[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. 28.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
ON MOOR AND LOCH.
About eight o’clock of a June morning the train draws up at a small
station within a short run south of the Scottish metropolis. It is not
a typical June morning. There has been a fortnight’s drought, followed
by two days of rain—the latter rejoicing the heart of the agriculturist
and the angler; but yesternight the rain ceased, and its place has
been taken by a gray mist, or _haar_, which the east wind is bringing
up from the German Ocean. No angler loves mist. Is it not set down in
the angler’s book of common-law precedents, that in the case of Man
_versus_ Trout, this obscure element is to be construed in favour of
the defender? The station at which we alight is situated in an upland
valley, shut in on the north and west by the mounded Pentlands; but
this morning their outline shows only like a denser and darker bank
of clouds in a gray waste of cloudland. Down into the valley also,
thin streaks of mist are creeping dismally and slow, groping their way
forward with long dripping fingers, like a belated band of midnight
ghosts which the morning light has struck with sudden blindness. To
the south-west, the Peeblesshire hills are less obscured, but there
is floating over them the dull glaze, the leaden hue, which makes my
companion sadly prognosticate thunder—and thunder to the angler’s sport
is as fatal as mist.
It is indeed very far from being a typical June morning. The earth is
gray, and the sky is gray; and the trees and hedgerows that flank the
fields and overshadow the cottages and the little inn, are not musical
with the song of any bird. There is even in the air a touch of the
east wind, that fiend of the North Sea who comes to us annually with
the crocus and the primrose, and spends at least three months of his
baneful existence in tying innumerable knots upon human nerves. His
sublime excellency the Sun is doubtless up, as his custom is, long ere
now, but this morning he wilfully persists in keeping his chamber. All
this is marked in the time we take to alight at the railway station,
give up our tickets, and, shouldering basket and rod, set out towards
our destination for the day, which lies over this long ridge to the
right.
Everything is very still—with the soft stillness of a misty summer
morning. Except for the noise of the train we have just left, as it
goes coughing hysterically out of the station, one might almost hear
the grass growing. The recent rain has washed the dust from leaf and
flower, and the fields of young grain are in the reawakened freshness
of early growth. The pastures have drunk in the moisture; and the cows
that stop feeding for a moment to gaze on us with large soft eyes as we
pass, return with fresh zest to their juicy morning meal. The watchdog
at the farm salutes us, as is his wont, with a little gruff language;
not meaning any great harm perhaps, but only in the way of duty.
‘You are not beggars,’ he seems to say, ‘and don’t want any strong
measures to be taken with you. But you are strangers, and I dislike
strangers. Don’t stand and look at me so, for that only irritates me.
Good-morning, and be off with you!’ In a few minutes we reach the top
of the ridge, and see the long line of the Moorfoot Hills girdling the
south and east. They are much clearer than the Pentlands behind us,
and we have hopes that a southerly breeze may spring up; for along the
south-eastern horizon, between the hills and the low mist-cloud above,
there is a clear line of light—the _weather-gleam_, as the Border
shepherds poetically name it—showing where the wind is breaking through
the haze and uncurtaining the hills.
Our road for three or four miles lies straight before us; for the
most part, through a bleak barren moorland. The ditches at the sides,
which serve to drain off the stagnating black bog-water, have an
abundance of bright green mosses and water-plants on their shelving
sides and marshy bottom. There is a broad waste of peat-moss all round,
cracked and broken with black fissures, the higher patches covered
with bent-grass, hard and wiry, brown and dry, and only here and
there showing thin blades of green. One wonders what those straggling
ewes find to eat amid the general barrenness, and how they manage to
maintain themselves and their merry lambs, tiny, black-faced, and
black-footed, that frolic around them. Yet this wild waste bears
promise of beauty ere the winter is on us; for the upper margins of
the ditches and the tops of the knolls are crested with thick bunches
of heather, which, though scarcely noticeable now, will one day shake
out fragrant bells in the autumn wind, and flush the moorland with
a purple glory. Far away to the left we hear the jangling call of
a bird—‘liddle-liddle-liddle’—rapid, bell-like, long-continued. It
is a familiar sound during the summer months to the wanderer among
the hills, arousing, as it does, all the other birds far and near as
if with an alarum-bell. The call is that of the sandpiper—in some
places known, from its cry, as the ‘little fiddler,’ in others as the
‘killieleepie.’ It is one of our migratory birds, reaching us from the
south in the month of April, and starting on its travels again, with
its young family, in the autumn. Among the other bird-calls which its
wild, startling cry has awakened, is a plaintive ‘tee-oo, tee-oo,’
sounding eerily over the heath. It is the voice of the graceful
redshank, which has left the seashore, as it does every spring, and
come up with its mate to the moors to spend their honeymoon and rear
their young brood; and by-and-by it will lead back to the sandy shore
a little following of red-legs, who will learn to pick crustaceans
from the shallow pools, and prepare for a journey to the hills on
their own account next spring. On before us, in a clump of firs on a
distant height, we hear the deep note of the cuckoo, booming out with
its regular cadences, calling to mind the oldest lyric in the English
tongue:
Summer is i-cumin in,
Loud sing, cuckoo!
Groweth seed,
And bloweth mead,
And springeth the wood noo.
Sing, cuckoo!
All this is very well, but it is not the business of the day. These are
but the accidents, or rather the pleasant incidents, of the journey;
and as we reach once more an oasis of cultivation, we know that the
water for which we are bound lies close at hand. The day is gradually
losing its misty moodiness, is indeed slowly brightening up. There is
now a light but decided breeze from the direction in which we lately
saw the weather-gleam appear, and when we come in sight of the lake we
find its surface shaken with a thousand laughing ripples. The sun has
not yet looked out, but we can see, from the transparent whiteness of
the clouds at a certain spot, that his majesty may soon be expected to
show himself. The mist has quite lifted, and save that the higher peaks
of the Moorfoots are each capped with a misty cloud, there is little
trace here of the haze which still hangs thick on the northern hills
behind us.
At the water’s edge, our interest in the scenery becomes of secondary
moment. We are intent on other things. We look anxiously across the
surface of the brightly rippling water, but not a trout rises to the
surface, and not a plash is heard or a ring seen to tell that the finny
tribe are there. Knowing, from mournful experience, what it is to be
left at the edge of a loch when a dead calm settles down upon it, and
your flies are no longer of use, we have brought some worm-bait with
us; and so, in order to lose no time while the preliminary work of
making up ‘casts’ and donning waders is going on, we put on a Stewart
tackle baited with a nice red-bodied, black-headed worm, which we plant
in that part of the water where worm has already been known to us to
kill. As we make preparations for the further work of the day, we cast
quick glances from time to time towards the uplifted end of our rods
where they rest over the water; but, alas, they moved not nor ‘bobbed.’
Worm was evidently not in demand with the Fario family as a breakfast
commodity. At length, a sudden plash; and there, about fifty yards out
from the shore, we see a fine trout just dropping back into the water.
The ‘feed’ has begun! The sun had indeed been out for a short time, and
this was a signal for the night-chilled insects to come out also, and
these in their turn, dropping upon the surface of the water, signified
to Master Fario that breakfast was on the table, and he presently piped
all hands to the repast. In a few minutes more the lake was dimpled and
ringed with the plash of the feeding trout.
There is no time to lose now. The Stewart tackle is discarded, a cast
of flies is presently made fast to our line, and we are ready to
begin. My friend goes a little further afield—if this term may be used
in water parlance; and I am left to do what I can on my own account.
Stepping into the water, and moving gradually forward till I get deep
enough, I cast carefully from side to side, in hope of attracting the
attention of some one of the trout that are rising everywhere before
me. Five minutes pass, ten minutes pass, but without success, and I am
beginning to doubt if my selection of flies is good. By-and-by I see
a trout rise out there in the place where my flies should be; and the
quick touch along the line, as if something had suddenly grazed it,
tells me that a trout has rushed at the lure, and missed. There is hope
in this, and I go on with fresh vigour. A few casts made over the same
spot with as much adroitness as is possible to a clumsy fly-fisher,
brings its reward. There is a sudden tightening of the line, and at the
same moment, a dozen yards ahead, a big yellow trout springs curved
like a bow from the water, and falls back again with a heavy flop. He
is on! An aged countryman on the point of the bay opposite, waiting
to see if perchance his worm-baited rod will bob, has witnessed the
plunge of my captive, and is all intent on the issue. ‘Gie him time!’
he shouts across the water. ‘Canny wi’ him for a bit, and play him
weel. Dinna hurry, dinna hurry.’ The advice is not unneeded, for I
am nearly fifty yards from the shore, and there is moreover midway a
bank of sand only slightly covered with water, through which the green
rushes are springing up. How will I get him over that reef? I wind up
slowly, while the captive makes vigorous attempts to free himself
from the deadly hook—now springing out of the water, now curling and
twisting serpent-like along the surface, then plunging for a moment
into the deep black water, his yellow side gleaming like a sword-blade
as he shoots below. It is the supreme moment. In a little his efforts
slacken, and he comes oftener to the surface. I make slowly for the
shore, still winding in. I am over the sandy reef with its dangerous
reeds, which I fear may strip him from the hook. At last I have him
safely through them, and he allows himself to be drawn quietly over
the remaining shallow to the shore, and there he now lies—on dry
land—a speckled beauty of three-quarters of a pound, his spotted sides
gleaming like gold in the sunshine.
With cast put once again in order, I am into the water for a second
trial. This time I avoid the sandy reef with its reeds, and keep clear
water between me and the shore. The lake is deep here, and I cast
slowly, letting the flies sink a little, that the deep-feeding trout
may have a chance to see and seize them. I have succeeded in raising
one or two, but they do not seem to be in earnest; and am in the act
of withdrawing my line preparatory to casting again, when I find that
a trout has taken it. But his tactics are not the same as those of
the former one. He does not leap out of the water, and I only know by
the strain on the line and the curve of the rod that he is on. This
is only for a moment, however; for I have caught a brief glimpse of
him as he dives down into the deep water, making straight for his old
lurking-place under a steep bank a few yards in front of me. As he thus
rushes towards me, the line slackens, the rod straightens itself, and
I reel up hastily, fearing that he is off. But no; he is only sulking;
for as the line shortens, the tension is resumed, and presently he is
obliged to rise once more to the surface; and there he is now, gyrating
and whirling in coils of glittering beauty. He is not so vigorous as
his predecessor, and in a little his strength is exhausted, and he
moves quietly to the shore alongside of me, not above a yard from my
foot. He is as large as the first trout, but not in quite such fine
condition, being flatter about the shoulders, and having a slight
suspicion of lankiness in the sides. Another fortnight of fly-diet and
he might have scaled a pound.
I fish on for another hour or two, with always some occasional success,
and have, angler-like, begun to estimate the weight of my basket at the
day’s end—counting, of course, my trout before they are caught—when,
alack and well-a-day! I begin to be cognisant of the sad fact that
the breeze is gradually dying down, and that the glorious ripple on
the water is gliding away into a soft glittery waviness, not more
pronounced than the zigzags on watered silk. In a short time the breeze
has actually died off, and the water of the little bay in which I
stand lies smooth and clear before me like a sheet of polished steel.
Alas, what can angler do in such a strait? You may deceive the trout
with your artificial flies when the breeze is blowing and the ripple
is strong; but the advantage is all on the side of the finny ones when
the wind falls and the ripple ceases. You may cast your flies with as
gentle a hand as may be; but his quick eye sees something more than
your flies, and he knows from experience that a respectably born and
bred insect, fresh from its pupa-case, does not come out for a sail on
the water with a yard or two of shining gut trailing behind it, or go
about leading three or four other of its fellows after it in a string.
No, no; trout have learned a thing or two under the operation of the
law of heredity, just as we, his human—or, if you will, inhuman—captors
have done. We may therefore reel up and take to dry land, till it
pleases Eolus again to send us a prospering breeze.
As we sit on the soft grass and eat our lunch, we can note the aspect
of things around us. The sun is shining steadily down with all his
summer brightness and fervour, and the still air feels sultry and
close. As you look along the surface of the calm water, you can see
the heated air radiating from it like a shimmer of colourless flame.
The white farmhouse on the opposite side basks serenely at the foot
of the hills that overhang it; and a warm dusky haze floats over the
neighbouring ravine, where an ancient stream has cut its way down
through the lofty range. Not a sound breaks the stillness of the air,
not a wavelet disturbs the glassy line of the beach. By-and-by there
arises a low buzzing sound, gradually increasing in intensity, till
you almost think it must be some far-away railway engine blowing off
steam. You look up, and there, on either side of you, a yard deep
as far as you can see, is a colony of innumerable midges disporting
themselves in the hot air. There must be millions of those tiny
creatures, the combined action of whose little wings can send such a
hissing through the stillness. Shoals of them whisk round your head,
poking into your eyes and ears, and tickling your face and hands. A
whiff or two of tobacco-smoke comes in as a handy expedient to drive
off the insignificant troublers; and the pipe, besides, is wonderfully
soothing as you rest your tired shoulders on the grass. But, hark! what
is that long low rumble coming up to us from the far south-west—over
there where Dundreich raises his brown summit in the hot haze, with a
leaden-coloured sky in the distance behind him? My trusty comrade was
right in his morning prognostication: we are in for thunder.
There is in reality no wind; but, as frequently happens in mountainous
districts even in still days, occasional cold currents of air gravitate
from the hills to lower levels; and yonder is one playing over the
surface of the lake now, just round the corner of this land-locked
bay. We cannot afford to miss even this temporary ripple; for if the
thunder comes near there will be an end to sport for a few hours to
come. As I step along through the patches of rushy grass that grow by
the margin of the lake, I see a small bird glide quickly out of one
of those patches and disappear with suspicious celerity and quietness
behind another a few yards off. I have not lost in middle manhood the
bird-nesting instincts of boyhood’s years, and I am certain, from that
bird’s quick, low, quiet mode of flight, that it has just risen from
its nest. A few minutes’ search confirms this; for there, beneath a
patch of long grass, is the little cavity, lined cosily with dry grass
and hairs and five small oval dusky eggs, mottled with reddish-brown
dots and blotches. It is the nest of the yellowhammer. I lift one of
the eggs, which feels smooth and warm, and think for a minute how
best I might carry it home with me to little town-bred bairns that
scarce ever saw a bird’s nest. But I conclude that I cannot possibly
carry the egg home unbroken, and so return it to its place beside the
other four; where, in due course, if boys and rats and weasels let it
alone, it will produce its gaping addition to the family of yorlings. A
little further on, I descry a small sandpiper flitting before me along
the shore, poking with its lance-like bill into the sand, and wading
leg-deep through the shallow creeks, occasionally flying a yard or two,
just to show me its long pointed brown wings and its breast of snowy
white. It is the dunlin, a gay, active little fellow; and I can see
that its mate is waiting for it a short way ahead, and when they meet,
they make a dip or two to each other, by way of familiar courtesy, and
then disappear together round the bend of the shore.
I have reached the point of the promontory beyond which the water
shows a temporary ripple, and am into it in a trice. My success is
greater than I had anticipated, for I scarcely expected a rise. At the
third cast, and just as I am drawing out slack from my line in order
to make a longer throw, my lure is seized, and a bright bow of silver
shoots up a yard above the water. It is not a yellow trout this time,
but one of the Lochleven variety, with some thousands of the fry of
which the noble proprietor of these fishings stocked the lake a few
years ago. They are vigorous fellows these Lochleven trout. Five times
did this one leap straight out of the water before I had him on the
shore; and even then, he nearly escaped. He was being guided through
a shallow creek running into the lake, when I noticed that he had
succeeded in unhooking himself. Had he not had the strength played out
of him, he would have been off into the deeper water like a streak of
light. But now he is weak and confused, and aimlessly pokes his nose
into the bank, giving me just sufficient time to get between him and
the lake and throw him out with my hands. He is a beautiful specimen
of half-a-pound, finely spotted, his gleaming sides of a rich creamy
whiteness, with a subdued pink flush shining through.
But why prolong the story? The thunder came nearer, though it did not
break over us; and by the time the hour arrived for us to re-cross the
moor, under the westering sun, to the little station we had left in the
morning, my companion and myself had—not _big_ baskets, as some baskets
are counted—but baskets big enough to send us home well pleased and
contented.
* * * * *
There are two ways of going home from a day’s fishing (we do not refer
to roads or means of travel, but to moods of mind). The one is as we
come home now; the other is when we come home ‘clean’—that is, with
nothing. In the morning we have started with no idea but what relates
to the fish we are to catch, hope being naturally in the ascendant. But
in the evening, if we have had a bad day’s work, we are in a different
mood, with our ideas much enlarged beyond that of merely catching
trout. We suggest and enumerate to each other, with extraordinary
facility, the compensating advantages of our position. We have had a
day in the open air; we have had vigorous healthy exercise for the
shoulders and arms (which are sore enough, perhaps, in all conscience,
though we would not for our lives admit it); we have enjoyed the sights
and sounds of nature, and have something like a triumphant feeling of
superiority over our poor town companions who have been all the day in
chamber or workshop, with nothing better to inflate their lungs than
the smoky city atmosphere, and nothing more to delight their ears than
the monotonous jingle of tramcar bells and the rattling of cabs over
the stony street. Our compensating advantages are immense! Sorry we
have not caught more trout? Pooh, nonsense! What have trout to do with
it, except as an inducement to go out for a day to moor and river? Do
you take us for fishmongers?
And so, self-consoled, and weary enough, we regain the city with its
flaring lamps and crowded streets, and go home to tell our experiences,
and dream of alder-shaded banks and silver streams, and the landing of
bigger trout than are ever likely to charm us in our waking hours.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXXVII.—DOWN BY THE RIVER.
They were silent until they reached the stile at the foot of the
Willowmere meadows, where they were to part.
The information which Mrs Joy had given them was a source of special
anxiety to Madge, apart from her considerations on Pansy’s account.
If Caleb had really determined to leave the country at once, Philip
would lose his most able assistant in carrying out the work, which was
already presenting so many unforeseen and unprovided-for difficulties,
that it was severely taxing the strength of body and mind. Besides, the
few men who still maintained a half-hearted allegiance would take alarm
when they found that even Caleb the foreman had deserted, and abandon
their leader altogether. Madge was afraid to think of what effect this
might have on Philip. Although he had striven hard to hide it from her,
she had detected in his manner undercurrents of excitement, impatience,
and irritability under which he might at any moment break down. His
mind was much troubled; and the knowledge that it was so had been the
main inspiration of her earnest appeal to Mr Beecham to help him.
She sympathised with Caleb, and understood the bitterness of his
disappointment by the resolution he had so hastily adopted. He was
casting aside what promised to be an opportunity to rise in the
world in the manner in which he would most desire to rise—with his
fellow-workers; and abandoning a friend who needed his help and
who, he was aware, held him in much respect. On Pansy’s account she
was grieved, but not angry; for although she had been misled by her
conduct towards Caleb, as he had been, she would not have the girl act
otherwise than she was doing, if she really felt that she could not
give the man her whole thought and heart, as a wife should do. But
there was the question—Did she understand herself? The sulky insistence
that she would not have him seemed to say ‘yes;’ but the pale face and
quivering lips when she heard that he was about to emigrate seemed to
say ‘no.’ A few days’ reflection would enable her to decide, and in
the meanwhile some effort must be made to induce Caleb to postpone his
departure.
‘You will think about all this, Pansy,’ she said when they halted by
the stile; ‘and to-morrow, or next day, perhaps, or some time soon, you
will tell me how you have come to change your mind about him.’
‘It is better he should go,’ answered the girl without looking at Madge.
Pansy did not take the shortest way home. She passed between the
dancing beeches—their bare branches had no claim to that festive
designation, unless it might be a dance of hags—and under the blackened
willows which cast a shadow over the little footpath by the river-side.
Lances of light crossed the path, and seemed to be darting out towards
the silver shields which the sun made on the running water. The lances
of light dazzled her eyes, and the shadows seemed to press down on her
head; whilst the sharp tinkle made by the rippling water in the clear
atmosphere sounded discordantly in her ears. She saw no beauty anywhere
and heard no pleasant sounds.
She was walking against the stream: thinking about nothing: stupid
and unhappy: figures seemed to flit before her without conveying any
meaning to her senses. She neither knew nor asked herself why she had
chosen this way by the stream, instead of taking the straight road home
through the forest. Some instinct had suggested that by taking this way
she was less likely to meet any one.
Walking quickly, the keen wind made her cheeks tingle and seemed
gradually to clear the fog out of her head. She had heard girls, and
women too, boast about the number of men who had ‘asked’ them, and she
knew that some of them had even multiplied the number for their own
exaltation. They all considered it a thing to be proud of, and the more
disappointments they had caused, the merrier they were. Why, then,
should she take on so because she had been obliged to say ‘no’ to one
man? She ought rather to be sorry that it was only one. Of course there
was something in Caleb different from the other lads who had come about
her, and who would have been ready enough to put the great question if
she had shown any willingness to listen to it. She had not done so, and
they had caused her no bother. But then she could not deny to herself
that she had given Caleb reason to think that she was willing; and she
liked him—liked him very much. That was why she was distressed, as she
had told Madge.
And what was the phantom in her brain which had rendered it necessary
to cause so much worry to Caleb and herself?... She would not admit
that there was any phantom. She was quite sure of it (and there was
an unconscious toss of the head at this point); and her refusal meant
no more than that she did not care enough for him. Surely that was
reason enough for saying ‘no’ without seeking for any other. And yet
this satisfactory answer to her own question made her the more uneasy
with herself, because she was conscious that she was shirking the whole
truth.
She passed out from under the shadow of the willows at a point where
a broken branch of a huge old elm had formed an archway, and a little
farther on was the ford, where a shaky wooden foot-bridge crossed the
water leading to the door of the squat white alehouse where thirsty
carriers felt bound to halt. Unlike most other wayside inns, its glory
had not been completely destroyed by the railways. The walls were kept
white. The old thatch-roof was neatly trimmed and carefully patched
wherever age or the elements rendered patching requisite, so that it
presented a fine study of variegated greens and browns, with here and
there a dash of bright yellow. The inside was clean and tidy; and in
cold weather there was always a cheerful blaze in the big fireplace.
The secret of this pleasant condition of the _Ford Inn_ was that the
tenant farmed a bit of the contiguous land, on which he depended more
than on the profits of his excellent ‘home-brewed.’
The road southward from the ford passed the gates of Ringsford Manor.
Going in that direction, Coutts Hadleigh was crossing the foot-bridge
when Pansy reached the elm, and at sight of him she halted under the
broken branch. The colour came back to her cheeks for an instant and
left them paler than before. She had often heard of the pitfalls which
beset the steps of maidens who lift their eyes too high; but she was
incapable of nice arguments about the proper level of sight for one in
her position. He had said many pretty things to her, always asked a
flower from her, and at the harvest-home he had danced with her more
than with any of the other girls. She was pleased; and now she owned
that she had more than once wondered, when the Manor carriage with the
ladies passed and she was courtesying by the wayside, how she would
look if sitting in their place.
But that admission under the light of this day’s experience revealed an
ugly possibility, and taught her the alphabet of a disagreeable lesson
in life.
She waited until Coutts had got some distance from the ford; then she
crossed the road, and entering a ploughed field, hurried homeward,
keeping close by the hedge, as if afraid to be seen.
Her father was kneeling on the hearth lighting the fire, his thin
cheeks drawn into hollows as he blew the wood into flame.
‘That you, Pansy?’ (poof). ‘What ails you the day’ (poof), ‘that
there’s neither fire nor’ (poof) ‘dinner for me when I come in frae my
work?’
A series of vigorous ‘poofs’ followed. Pansy, whilst quickly relieving
him of his task and arranging the table, explained what had happened in
the washhouse, and how Miss Heathcote had taken her to the doctor.
‘Oh, you were wi’ her,’ said the gardener, paying little attention to
her accident. ‘I thought you might have been awa wi’ some other body,
for I never knew women-folk neglectin’ the dinner exceptin’ in cases o’
courtin’ or deein’.’
Most men would have been in a temper on returning hungry from work and
finding that the fire had to be lighted to heat the food; but Sam
having been rarely subjected to such an experience, and being under the
impression that he was soon to be left to look after himself entirely,
accepted the present position calmly, as a foretaste of what was coming.
‘And you have had nothing yoursel’, Pansy. Aweel, I’m no astonished.
I daresay your mother whiles wanted her dinner when she was thinking
about me.’
Sam, finding dinner a hopeless achievement, began, with customary
deliberation, to fill and light his pipe. His daughter’s short answers
he attributed to the natural shyness in the presence of her father of a
maiden who was expecting soon to become a wife.
‘I ken what you are thinking about, Pansy; but I’m no going to say a
word on the subject at this time of day. There’s another matter to
speak about.’
What relief she felt! How gladly she put the question:
‘What’s that, father?’
‘There’s news come of your gran’father. He is bad wi’ the rheumatics
again, and no a creature to look after him. I’m thinking we’ll have to
make a journey over to Camberwell, and see what can be done for him,
since he’ll no come to us here.’
‘I will go to him to-day,’ she ejaculated with surprising energy; ‘and
I can take that stuff the doctor sent for you; and I can stay with him
and nurse him until he is able to get about again.’
‘Hooly, hooly,’ cried Sam, taking the pipe out of his mouth and staring
at his daughter. ‘Kersey doesna bide in the town, though he works
there.’
‘I don’t want to see him at all; I want to go to grandfather,’ she
answered. But it was not entirely anxiety on account of that relative
which prompted the desire to visit Camberwell, although her affection
for the old man was strong enough to make her eager to nurse him.
She also saw in this temporary exile the opportunity to escape from
surroundings which were threatening to mar all her chances of happiness.
‘And what am I to do when ye’re awa?’
‘You can go up to the House for your meals, or you can get them ready
for yourself, as you have done before. We cannot leave grandfather
alone.’
‘True enough, true enough, my lass; and I suppose you’ll need to go.
You’ll maybe do the auld man some good. It would be the saving o’ him,
body and sowl, if you could get him to sup parritch and drink a wee
thing less. You can take him some flowers; but it’s a pity that you
cannot have ane of the new geraaniums for him.’
So that was settled; and Pansy had never thought there would come a day
when she would prepare eagerly to leave home.
When Madge heard of the mission which called Pansy away from the
cottage for a time, she felt as well pleased as if fortune had bestowed
some good gift upon her. She saw in it something like a providential
rescue of the girl from a dangerous position; and the readiness with
which the summons had been obeyed was a guarantee that no great
mischief had been done yet. Away from Ringsford, with change of
scenes and faces, and with new duties of affection to perform, the
best qualities of her nature would be brought into action, whilst she
would have leisure enough to arrive at a clear understanding of her
own feelings. It was a pity that the old man should be ill; but it was
lucky for Pansy—and probably for Caleb—that this call should have been
made upon her.
She had made no sign to her friend; and it was not until Madge arrived
at the gardener’s cottage on the following afternoon that Pansy’s
sudden departure became known to her. It was odd that she had not even
left a word of good-bye with her father for one who, she was aware,
would be anxious about her. But the folly, whatever it might be, which
had for the time so altered the girl’s simple nature would be the
more easily forgotten if there were no speech about it. Evidently Sam
was still ignorant of the fact that Caleb had spoken and received a
refusal. Madge hoped that they would soon have good news of Pansy and
her patient.
‘I daresay we’ll hear about them in twa or three days; but it’s little
good she can do her gran’father. He’s a stupid auld body; and as soon
as he gets on his feet again, he’ll just be off trailing round the
town, making-believe to be selling laces and things; but that’s no what
takes him about.’
‘What, then?’
‘Singing bits o’ sangs and making a fool of himsel’ at public-houses,
for the treats he gets from folk that ought to know better,’ replied
the gardener, shaking his head gloomily. ‘I havena much hope for
him; but I was aye minded to gie him another chance; and as it was
to be given, the sooner the better. Besides that, Pansy was most
extraordinary anxious to get awa to him. If she could just fetch him
here, something might be done for him.’
Madge sympathised with this kindly wish, and hoped it might be realised
in spite of Sam’s misgivings. Then she went on to the Manor.
ROYAL PERSIAN SHERBET.
Under this sounding title, most of us have a remembrance of a white
effervescing powder, flavoured with essence of lemons, which in the
summer-time was sold to us as children; a large spoonful was stirred
into a tumbler of water, cool or the reverse, and known to boys as
a ‘fizzer.’ It is not to this mawkish draught we wish to draw the
reader’s attention, but rather to the real thing as used in Persia and
throughout the East. Persian sherbet is a very comprehensive term, and
there are many varieties of it. Before we come to what it is, it may
be as well to explain when and how it is drunk. Sherbet is used as a
thirst-quencher, and a cooling drink in hot weather; it is either the
drink taken at meals, or it is handed to visitors in warm weather in
lieu of coffee. As a drink at meals, it is placed in Chinese porcelain
bowls, there being usually several varieties of the sherbet, more or
less, according to the size of the party and the position of the host.
Each bowl stands in its saucer; and across the vessel is laid one of
the pear-wood spoons of Abadeh, famed for their carving and lightness
throughout the Eastern world.
A sherbet spoon is from one to two feet in length; the bowl, cut from a
solid block, holds from a claret-glass to a tumbler of the liquid. This
bowl is so thin as to be semi-transparent, and is frequently ornamented
with an inscription, the letters of which are in high-relief. To retain
their semi-transparency, each letter is undercut, so that, although
standing up an eighth of an inch from the surface of the bowl, yet the
whole is of the same light and delicate texture, no part thicker than
another. One-half of the surface of the spoon-bowl is covered by two
cleverly applied pieces of carved wood, which appear to be carved from
one block. But this is not the case—they are really cemented there.
These pieces are carved in such a delicate manner as to be almost filmy
in appearance, resembling fine lacework. The handle of the spoon—at
times twenty inches long—is formed in a separate piece, and inserted
into the edge of the bowl in a groove cut to receive it. This handle is
also elaborately carved in delicate tracery; and a wonderful effect is
produced by the rhomboid-shaped handle, at times four inches broad at
the widest part, and only a tenth of an inch thick. The groove where
the handle is inserted into the edge of the bowl of the spoon, and the
point of junction, are hidden by a rosette of carved wood, circular in
shape, only a tenth of an inch thick. This, too, is carved in lacelike
work, and it is cemented to the shaft of the spoon. A kind of flying
buttress of similar delicate woodwork unites the back-part of the
shaft to the shoulder of the bowl. The spoon, which when it leaves the
carver’s bench is white, is varnished with _Kaman_ oil, which acts as
a waterproof and preservative, and dyes the whole of a fine gamboge
yellow similar to our boxwood. The weight of the spoon is in the
largest sizes two ounces.
The tools used by the carver are a plane, a rough sort of gouge, and a
common penknife. Each spoon is of a separate and original design, no
two being alike, save when ordered in pairs or sets. The price of the
finest specimens is from five to fifteen shillings each. These sherbet
spoons are really works of art, and are valued by oriental amateurs.
Many of the merchants are very proud of their sherbet spoons; and
being wood, they are ‘lawful;’ for a metal spoon, if of silver, is an
abomination; consequently, the teaspoons in Persia have a filigree hole
in the bowl, and thus can be used for stirring the tea only, and not
for the unlawful act of conveying it to the mouth in a silver spoon.
Of course, these high-art sherbet spoons are only seen at the houses
of the better classes, a coarser wooden spoon being used by the lower
classes. The spoons at dinner serve as drinking-vessels, for tumblers
are unknown; and the metal drinking-cups so much in use are merely for
travelling, or the pottle-deep potations of the irreligious.
During the seven months of Persian summer, it is usual to serve sherbet
at all visits, in lieu of coffee, for coffee is supposed to be heating
in the hot afternoons, at which time formal visits are often made;
and as the visitor must be given something—for he is never sent empty
away—sherbet in glass tankards or _istakans_—a word borrowed from the
Russian term for a tumbler—is handed round. These _istakans_ are often
very handsome, being always of cut or coloured glass, often elaborately
gilded and painted in colours, or what is termed jewelled—that is,
ornamented with an imitation of gems.
And now, what is Persian sherbet? A draught of sweetened water
flavoured to the taste of the drinker. The only exception to this
definition is the _sherbet-i-kand_, or _eau sucrée_, which is simply
water in which lump-sugar has been dissolved. The varieties of sherbet
may be divided into those made from the fresh juice of fruit, which are
mixed with water and sweetened to the taste; and those made from sirup,
in which the juice of fruit has been boiled.
It will be thus seen that the effervescing qualities of royal Persian
sherbet only exist in the imagination of the English confectioner.
But there is one all-important point that the English vendor would do
well to imitate: Persian sherbet is served very cool, or iced. Blocks
of snow or lumps of ice are always dissolved in the sherbet drunk in
Persia, unless the water has been previously artificially cooled. Fresh
sherbets are usually lemon, orange, or pomegranate; and the first two
are particularly delicious. The fresh juice is expressed in the room in
the presence of the guest, passed through a small silver strainer, to
remove the pips, portions of pulp, &c.; lumps of sugar are then placed
in the _istakan_; water is poured in till the vessel is two-thirds
full, and it is then filled to the brim with blocks of ice or snow.
The preserved sherbets are generally contained in small decanters of
coloured Bohemian glass similar to the _istakans_ in style. They are
in the form of clear and concentrated sirup. This sirup is poured into
the bowl or _istakan_, as the case may be; water is added; the whole
is stirred; and the requisite quantity of ice or snow completes the
sherbet.
When bowls are used—as they invariably are by the rich at meals, and by
the poor at all times—the spoons are dipped into the bowl, and after
being emptied into the mouth, are replaced in the bowl of sherbet.
Thus the use of glass vessels, until lately very expensive in Persia,
is dispensed with. Probably with the continuous introduction of the
ugly and cheap, but strong and serviceable, Russian glass, the dainty
sherbet-spoon of Abadeh will gradually disappear, the more prosaic
tumbler taking its place.
One kind of sherbet is not a fruit-sirup, but a distilled water; this
is the _sherbet i-beed-mishk_, or willow-flower sherbet. The fresh
flowers of a particular kind of willow are distilled with water; a
rather insipid but grateful distilled water is the result. Of this, the
Persians are immoderately fond, and they ascribe great power to it in
the ‘fattening of the thin.’ It is a popular and harmless drink, and is
drunk in the early morning, not iced, but simply sweetened.
Persians are very particular as to the water they drink, and are as
great connoisseurs in it as some Englishmen are curious in wines.
The water they habitually drink must be cool, and if possible, from
a spring of good repute. It is often brought long distances in skins
daily from the favourite spring of the locality. Given good water, and
pleasant, grateful beverages of all sorts, it is easy to refrain from
the strong drinks which Mohammed so wisely forbade his followers to
indulge in, making drunkenness a crime, and the drunkard an object of
disgust and loathing to his fellow-man. Undoubtedly, strong drinks in
hot climates, or even in hot weather, are incompatible with good health.
The varieties of the preserved sirups are numerous: orange, lemon,
quince, cranberry—the raspberry is unknown in Persia—cherry,
pomegranate, apricot, plum, and grape juice; while various combinations
of a very grateful nature are made by mixing two or even three of the
above.
TERRIBLY FULFILLED.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
The auctioneer looked at his watch. Past three o’clock in the morning.
He went into the hall, put on his hat, softly opened the front-door,
and went out. He was going to make a visit of inspection which no
amount of distress would have induced him to omit before retiring
to rest. The house was a corner one, turning a dead wall to the
side-street which ran out of the square. Turning down this street, he
stopped at a low door at the further extremity of the house, having a
massive iron handle and a small keyhole. Taking a key from his pocket,
he turned it in the lock, twisted the handle round, and, exerting
his strength, drew the door towards him. It was then to be seen that
this door, though to outward view consisting of nothing stronger than
wood, was of massive steel within—was, in fact, a thief-proof door.
The idea was an original one. Our brethren who follow the honourable
profession of burglary find, we are told, little difficulty in dealing
with matters of this nature, however skilfully constructed and widely
advertised, if only they can be secure from interruption. The mere
fact that safes and strong-room doors are always to be found _inside_
a building, affords to the burglar this very security. Once within
and alone, with the long hours of night before him, he can go about
his work in a leisurely and scientific fashion, with at least a fair
chance of success. But it had occurred to the auctioneer that if the
door were made to open directly upon the street, it would be extremely
difficult for the most daring and experienced cracksman to prosecute
to a successful conclusion, at the momentary risk of detection, a
labour of several hours, requiring the employment of numerous tools.
Besides which, the police being aware of the existence of the door, the
constable on the beat was accustomed to examine it carefully whenever
he passed; so that if any attempt to force it had been made since the
last inspection, he could not fail to detect the fact immediately.
The auctioneer stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind
him. Striking a match, he lit the candle in a small lantern which he
carried; and it was then evident that, supposing our burglar to have
forced the outer door, he would so far have found little to reward
his pains, for a second strong-door at some distance from the first
required to be opened also. This done, the interior of the safe was
seen. It was a small room, about ten feet square, entirely without
access to the house, the walls and vaulted ceiling strongly constructed
of stone. Its only furniture was a small table and chair, and a nest of
drawers clamped to the wall. Close by this, reaching from the floor to
the spring of the arch, was what appeared to be a dingy, full-length
portrait of a gentleman of the time of Charles II., in a tarnished
gilt frame. On inspection, this picture looked as if painted on panel;
but if sounded with the knuckles, it was found to be of a different
material—solid metal.
Most men, especially rich men, have a hobby. Mr Cross had two. They
were, first, diamonds; secondly, mechanics. His trade was not of the
ordinary class; and he, with one or two other firms, had practically a
monopoly of it in London. He dealt only in precious stones, jewellery,
valuable pictures, and such-like articles. To his rooms, pawnbrokers
sent their unredeemed pledges of this kind for sale by public auction,
as the law directs. Where it was necessary, under the terms of a
will, to dispose of family plate and jewellery, the executors were
generally advised to retain the services of Mr Cross. Should the more
valuable and less bulky effects of the Right Honourable the Earl of
Englethorpe ever come to the hammer, as sometimes appeared to that
nobleman to be a not quite impossible occurrence, it was by no means
unlikely—such is the irony of fate—that Mr Cross would wield the fatal
hammer. In this way it happened that the auctioneer, being brought into
business contact with dealers in precious stones, enjoyed opportunities
of gratifying his passion for diamonds at a cost which would have
astounded the general public, who are accustomed to shop-window prices.
During some twenty years, he had expended in this way over thirty
thousand pounds, and had destined his collection to form a parure for
his daughter on her marriage, which should at least equal that of any
duchess in the three kingdoms. And it contributed not a little to his
grief, that the possibility of her ever coming to wear those diamonds
seemed to be but a very remote one.
For the protection of the fruits of his first hobby, his second had
come into play. In his youth, when the choice of a trade or profession
had been offered to him by his father—also an auctioneer with a large
business—he had elected to be a mechanical engineer. He had accordingly
been apprenticed to an eminent firm, and had gone through the drudgery
exacted from all, without distinction of class or means, who enter
that profession, in which there is no royal road to learning. He had
developed such ingenuity and ability, that there would have been no
difficulty about a future partnership, when his father died suddenly.
It was highly advisable that the business, a large and lucrative one,
should be carried on. Young Cross, with that decision of character
which marked him through life, instantly determined to abandon
engineering and adopt his father’s trade, which prospered in his hands
until it reached its present dimensions. But he never wasted anything;
and he turned his mechanical knowledge and skill to such purpose by
way of recreation, that amongst other sources of wealth he was the
owner of several valuable patents of his own invention. He had a small
workshop and forge fitted up in the rear of his house, and here he was
accustomed often to occupy himself in the evening and early morning. It
was his only amusement; for of books he was wont to say, and believe,
that they were but the brains of other men, and of little use to a man
who had brains of his own.