivering myself into their
power. I certainly might have shied a couple of Jones’ black-lettered
books at their heads, for they were ponderous enough to knock any man
down, but I might not take a steady aim, and it is better not to
attempt at all than to attempt and fail.
Meanwhile, the sounds overhead had increased in number and become
continuous, as though some one had commenced to walk up and down the
room. Surely no midnight thief would dare to create so much
disturbance as that! Detection of his crime would be inevitable. Or
did he trust to the sound sleep of the porter and his wife in the
kitchen below, not knowing that I, existent and wakeful, intervened
between himself and them? In another minute I believe that I should
have cast all consequences to the winds, and rushed, not _in_, but
_up_ to the rescue, forgetting I was a husband and a father, and armed
with Jones’ patent self-acting leveller, alone have ascended to the
upper storey to investigate the cause of the midnight disturbance I
heard. Only--_I didn’t!_ For before I had had time to shoulder my
weapons and screw my courage up to the sticking-point, another sound
reached my ears that made the patent levellers drop on the table again
with a thump,--the sound, not of a step, but a groan--a deep, hollow,
unmistakable groan, that chilled the marrow in my bones to such a
degree that it would have been a disgrace to any cook to send them up
to table.
I knew then that I must have been mistaken in my first theory, and
that the sounds I overheard, whether they proceeded from mortals or
not, had no connection with the nefarious occupation of housebreakers.
But they had become a thousand times more interesting, and I listened
attentively.
The groan was followed by some muttered words that sounded like a
curse, succeeded by louder tones of reproach or anger. Then the
footsteps traversed the floor again, and seemed to be chasing someone
or something round and round the room. At last I heard another groan,
followed by a heavy fall.
I started to my feet. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Bizzey must have been roused
by such an unusual commotion, and would come upstairs to learn the
reason! But no!--they did not stir. All was silent as the grave below,
and above also. The noises had suddenly ceased. I appeared to be alone
in the empty house. It was all so strange that I put my hands up to my
head and asked myself if I were properly awake. I was hardly satisfied
on this point before the sounds recommenced overhead, and precisely in
the same order as before. Again I listened to the pacing feet--the
groan--the curse--the chase--the fall! Each phase of the ghostly
tragedy--for such I now felt sure it must be--was repeated in
rotation, not once, but a couple of dozen or more times; and then at
last the disturbance ceased as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had
commenced.
I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock, and already the early
birds on the look-out for the worm had begun to herald the dawn with a
few faint twitters in the trees in the cloister. I threw off my
clothes impatiently, and lying down in my bed, gave myself up, not to
sleep, but reflection on what was best to be done. I had not the
slightest doubt left as to the cause of the noises I had heard. My
landlady might ascribe them to rats, but were she closely questioned
she would probably acknowledge the truth--that she knew the sounds to
proceed from spirits, popularly called ghosts; which accounted for all
her hesitation and change of countenance when speaking to me about the
apartments, also for the low price she asked for her rooms, and her
evident wish to dissuade me from sitting up at night.
Naturally the poor woman was afraid she should never secure a lodger
if the truth were known; but as far as I was concerned, she was
altogether mistaken--I was not afraid of her ghosts. On the contrary,
as I lay in bed and thought on what had just occurred, I congratulated
myself that, by a third strange coincidence, my visit to Norwich
promised to turn out all that I could desire.
I must “lay” these ghosts, of course--_i.e._, if they interfered with
my graver work; but to have the opportunity of doing so was the very
thing my heart was set upon. Is my reader surprised to hear this? Then
I must take him further into my confidence.
When I confessed I was an author, Press writer, amateur detective, and
father of six children, I did not add the crowning iniquity, and write
myself down a believer in ghosts and spiritualism. Every man
acknowledges himself a spirit, and to have been created by the power
of a spirit. Most men believe that spirits have the capability of free
volition and locomotion, and many that they have exercised these
powers by re-appearing to their fellow spirits in the flesh. But to
assert publicly that you believe in all this because you have proved
it to be the truth, is to throw yourself open to the charge of being a
dupe, or a madman, or a liar. Therefore I had preferred until then to
keep my faith a secret. My children’s bread depended in a great
measure on the reputation I kept up as a man of sense, and I had not
dared to risk it by attempting to put my theories into practice. Not
that I was entirely ignorant of the rules pertaining to the science of
spiritualism. Under cover of the darkness that hides all
delinquencies, I had attended several circles gathered for the sole
purpose of investigating the mysteries of other worlds; but it had
always been accomplished with the utmost secrecy, as my wife was
hysterically disposed, and the mere mention of a spirit would have
upset the house for days together.
I had never, therefore, had the opportunity of pursuing spiritualism
on my own account; and until the day broke I lay awake, congratulating
myself on the good luck that had thrown me, cheek by jowl, with a
party of ready-made ghosts, whom a very little encouragement would, I
trusted, induce to pay me a visit in my own apartments.
All the next day I wandered through the streets of Norwich and in the
country surrounding them, speculating--not on the whereabouts of
Julian Cockleboat, nor “The Origin of Dreams”--but how I should
persuade my landlady to help me unravel the mysterious occurrence of
the night before. At last I bethought me that “honesty is the best
policy” after all, and decided that I would make a clean breast of my
suspicions and desires. If Mrs. Bizzey were a sensible woman, she
would prove only too ready to aid me in ridding her apartments of
visitors that must injure their reputation; and, at all events, I
could but try her. So I opened the subject on the very first
opportunity. The woman was clearing away my tea-things the same
evening, when she remarked that I had not eaten well.
“I am afraid you sit up too much at night, sir, to make a good
appetite.”
“Other people seem to sit up in this house at night as well as myself,
Mrs. Bizzey,” I replied, significantly.
“I don’t understand you,” she said, colouring.
“Why, do you mean to say you never hear noises;--that you were not
disturbed last night, for instance, by the sound of groans and voices,
and of some one falling about in the upper rooms?”
“Oh, sir, you don’t mean to tell me as you’ve heard them already!”
exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, clasping her hand and letting a teacup fall in
her agitation. “If you go too, you’ll be the third gentleman that has
left within a fortnight on that account; and if a stop ain’t put to
it, the house will get such a name that nobody will put a foot inside
the door for love or money.”
“But I don’t mean to go, Mrs. Bizzey; on the contrary, I should be
very sorry to go; and if you and your husband will consent to help me,
I will do my best to stop the noises altogether,” for the idea of
forming a little circle with these worthy people had suddenly flashed
into my mind.
“How can me and my good man help you, sir?”
“Is Mr. Bizzey at home? If so, go downstairs and fetch him up here,
and I will explain what I mean to you both at the same time.”
She left the room at once, and in a few minutes returned with a
dapper-looking little old fellow, in knee-breeches and a red plush
waistcoat, who pulled his forelock to me on entering.
“This is Mr. Bizzey, sir, and I’ve been telling him all you say as we
came up the stairs.”