[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 146.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
CAVE-HUNTING IN YORKSHIRE.
The finest county in all England is the great shire of York, with its
rugged coast, and its rolling plains dotted with many a noble church,
its wild moorlands and lofty fells, its fertile valleys with their
monastic ruins and crumbling castle-keeps. Every Yorkshireman is proud
of his county, whether he be foxhunting Squire, lord of thousands of
its acres, or merchant-prince—a brawny artisan, toiling in one of its
great manufacturing towns, or a stalwart dalesman—a miner drifting for
lead in the north-west, or a pitman burrowing for coal in the south—the
sturdy yeoman-farmer of the wolds, or bluff fisherman on the shores of
the wild North Sea—for is it not a very epitome of his country?
Micklefell, Whernside, Ingleborough, Penyghent, and many a mountain
crest on the west, the bold chalk headland and wondrous caverns of
Flamborough, with the romantic stretch of cliffs round Robin Hood Bay
to eastward, afford scenery of the grandest description. Swaledale,
Teesdale, Wensleydale, Nidderdale, and Wharfedale, with the rich plain
of York beyond stretching away to the tilled slopes of the wolds and
Hambleton Hills, are gems of softer beauty. The big towns of Leeds,
Sheffield, Bradford, Wakefield, are seats of busy commerce, whose black
smoke pollutes the air, whilst the snorting engine and thundering
steam-hammer resound both night and day. The broad Humber bears on
its tide-ruffled bosom great fleets from Hull and Goole, which carry
their wares to every corner of the world. Fountains, Bolton, Rievaulx,
Kirkstall, Pervaulx, and lesser abbeys, tell of past glories; whilst
York, Ripon, Selby, Beverley, and Bridlington minsters are still
glories of to-day. The castles of York, Bolton, Knaresborough, Wressle,
Conisbrough, Pontefract, Helmsley, Scarborough, and other relics of
troublous times yet look down upon this peaceful nineteenth century.
The battlefields of Stamford Bridge, Northallerton, Wakefield, Towton,
and Marston Moor still speak of the share Yorkshire had in making
England’s history; and grand old York, with its ancient churches and
minster, its frowning Bars, and encircling city walls, recalls past
fame and grandeur, when the legions garrisoned it as ‘Eboracum,’
the chief seat of the Roman power in Britain (when London was an
insignificant village) long before Saxon and Dane fought in the narrow
streets for possession of it as ‘Eoforwic.’ For the archæologist, the
botanist, the painter, and the sportsman, old ‘Eurewicshire’ is a happy
hunting-ground indeed; the antiquary and philologist alike find it a
rich storehouse of quaint customs and strange dialects; whilst to the
geologist and physiographist, it is a charming text-book, written in
bold graceful language, with many beautiful and wondrous illustrations.
But besides all this, Yorkshire offers vast delights to the explorer
and lover of adventure, in the curious subterranean water-courses and
awesome caverns which abound in the limestone ranges of the north-west.
Less famous than the underground chambers of Derbyshire, they are yet
more numerous, and, with two or three exceptions, are utterly free from
the desecrating presence of the inveterate ‘guide,’ who rushes you
through them, working unseemly havoc the while with Queen’s English, as
he waves his tallow candle, and bids attention to the features of the
show. It is true that Clapham Cave and Stump Cross Caverns are regular
stock tourist properties, where the lessees give admission and provide
illuminants at a fixed charge per head; but he who would see the weird,
lonely passages of Ingleborough and Penyghent must find his own way,
and carry a goodly supply of candles with him, for the Great ‘Alum Pot’
is not a Poole’s Cavern which glares bravely when the gas is turned
on; and no urchin hastens before to stick torches in the crevices
and fissures of Catknot Hole. The real cave-hunter will rejoice at
this, and fixing his headquarters at one of the little inns in the
neighbourhood, will don his canvas overalls and stiff felt hat, and go
forth jubilantly, well stocked with ‘dips’ and matches, not forgetting
luncheon and the cheering pipe. Of course, if the caves are only to be
viewed and peeped into, the ‘overalls’ are needless; but if a thorough
exploration is intended, then, in addition, a stout rope some twelve
yards long at least, and two companions, should be taken, for abrupt
descents occur which are impassable without a rope and strong arms to
hold it.
Ingleborough, with its younger brother Simon Fell, is the central
landmark of the great cave district—a district lying between Penyghent
and Gragreth, Cam Fell, and the village of Clapham, and measuring
roughly nine miles square, which contains all the chief Yorkshire
caves and ‘pot holes,’ with the exception of a group in the limestone
at the head of Nidderdale—one or two at Settle and Kilnsey, and the
famous ‘Stump Cross’ Cavern, which lies a little off the mountain road
running over from Pateley Bridge into Wharfedale. The picturesque
village of Ingleton is a pleasant headquarters from which to see
Clapham and Yordas Caves, and whence Ingleborough and Whernside may
be ascended; but if intent on systematically doing the district, the
lonely _Gearstones Inn_, which stands on the moors some seven or
eight miles on the road which runs up Chapel-le-dale over to Hawes in
Wensleydale, is the best place to put up at. Here, within easy reach,
are Douk Caves, long water-worn tunnels piercing the limestone scaurs
which flank the Ingleborough range, wherein is nothing curious except
a circular opening like a well, which brings down a beam of light, and
gives a glimpse of blue sky thirty feet up through the rock.
Higher up the scaurs are the curious holes, or ‘pots’ as they are
locally termed, ‘Meregill,’ Barefootwives, and Hardrawkin. The first
is a slit in the ground about forty yards long, ranging from two to
nine, and bridged now and again by stones and turf; and you can plumb
it to a depth of a hundred feet, fifty at least being under water.
Hardrawkin is a pot or fissure nine yards deep, which lies between two
narrow caves, both of which may be explored, though water often covers
the floors. Near the little gabled church of Chapel-le-dale, rendered
notable by Southey’s _Doctor_, is Wethercote, and its complements
Jingle and Hurtlepots, one of the sights of the district. The top of
Wethercote is level with the ground, about fifty yards long and sixteen
wide, though it narrows towards the ends. Descending fifty feet we come
upon a rough arch of rock, and passing under it, are in the middle of
the pot, and again descend until the bottom is reached, forty good
yards below the surface of the ground. Right in front and eighteen
yards above is an opening in the wall of rock; and from it a stream
of water leaps in a thundering cascade, filling the pot with spray,
and then diving with a shuddering rush into a low cave, disappears on
its underground course to Jingle and Hurtle Pots, three hundred yards
lower down the dale. The first of these is twenty yards long, and ten
to three broad and fifteen deep; and the last, twenty-five yards by
fifteen, and about twenty-five deep, with a sullen black pool nine or
ten yards deep, from which no outlet is apparent. When the stream is
low, it flows far out of sight; but after heavy rain, it can be heard
and seen swirling in the dark depths of these pots; and it ‘hurtles’
out of, and thus gives name to, the larger of the two. But when the
‘floods are out,’ the sight is grand and terrible, for then Wethercote
fills entirely, and overflowing, foams a torrent down the mossy ravine
which scores the land above the unseen water-course below. In the
hillside at the back of Gearstones is a winding passage, Catknot Hole,
which a guide-book says ‘contains romantic cascades and precipices,
and is near four hundred yards long.’ Three of us struggled again into
our thick wet boots one evening, after dining sumptuously in the inn
kitchen upon ham and eggs, and having cajoled the buxom hostess into
presenting us each with a tallow dip of yellow hue and evil savour,
we forded the stream in the darkness, and groped our way into the
cavern’s mouth to view the said cascades. A stream flowing a foot deep
suggested the advisability of doffing boots and stockings in view of a
long tramp on the morrow. So, barefooted and with sputtering candles,
we began the ascent, and toiled on for fifty minutes, until the dips
being nearly used up, and the long passage—which was so narrow that it
was difficult to force an onward way—seeming to wind on for ever, the
retreat was sounded, and we struggled back, counting nine hundred paces
till we reached the entrance, with an ounce of candle among the three.
Of ‘cascades and precipices’ we saw never a sign; but on squeezing past
sharp bends, we plentifully plastered ourselves with soft calcareous
deposits, which our jackets showed next morning to be strongly
impregnated with oxide of iron.
On the slopes of Penyghent are some half-dozen ‘pots,’ besides numerous
openings into the ground, each with a streamlet issuing from or else
plunging into it. The whole of this limestone district is, in fact,
completely honeycombed by hidden passages and water-worn channels,
and often a fall of roof lets daylight and the explorer into the dark
passages which pierce the hillsides in all directions. ‘Hull’ and
‘Hunt’ Pots are the finest and chief of the Penyghent series; the
former a huge quarry-like hole with perpendicular sides, some seventeen
yards long by thirty deep, and from ten to thirty wide, into which a
stream—or beck, as the local term is—leaps, making in floods a fine
fall. Hunt Pot is more curious, and really is a pot in the floor of a
pot; the upper one being about thirty yards by eighteen and ten deep,
and having in the centre a narrow chasm, five or six yards across at
the widest part, narrowing to three at a depth of twelve yards. Into
the narrow end, a beck from Penyghent’s bold crest falls, filling
the black depths with mist, till it reaches the bottom of the pot,
sixty-five yards below; and then it flows in darkness, crossing—so
tradition says—the stream from Hull Pot, until it issues in the valley
as Bransil Beck, and finds its way into the infant river Ribble.
But the grandest of all these Ingleborough pots and caves, and the one
which offers the most risk, and needs withal a steady nerve as well
as a fearless heart if it is to be really seen and properly known, is
‘Alum Pot,’ lying on the north-west shoulder of Simon Fell, a mile
above the ruined and deserted village of Selside, whose roofless and
crumbling cottages and farmsteads are a fit prelude to the weird
loneliness and awesomeness which seem to cling about this great
chain of gloomy caverns. A rough stone wall has been built to protect
the main chasm, or Alum Pot proper; and clambering over its jagged
edges, we are face to face with a tremendous cleft, which can only be
described by the word awful—sixty yards long by from ten to twenty
wide. At the southern end, a beck comes sliding over the mossy edge,
and then leaps shuddering into unseen depths, whilst a thin cold mist
rises up out of the blackness. Across the pot, near the narrow end,
are two balks of timber, fixed years ago, when a party of gentlemen
descended this shaft; and carefully walking along them, we reach the
middle, and look down into the tremendous hole, and see nothing but
slimy walls of rock covered with lichens, and here and there great
hartstongues hanging in the gloom, and waving in a chill upcurrent of
air which blows steadily from the sunless depths. The first impression
is one of nameless dread and shrinking, an effect only heightened when
a large stone is dropped into the yawning gulf, and we strain ears
for six long seconds before it strikes at all; and then, for several
moments after, hear it falling still, rebounding lower and lower in
unknown abysses beneath the plank which holds us up. After gazing
steadily downwards until the eye becomes used to the chill gloom, we
catch sight of a sloping dark-green plain far below, from which a stone
will roll into deeper depths beneath, and see, some thirty yards down
the northern side, a huge dark arch, which ends a passage coming in
from the hillside.
Without a very long stout rope, it is impossible to descend Alum Pot
from the bridge-balks; and to swing freely over a visible gulf which
is in all three hundred yards deep is a stiff trial for ordinary
nerves. So, rescaling the wall, we climb some hundred and fifty yards
westward up the hillside, until we come upon several openings in the
ground known collectively as Longchurn and Diccan Pots. Dropping into
the hollow, we see two passages leading in different directions, and
can hear in the unseen distance the roar of water on its way to Alum
Pot. About ten yards down, the lower passage joins one in which a
stream is foaming; and a piece of burning magnesium ribbon lights up
a goodly cavern, and shows a small cascade seven or eight feet high
which glistens milk-white in the brightness; and plunging into the cold
waters hurrying onwards, we follow them in their winding channel, often
down abrupt descents and tiny falls, for, say, sixty yards or more,
until a roomier passage strikes off to the right. The stream flows
straight on for some score yards, and then joins one which flows at
right angles on a lower level, coming from a more westerly direction.
If wading be a weakness, this route may be followed; but as underground
becks are decidedly cold, even in July, the drier and loftier channel
offers decided advantages. After many windings and one or two steep
drops, passing lesser openings which branch off on either hand, a large
and lofty chamber is reached, studded with rough rocks, terminating
in a black and apparently bottomless abyss, across which a gleam
of twilight struggles in from the Great Alum Pot through the arch,
which is seen when looking down from the bridge. This gulf is about
thirty-six yards deep, and is curiously divided down the middle by a
long thin rock, which is reached after a descent of some ten or twelve
yards, and affords a precarious resting-place before descending the
other fifteen yards, which brings us to the mossy sloping rock visible
from the top of the pot, and which crosses it at the northern end.
About thirty yards along this is a break where a rock slopes down to a
lower level, and forms a bridge over a depth of at least thirty-five
yards; but past this, the way is easy to the south end, where the
waterfall comes down from the edge of the pot, seventy yards above,
to fall still twenty yards before it strikes the rocks. Descending to
this level, a series of steps down yet six or seven yards leads to two
further falls of some thirty and ten feet each, and then the water goes
onward along a passage and disappears in darkness.
The great descent of Alum Pot was made many years ago, when the balks
of timber already mentioned were thrown across at the top by several
gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and the engineers who were constructing
a line of railway near Settle. Upon the bridge thus formed a winch was
fixed, and the explorers were let down in a bucket, two at a time,
plumb seventy yards to the rocks where the waterfall strikes, thus
avoiding the long tiring descent of the passage from Longchurn. The
last fifty feet gave each bucket-load a drenching, for it brought them
directly under the falling water—a very effective douche-bath. Leaving
the pot, they followed the stream for forty yards down the passage
until they came into a lofty cavern where was a waterfall forty feet in
height, formed by another subterranean streamlet; and passing through
this, and continuing for thirty yards further, they reached a circular
hole where the water sank in a miniature whirlpool; and that was the
end of the mysterious Alum Pot. Where the water goes to, is uncertain;
it is said to flow under Selside village, and come to light again
either in a muddy pot called Footnaws, twelve yards deep; or else to
pass under the bed of the Ribble, and reappear in Turn Dub, a quiet
pool ten yards across, out of which a goodly stream flows steadily into
the river. One reason why the country-people hold Turn Dub to be the
outlet is that, when a marble quarry which lies just above Longchurn
Pot was being worked, the water in the Dub was milky and muddy like the
stream which flowed into Alum Pot.
The next most curious group of caverns lies out of the Ingleborough
district altogether, at the head of Nidderdale, about the hamlets of
Middlesmoor and Lofthouse, where comfortable quarters may be had in
their unpretentious inns. On Howsteanbeck, which comes down a romantic
gorge, are several chambers easy of access; and in a field on the
Middlesmoor side is an opening which leads into a long underground
passage known as Eglin’s Hole, of unknown extent. The roof is in many
parts so low that crawling is an absolute necessity; and as the floor
is often covered with soft mud, and there is nothing particular to
see, no large chambers or curious formations, the time required for
this tunnel may be far more advantageously spent in exploring the most
famous and interesting cavern of all, ‘Goyden Pot,’ which lies two
miles above Lofthouse, close to the farmstead of Limley, and which
carries the river Nidd mysteriously underground to below Lofthouse
Church. The mouth of this miscalled ‘pot’ is at the foot of a cliff
seven or eight yards high, on the boulder-filled bed of what was the
river before it broke its way into the hillside, and which is swept
by a noisy torrent still in heavy floods, when the waters fill the
cavern to overflowing. A passage varying in height from two to five
yards, and about one hundred yards long, with offshoots running right
and left, leads, after several descending turns, into a huge chamber,
filled with the roar and unseen spray of falling waters; and magnesium
ribbon reveals a weird and frightful scene—a deep abyss in front and
below, a dome of blackness overhead, on the left a plunging cascade of
flashing water, twenty feet at least in height. Opposite and across
the yawning gulf, a dark archway marks where a passage leads higher up
into the mountain; whilst to right, the stream still foaming after its
leap, gurgles and rushes round a bend into a lower pitch-dark tunnel.
In dry weather, a descent can be made by the aid of a rope down the
side of the chasm, and the stream can be followed often waist-high for
a long distance. No one, in the memory of living man, has succeeded
in following the water into daylight; but it certainly has yet to be
proved that it cannot be done, and though twice baffled, we only wait a
favourable opportunity to make another determined attempt. Long settled
dry weather is absolutely necessary, as, owing to the steepness of the
sides of the narrow valley, a single thunder-shower will raise the
level of the river several feet in half an hour; and the tree-roots and
other massive debris which are plentifully wedged in the crevices of
the roof of the cavern are sufficient evidence of the undesirability of
being caught by the tide, so to speak, in Goyden Pot.
Such are some of the Yorkshire caves; and those fond of adventure and
rough healthy scrambling will find many a day’s enjoyment therein, and
spend, moreover, many a pleasant hour amongst the sturdy dalesmen,
hearing quaint country legends, told in a dialect homely and rough,
and seeing something of what life is like unaffected by the hurry of
the great world outside the hills around. But let not the fastidious
venture in those wilds, for ham and eggs—eggs and ham—become monotonous
when doing duty daily for breakfast, luncheon, dinner; and though
hospitable and open-hearted enough, yet the dalesfolk look upon all,
even Yorkshiremen who are not natives, as ‘furiners.’
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER VII.
It was a little after five on the following afternoon that Sir Geoffrey
walked from his house into the square. He seemed, by his uneasy air,
as if he was afraid of having his movements watched, for he stopped,
hesitated, and finally walked away quickly in the direction of Upper
Brook Street. Calling a hansom, he was driven to one of the quiet
approaches, half town, half country, beyond Paddington, where he
dismissed his cab. He then walked quickly on till he reached his
destination—a well-appointed though sombre-looking establishment; and
there, after some hesitation, he knocked. The room he was shown into
was laid out with preparations for dinner; and just as the little clock
over the mantel struck the half-hour after six, Le Gautier entered. He
greeted his guest quietly, almost coldly, and rang the bell to order
the meal. It was a quiet little dinner, really irreproachable in its
way—the appropriate wines being perfect, for Le Gautier by no means
despised the pleasures of the table, and, moreover, was not the man to
spare where he had a purpose to serve.
‘Well, Sir Geoffrey,’ he said, toying with his glass, when the meal
had concluded—it was past eight now, and the light was beginning to
fail—‘do you feel equal to the coming trial?’
‘O yes,’ the baronet replied eagerly, though his face was perturbed
and the glass in his hand shook. ‘Let us get it over; this suspense is
killing me. Sometimes I fancy you are playing some devilish arts upon
me. I doubt the evidence of my senses.’
‘You do not doubt,’ Le Gautier answered sternly. ‘Listen!’
The light in the room was fading, and nothing distinctly could be
seen save the glimmer of the waning day upon glass and silver. At the
moment, the strains of music were heard, low and soft at first, then
swelling louder, but always melancholy. It was quite impossible to tell
whence it came—it seemed to strike the ear as if the earth was full of
the sweet sounds. Suddenly it ceased, and a sigh like a mournful wind
broke the stillness.
‘It might be my dead brother himself playing,’ Sir Geoffrey said, in
great agitation. ‘The organ was his favourite instrument. Strange that
the music should be so familiar to me!’
‘Do you doubt now? Le Gautier asked. ‘Does your unbelieving mind still
run upon trickery or mechanism, or are you convinced?’
‘I must believe,’ the weak old man replied; ‘I have no alternative. I
put myself in your hands. Tell me what I am to do.’
‘Your own conscience must guide you, and what the spirits will to-night
must be obeyed. It is no question for me to decide; I am merely the
humble instrument, the medium between one world and another. I dare not
advise you. When your nerves are sufficiently braced to meet the dead,
I will restore the communication.—Are you afraid?’
‘No, no!’ cried the baronet; ‘I am not afraid.’
A cold, icy hand touched him on the cheek, and a low voice whispered
in his ear the words: ‘You are!’ Trembling, frightened, he rose from
his chair; and then suddenly the room was filled with a great light,
showing the baronet’s set face, and Le Gautier’s pallid features
wearing a sardonic smile. Hardly had the light appeared, when it was
gone, leaving the room in double darkness at the change. A yell of
harsh, discordant laughter rang out, dying away to a moan.
‘What is that, Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey asked. ‘Is this all real, or
am I merely dreaming?’
‘The spirits laugh at your audacity. You boasted you were not afraid,
whilst you are trembling in every limb. You dare not say it again!’
‘I am alarmed, mystified,’ he said; ‘but I am not afraid.’
A mocking shout of laughter followed this speech, and the words, ‘You
lie!’ as if uttered in chorus, were distinctly heard. A cold hand
clutched Sir Geoffrey by the throat, holding him till he could hardly
breathe. In his intense agitation, he snatched at a shadowy arm, and
suddenly the hand relaxed its grip. Le Gautier struck a match and
lighted the candles.
‘Are you afraid now?’ he asked quietly.
‘O yes, yes; anything to save me from that horrid grasp! My throat is
aching with the pressure.’
Le Gautier looked at the finger-marks calmly. He was acting splendidly,
not overdoing the affair in the slightest, and, on the other hand, not
appearing altogether indifferent. He was playing for a high stake, and
it required all his cunning, all his cool audacity, to win. To the
casual observer, he might have been an enthusiastic believer.
‘You have seen enough,’ he commenced quietly, but with an air of the
most profound conviction—‘you have seen enough to know that the time
for delay is past, and the hour for action has arrived. The spirits
to-night are incensed with you; they are furious at this delay; and
unless you solemnly promise to carry out my proposals, I shall not risk
our lives by any manifestation to-night.’
‘What am I to do?’ Sir Geoffrey cried piteously. ‘I put myself entirely
in your hands. Tell me my duty, and I promise to follow it.’
‘So much the better for you,’ quoth Le Gautier sternly. ‘Listen! You
know I am a member of a great Secret Society. In the first place, you
must join that; and let me tell you, your late brother was a member,
and took the keenest interest in its movements. You must join!’
‘I knew my brother was embroiled in some rascally Socialist plots,’
said Sir Geoffrey incautiously; ‘but I really do not see why I’—— He
stopped abruptly, for the same mournful sigh was heard, and a voice
whispered in the air, ‘Beware!’ With increased agitation, he continued:
‘If that is part of my penance, I must do so; though it is on the
strict understanding that I’——
‘It is on no understanding at all!’ Le Gautier thundered. ‘Who are you,
poor mortal, that you should make stipulations? We must have all or
nothing. Take it, or leave it!’
He looked straight across into the other’s face, his eyes burning with
their intensity. For a moment they sat thus, striving for the mastery.
Then Sir Geoffrey looked away. He was conquered.
‘Let it be so,’ he said. ‘Your will has conquered mine. Proceed, for I
see you have something more yet to say.’
Again the sigh was heard, and a voice said distinctly: ‘It is well.’
The music burst out again triumphant this time. When the last pealing
strains died away, Le Gautier continued: ‘Your brother died at New
York, as you know; but at that time, he was on the business of the
Society. No man had his heart so firmly set upon the cause as he, no
man has been so missed. You would never be able to take his place; but
you can help us indirectly; you can aid us with what we most need, and
that is money. You shall see the shade of Sir Ughtred presently, and
hold converse with him; but, on the peril of your life, do not move
from the spot where I shall place you.’
‘Let us go now,’ Sir Geoffrey cried eagerly. ‘Why should we waste any
more time talking here?’
‘Because things are not prepared. The shades from another world do not
come forth at a moment’s bidding to show themselves to mortal eyes,
though the air is full of them now.’
Sir Geoffrey looked uneasily around for any traces of these ghostly
visitors, though he could see nothing; nevertheless, the idea of a
chamber full of supernatural bodies was by no means pleasant.
‘Then our pact is complete,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘Briefly, it stands
thus: I am to show you such things as you wish to see; and in return,
you become a member of our Brotherhood, swearing to promote its welfare
by all the means in your power. Quick! say the word, for I feel the
unseen influence upon me.’
‘Yes, yes—agreed; only show me my brother.’
As Sir Geoffrey spoke, a change came over Le Gautier’s face; the
baronet watching him, perfectly fascinated. The medium’s eyes grew
larger and more luminous, his features became rigid, and he moved like
a man who walks in a dream. His gaze was fixed upon the other, but
there was no sense of recognition there—all was blank and motionless.
He rose from his chair, moving towards the door, his hands groping for
it like the action of the blind, and he beckoned to Sir Geoffrey to
follow him out along the dark passage.
‘Come!’ he said in a strange hollow voice—‘come with me! The spirits
are abroad, and have need of me!’
The room they entered was situated at the back of the house, having
a large old-fashioned bay window of the shape and form one sees in
the banqueting-room of old country-houses—a long narrow room, draped
entirely in black; and the only light in the place proceeded from two
small oil-lamps held by white Parian statues. As the twain entered,
the draperies were violently agitated, as if by a sudden wind; an icy
current seemed to strike them full in the face. A chair, impelled
forward by an unseen hand, was pushed across the bare floor, and Sir
Geoffrey, at a motion from his companion, seated himself therein. Le
Gautier stepped forward towards the window, and lighted a flat brasier,
sprinkling some sort of powder upon it, and immediately the room was
filled with a dense violet mist, through which the oil-lamps shone
dimly. The weird music commenced again, and as it died away, a loud
report was heard, and the curtains across the window were wrenched
apart, disclosing an open space. As Sir Geoffrey gazed into it, a form
began to appear, misty at first, then getting gradually clearer, till
the watcher saw the figure of a girl, dim and slight, for he could see
the woodwork of the window behind, but clear enough to see she was
fair and young, with thick masses of long yellow hair hanging over her
shoulders, and half hiding her face from sight. There was a look of
sadness on the brow.
‘You may speak,’ the strange hollow tones of Le Gautier came through
the mist. ‘If you have any questions to ask, put them; but, at the
peril of your life, do not attempt to move.’
With the most reverent and holy belief in the reality of the scene
before him, Sir Geoffrey gazed at the downcast features. To his
diseased mind, he was on the borderland of another world, and the very
thought of speaking to the bright vision was full of awe.
‘Who are you?’ he said at length in tremulous tones. ‘Let me know who
it is with whom I speak.’
‘I am your better self,’ the vision spoke; and the voice sounded faint
and distant, yet very sweet, like music on the waters. ‘I am your
good spirit, your guardian angel. I stand by you night and day, the
presiding deity of the honour of the House of Charteris.’
This artful stroke gave the listener confidence, and flattered his
family pride. ‘Has every man a spirit such as you?’ he asked.
‘Every man who is by nature noble—yes. To every one who has courage and
genius, one of my sisters belongs. I am the guiding star of your House.
I have stood by you and yours in the hour of need. I saw your father
die. I saw your brother’s deathbed. It is of him you would speak?’
‘It is,’ the baronet cried boldly. ‘What of him?’
‘You owe him a heavy debt of reparation,’ the vision continued sadly.
‘In life, you were not always friends; in death, you were not with him.
He left a family. Are you aware of that, selfish mortal?’
‘I did not know; I never knew. But it is not yet too late to atone.
Tell me where they are, and I will go to them.’
‘It is too late!’ the figure replied in tones of deepest sorrow. ‘They
are dead—dead of neglect; nay, more, starvation. They will not dispute
your sway now. While you had flattery and adulation, while you lived in
luxury and splendour, your kith and kin lacked bread.’
‘But surely some atonement can be made?’
‘Too late—too late! Nothing can avail them now, no specious sophistry,
no outward appearance of remorse. You can atone, though slightly, by
completing the work your brother began in life. Know that at your very
door, proud man, thousands of your fellow-creatures are starving,
ground down in the dust by injustice and oppression. You can help to
lighten this burden; you can help these men, who, poor and savage as
they are, are yet men, and brothers.’
‘I will!’ Sir Geoffrey cried eagerly—‘I will! Only show me how; and let
me see my brother, if only for a brief moment.’
‘That is well,’ the figure replied with a radiant smile. ‘As for the
means, I must leave that to you. But you shall see your brother, if
only for a moment.—And now, farewell.’
‘But stay another minute. I’——
The farewell was repeated, coming to the listener’s ears as from afar
off, fainter and fainter, as the violet mist rose again, filling the
room with a dense fragrant smoke, through which the rigid figure of Le
Gautier could be dimly seen erect and motionless.
When the mist cleared away again, the figure of a man grew visible.
Perfect, yet intangible, he stood there, muffled in a long cloak, and
his features partially hidden by a soft broad-brimmed hat. At this
spectacle, Sir Geoffrey’s agitation increased, and great drops stood
upon his forehead.
‘It is he—my brother!’ he groaned, starting from his feet; but again
the word ‘Beware!’ seemed to be hissed in his ear. ‘My dear brother, do
not look at me like that. It was no fault of mine, I swear.’
The figure answered not, but looking the wretched man in the face,
pointed down to his feet, where two thin, emaciated children crouched,
evidently in the last stage of disease and starvation.
‘What atonement can you make for this?’ was asked in the stern tones
the listener knew so well. ‘Man! in the enjoyment of what should, under
happier auspices, have been mine, what do you say to this?’ He pointed
down to the crouching children again, sternly yet sadly.
‘Anything,’ the baronet exclaimed—‘anything, so that you do not torture
me like this! It is no fault of mine. I did not know. But anything in
my power I will do, and do gladly.’
‘Well for you that you have spoken thus! You shall complete the work I
began in life, and the man called Hector le Gautier shall help you with
his aid and counsel.—You have a daughter?’
‘I have—your niece Enid. What do you know of her?’
‘Much; perhaps more than you.—Listen! and interrupt me at your peril.
You may have views for her; perhaps she has chosen for herself. Am I
right? But this must not be! Hector le Gautier must wed her!’
‘But I have other views. There is already’——
‘Do you dare to cross me?’ the vision sternly asked. ‘Have not I and
mine suffered enough at your hands? Promise, or’——
He stopped abruptly, and again the sighing voice whispered ‘Beware!’
In an agony of terror, the baronet looked round; but the dark eyes
never seemed to leave him. So frightened was he, so stricken by this
cunningly devised display, that he dared not defy the figure standing
there before him.
‘I promise,’ he shouted at last—‘I promise.’
‘’Tis well,’ the vision said. ‘From this moment, you are free. You
will see me no more; but if you dare swerve a hairbreadth from our
compact, then you shall find my vengeance swift and terrible. Geoffrey,
farewell!’
‘But, Ughtred; one moment more—I’——
A deep shuddering sigh broke the silence, and the figure was gone.
Almost distracted, Sir Geoffrey rushed forward to the curtains, which
had again fallen, but nothing was there. The smoke cleared away, and
once again the room was quiet.
Le Gautier opened his eyes, and gradually life and motion came back
to him, as he awoke like a man from a trance. ‘Are you satisfied,’ he
asked, ‘with what you have seen?’
‘Wonderful!’ the trembling baronet replied. ‘It was my brother to the
life—the very voice even. You heard the compact?’
‘I, my dear Sir Geoffrey? No, indeed,’ Le Gautier exclaimed in a voice
of great surprise. ‘Recollect, I heard nothing; my faculties were
torpid; they formed the medium through which sights and sounds were
conveyed to you.’
‘And you heard absolutely nothing?’
‘Absolutely nothing.—But, of course, if there happened to be anything
which concerned me, you can tell me at your convenience.—And now, I
think we have had enough of spirits for one night, unless you would
like something to steady your nerves?’
Sir Geoffrey declined the proffered refreshment, pleading the lateness
of the hour and his desire to get home. Le Gautier did not detain
him; and after a few words, they parted; the one to dwell upon the
startling events of the evening, and the other to complete his plans.
It was a neat stroke of Le Gautier’s to disclaim any knowledge of the
conversation, the rather that the delicate allusion to his relations
with Enid were mentioned, and besides which, it acquitted him from any
awkward confidences.
‘The game is in my hands,’ the schemer mused an hour later, as he sat
over his last cigar. ‘Would any one believe that a man of education,
I almost said sense, could be such a fool?—Hector, _mon ami_, you
will never starve as long as there is a Charteris in the world. The
opportunity has long been coming, but the prize is mine at last;’ and
with these words, the virtuous young man went to bed, nothing in his
dreams telling him that his destruction was only a question of time,
and that his life was in the hands of two vengeful women.
KENTISH HOPS.
The country can show few prettier pictures than a hop-garden in a sunny
August. The bines twine vigorously round the rustic poles, while the
side-shoots hang down in graceful festoons or from pole to pole in
tasteful wreaths. Rich clusters of burr hanging from every joint bend
down the slender tendrils, until it seems that every moment they must
break; and but for tying and stringing, break they often would. But if
the graceful plants are picturesque in themselves, it is when viewed
as a whole that the hop-garden has its greatest charm. Stretching away
in endless succession, until lost in the narrowed distance, is bower
upon bower, in which Robin Goodfellow and all his merry crew would be
at home. Everywhere there is a wanton luxuriance which seems to belong
to nature rather than to industry. The artificial stiffness of the long
lines of poles is hidden by their wealth of greenery. In many gardens,
too, the hops are still planted in the good old-fashioned style—in
groups of three on ‘hills’—festooned in irregular triangles, each of
them a verdant arbour. Through the masses of foliage, the sunshine
gleams merrily, lighting up the bright yellow catkins, and creating a
thousand contrasts of light and shade. The pungent sweetness of the
air gives an added charm to the picture, which appeals to the several
senses with a rare witchery. We have little need, while we have our
hop-gardens, to envy the vineyards of more sunny climes; and it may
be a national prejudice, but we take leave to doubt whether in point
of the picturesque they do not bear the palm. But the comparison is
superfluous.
We, as a nation, are proud of our hop-growing counties. We point
triumphantly to the ‘fruit,’ which is, or ought to be, the staple of
our national beverage. In one respect, however, the culture of the hop
sadly resembles that of the grape. Both are terribly hazardous. Not
even the dreaded phylloxera is more devastating than the red spider.
The oidium is not more deadly than mould, and both diseases, curiously,
require to be treated by sulphuring. Hops, like vines, are subject to
plagues of vermin. The hop-fly is a terrible pest, and when, as often
happens, it attacks the bines at the same time as mildew, the case is
almost hopeless, for sulphuring cannot be employed. According to the
popular theory, sulphur, although it revives the blighted bines, makes
the fly more vigorous; so that, as the fresh sap rises, it effects such
a lodgment in the plant that recovery becomes hopeless. No more dismal
spectacle can be imagined than a blighted hop plantation. The blackened
bines cling listlessly to the poles. Here and there, a few young but
sickly shoots give proof of a vain effort to throw off the pestilence,
which seems to threaten the very existence of the parent stem.
Hop-culture, indeed, has manifold dangers in our treacherous climate.
In dry seasons, the crop is often so light as hardly to pay for the
picking; while, unless there be sunshine and to spare, and, above all,
a long spell of warm nights, the burr hardly ripens, and the hops
cannot be got in anything like condition. It is not perhaps generally
known that although this is a special branch of agriculture, and calls
for a high degree of skill and care, there are many varieties of
hops which are suited to many different soils, and will thrive under
different conditions. It is a common saying in hop counties that one
good crop every seven years will pay; so that it may well be asked
whether, notwithstanding the risk, a much greater area could not be
advantageously put under hops in England? On soils and in situations
where the famous ‘Goldings’ or ‘Whitebines’ will not do well, ‘Grapes’
often thrive. Then a kind known by the familiar name of ‘Jones’s’ have
long been profitably grown on light and poor land; and on stiff soils,
‘Colegates,’ a late and very hardy variety, have done well. Flemish
red bines, too, although an inferior sort, often succeed in bad years,
since they are less susceptible to blight. So there is plenty of choice
for agriculturists.
There is good reason for believing that hops were known to the
Anglo-Saxons, whether or not they introduced them into Britain; for the
name is admittedly derived from the Anglo-Saxon _hoppan_, ‘to climb.’
There is, however, a distich:
Turkey, carps, hoppes, pickard, and beer,
Came into England all in one year—
whence has arisen the notion that the plant was not known in this
kingdom until the time of Henry VIII. But although the method of
cultivating the plant in vogue in the Low Countries may then have been
first introduced into England, as early as the year 1428 Parliament
was petitioned against the hop as a ‘wicked weed,’ showing that it was
then coming into use. It was not, however, until a century later that
it became a general ingredient in the manufacture of malt liquors,
and it was long chiefly imported; for the plant was not extensively
cultivated with us until the beginning of the seventeenth century. The
city of London did not look with favour upon the new industry, for they
petitioned the Long Parliament against ‘two nuisances or offensive
commodities which were likely to come into great use and esteem; and
that was Newcastle coal in regard of their stench, and hops in regard
that they would spoyl the taste of drink and endanger the people.’ The
petition, however, does not seem to have met with very great success,
for both industries soon increased to prodigious proportions. Hops were
presently taxed, and became a source of considerable revenue.
Kent was always the chosen hop county. Some seventy thousand acres
are now under this crop, and of these, forty thousand are in Kent
alone. Farnham is the centre of the hop district of Surrey. Then parts
of Hants and Sussex, Essex and Suffolk, Hereford and Worcester, and
even so far north as Notts, have long been cropped with hops; and
although success has been checkered with failure, the returns as a
whole have proved fairly remunerative. The yield is, of course, very
variable, ranging from eight to ten hundredweight per acre in a good
season, the heaviest crop on record being twenty-five hundredweight,
to five and even three or less in a bad one. The prices realised, too,
depend so much upon condition and quality that it is only possible
to give here the slightest indication. As much as twenty-five pounds
per hundredweight has been paid for the first ‘pockets’ on sale in
the Borough; but this is, of course, a phenomenal price. Owing to the
immense quantities of foreign hops in the market, prices in an ordinary
year seldom rule higher, for all but the very finest sorts, than from
nine to thirteen pounds per hundredweight. But although hop cultivation
is steadily on the increase in England, it by no means keeps pace
with the import trade. Every year we import many hundred thousand
hundredweight, of which about half comes from the United States, and
the remainder from Australia, Belgium, France, Würtemberg, Central
Germany, and Holland. Against this we export only a few thousand
hundredweight to India and some of the colonies.
From all this, it will be seen that there is room for a considerable
increase in the land under hop cultivation in this country. Nor, if the
culture of the plant be strictly subordinated to that of other crops,
need the risk be prohibitive. Moreover, a variety of uses have lately
been introduced for the waste of the crop. Little, for instance, has
hitherto been made out of the bines in this country; but within the
last few years they have been experimentally converted into ensilage
and found to form at once a valuable feeding material and a useful
tonic. Other uses have been found for them abroad. Thus, in Sweden,
they have long been treated so that they could be woven into a rough
kind of cloth. The process was formerly very tedious, consisting
chiefly of soaking them in water all the winter; but it has been
greatly expedited by treating them successively with alkaline lye and
acetic acid, when the fibre is at once ready for bleaching. This use
for hopbine has, however, for some unknown reason, never attracted much
attention in Great Britain. An English patent was once taken out for
using the plant for tanning purposes; but, so far as we know, it has
never been very successfully used; and the bine is still to a large
extent regarded as a waste product, or at best used as litter.
GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.
CHAPTER III.—SUCCESS AT LAST.
Alfred Roberton was too politic to make known the full extent of his
discomfiture. He made light of the matter: most authors had had their
difficulties at first, and why should he expect to escape? He made
himself very agreeable to the old gentleman. The short experience he
had had of trying to earn money had led him to reflect that a man
having a snug going business and a farm worth four or five thousand
pounds might not be such an undesirable father-in-law after all, even
though he _was_ an innkeeper. He threw greater fervour than ever into
his manner towards Anne, and talked in a gay and hopeful way of the
future. But she was too keen-sighted to be deceived; she read the
secret of his crushed hopes in his sunken eyes and cheeks, and was not
at all misled by his forced cheerfulness of manner. She forbore to
annoy him with prying questions, and affected in the meantime to see as
roseate a prospect as he himself did. When the colour came back to his
cheeks and he began to look more like his former self, she spoke to him
seriously. Would he allow her to see the returned manuscripts?
‘You know, Alfred,’ she said, ‘I have been a great reader of what
is called “light literature” in my day, and perhaps I might—from a
reader’s point of view, you know—happen to light on the secret of your
want of success. Give me two or three of your stories, and I will have
a look at them before I go to bed to-night.’
He was astonished! To think of this simple country girl proposing to
criticise his literary work!
‘Well, Nan, I’ll select two or three of my best,’ he said; ‘but I fear
you will prove far too indulgent a critic to be a just one.’
‘No, Alfred,’ the girl replied gravely; ‘you need not fear that. You
may depend that any faults that I may perceive will be carefully
pointed out to you. Don’t look for any kidglove treatment at my hands;
and be prepared, in any case, to keep your temper.’
The next morning, after breakfast, she handed him his papers back. He
could not possibly guess from her countenance what her impression had
been. Her face had an earnest, but not an altogether unhopeful look
about it; certainly, it did not show any signs at all of a wondering
admiration for his genius.
‘Well, sir, I’ve read your stories, as I promised I would. I will say
all my disagreeable things about them first. To begin: I think they
lack the narrative power which leads a reader on, once he has commenced
a story, and almost compels him to read it to the finish. Of course
he is disappointed at the denouement; but he is equally ready to be
cheated again by the next book he takes up, provided the author has the
same power to lure him on. I think the first aim of a magazine writer
should be to make his stories readable.’
‘And are not mine readable?’ he said, biting his lips and a frown
overshadowing his brow.
‘Ah, I see you are wincing, Alfred! But didn’t I warn you I would be a
severe critic? No; I did not say your stories were _not_ readable; but
they might be made much more so.’