Part 2

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.