Part 3

Enough has been said to show that panics will occur. It is easy to see how fatal may be their results, and how detrimental they are to the _morale_ of an army. A recognition of this fact must convince us of the necessity that exists for neglecting no step that may tend to minimise their occurrence, or, if they must occur, to most efficaciously and speedily counteract their effects. Long since, sailors learnt by experience that real or imagined outbreaks of fire on shipboard were too apt to cause panic and confusion, and thereby increase tenfold the horrors of the situation. To provide against this, the fire-alarm is frequently sounded, with a view to accustoming the crew to take up rapidly their allotted posts, when fire actually does occur, with the calmness and despatch bred of familiarity. This system of accustoming men to sudden alarms of attack was practised with success in the Marine Camp round Suakim, and they probably owed the idea in some measure to their naval training. At anyrate, their camp was particularly free from needless night-alarms, and their sentries earned the somewhat rare distinction of never having been forced throughout the whole campaign.

GEORGE HANNAY’S LOVE AFFAIR.

CHAPTER I.—TOO LATE!

There was a sharp but not unpleasant smell of frost in the air; the small shrubbery around the way-side station of Lochenbreck was covered with a slight coating of hoar-frost, which was being gradually dissipated by the golden rays of the sun, now two or three degrees above the horizon. The bustle of the Twelfth had passed. The ‘knowing ones’ who prefer Wigtownshire moors to those of the West and North Highlands, as being lower rented and yielding quite as good sport, had come and gone, for it was now the latter end of September. It was about eight o’clock A.M.; the South train was due, and it was timed to stop here for five minutes; not so much on account of any passenger or goods traffic it might deposit or receive, as to allow the iron horse to take a huge drink, sufficient to carry it in comfort to Stranraer. That this particular morning, however, there was some passenger traffic expected was evident. Outside the station stood a wagonette, a pony-cart, and a smart ostler in charge of both; inside was the station-master, a porter, and a young lady. The two former were listening for the clang of the signal-bell announcing the train; the latter, in prosaic truth, was endeavouring to keep her feet warm, by pacing rapidly up and down the limited platform. She was a very pretty girl, with a clear, pinky freshness of complexion, a finely chiselled nose, and a small, sweet, though firm mouth.

The signal-bell clanged, and the train came grandly sweeping in. There was but one passenger, but that was the one the young lady was waiting for. When he alighted, she ran forward and gave him her hand, which he shook heartily.

‘Alone?’ she cried.

‘Yes, Nan, alone this time! You’re not sorry, are you?’

‘Oh, no, no! I’ll have you all to myself! And you’ll have such lots of new London stories to tell, and none of your awfully clever city friends to laugh at me.’

The new arrival’s portmanteau, fishing-rods, &c., were put in the pony-cart, and assisting the young girl into the wagonette, he took the reins and started at a smart trot towards Lochenbreck Inn, some eight miles away over the purple moor.

While they are enjoying the heather-scented air, and the delightful moorland scenery, from which the sun had now dispelled the early morning’s mist, it may be as well that the reader should know who the occupants of the wagonette were. _Place aux dames;_ Anne Porteous, aged nineteen, was the daughter of Robert Porteous, innkeeper at Lochenbreck. Robert, however, was not an ordinary innkeeper. He certainly took in guests for bed and board, and, as was said by some, charged very highly for the accommodation; but beyond this, he was proprietor of a loch, and most of the moor encircling it, and could thus give free angling and shooting privileges to his guests. He was quite independent of innkeeping as a means of living; but his father and grandfather before him had kept the inn, and why should not he? Early in life he was left a widower, and Anne was his only daughter. She received an excellent education at S—— Academy, and really took charge of the inn business, for her father was crippled with rheumatism. Her management, however, was an unseen one, for she did not come personally in contact with the guests. But there were exceptions to that rule. One of them was her present companion, George Hannay, the editor of the London magazine, the _Olympic_. But then the case with him was different from that of an ordinary guest. Her father and he were old friends, and he had been coming about the place since she was a girl in short frocks. The editor was a very keen angler, and as the sport could best be pursued off a boat, when Anne grew older and strong enough, it was her whim and pleasure to row him about while he wielded the rod. Thus they grew great friends; and his autumn visit was looked forward to with joyous expectancy by little Nan. Little, she was not now; years had glided away, and she had almost emerged into womanhood; but still the old friendly relations were kept up between the two. Last summer she had spent with her father’s sister, who kept a _pension_ in Brussels, and it is about her experiences there that the pair are chatting gaily as the vehicle rolls homewards over the leaf-bestrewn road.

As for the editor, he was a tallish, well-developed man, with dark hair, whiskers, and moustache considerably more than sprinkled with gray. At first sight you would guess his age at about fifty. But having regard to his light springy step and genial smile, you might have set him down at about forty, and still have been wrong, for in truth he was only thirty-eight. It was a grand relief for him to leave the Metropolis and his editorial worries behind once a year, and spend a glorious autumn holiday at Lochenbreck—fishing, talking with his old friend Robert, and—well—yes! (of late years, that is to say) enjoying a chat with his pretty little daughter. It was not accidentally that he came alone this time. Usually he brought a roistering squad of literary bohemians, who made the ceiling of the private parlour ring with jest and song till unseemly hours of the morning. And the reason was, he came prepared to offer his heart and hand to the fair Nan! He did not imagine for a moment he was in love with her. Oh, no! he was too old and sedate for such nonsense as that. In his professional capacity he had dissected and analysed so many excruciatingly sentimental love tales, that he imagined himself Cupid-proof. But things had driven his thoughts towards matrimony. He had got tired of his lady-housekeeper, with her Cockneyfied vulgar airs. Now, if he could only get rid of her, he thought, pension her off, or get another situation for her, and place this Scotch girl at the head of his table, how much brighter life would seem to him! Would she take him? Well, he thought she would. Of one thing he was certain, she was really fond of him; there was no rival in the way; and the father was certain to favour the match. He did not care for girlish gush; sound lasting affection, and purity and singleness of mind, were what he wanted.

The wagonette had now arrived at the inn—a quaint old crow-stepped edifice, half covered with ivy, and surrounded by a garden-wall. Old Mr Porteous was at the door, and bade his guest a hearty welcome. Then Anne set to work, and in less than half an hour there was a tempting breakfast smoking on the private parlour table, which Mr Hannay did excellent justice to. To keep him company, his host and hostess sat at table with him, and made believe to partake of the dainties before them; while the truth was, they had had a hearty breakfast three hours before. The sun, which till now had brightened up the room, became overcast, and a few drops from a passing shower rattled against the diamond-paned window. Mr Hannay rose from his chair and looked out. A splendid day for fishing. ‘Come, Nan, my lass,’ he said, ‘let’s to work. It’s a shame to sit here idling, with the loch in such fine trim for trouting.’

‘Well, sir, I suppose I must obey orders,’ she rejoined, and tripping up-stairs, soon returned arrayed in an old frock, and a headpiece of stiff white calico, resembling in design a sou’wester, and suited to protect from sun, rain, or wind. Half an hour later they were floating on the loch; Nan slowly paddling along, her companion industriously whipping the water; both keeping up a desultory conversation. Her experiences at Brussels naturally formed the chief topic. On this subject she spoke with enthusiasm. She had never seen Paris, therefore its miniature presentment impressed her all the more vividly. Hannay was pleased to hear scenes described with her fresh girlish fervour, to which he had long been _blasé_. Apart from the warm feelings he had towards her, her conversation had a literary charm for him, for she was a born narrator. She took him with her in all her rambles and escapades, and her six months’ residence in the gay little capital seemed exposed to his mental vision as clearly as if he had been her companion. Yet the sly little damsel forgot, quite innocently of course, to tell him of sundry moonlight walks with a certain Scotch student, under the linden trees of the Boulevard des Alliers.

The fishing was progressing but slowly. Perhaps there was thunder in the air; or possibly the angler’s mind was abstracted, and he was thinking of matters of weightier import, than the capture of a few silvery trout. After missing excellent ‘offers’ on two or three occasions, his companion burst into a merry laugh, and asked him if his wits had gone a wool-gathering, ‘I am afraid,’ she continued, gravely shaking her head, ‘that you are still in love with that wicked Mademoiselle Sylvestre.’

Now, the lady referred to was an aged ex-prima donna of the English opera, and a warm friend of his. It pleased Nan, however, to make-believe that their relationship to each other was of a strongly amorous nature, and she missed no opportunity of teasing him about her. Now was a chance to broach the matter he had at heart. For, strange to say, this experienced man of literature and society, this ornament of London drawing-rooms, felt oddly embarrassed in his new relationship of suitor to a simple country girl. True it was, she had no idea of the terrible designs he had on her heart and liberty; but that seemed only to make the matter worse in his eyes. There was not an atom of self-consciousness about her. Her clear gray eyes were crystalline; he fancied he could read every thought of her soul in their transparent depths. No thoughts of love there evidently. It looked almost brutal to disturb their sweet maidenly repose—almost like shooting a trusting, tame rabbit. If there had been but the least spice of coquetry about her, it would have been so much easier for him to have unburdened himself of his heart’s secret—at least so he thought. He never felt so morally limp in all his life, and it was with the courage of despair that he wound up his reel and determined to know his fate then and there. A few intermittent drops of rain began to fall, and seating himself beside her on the thwarts, he shared his waterproof with her. He never yet had spoken, save in the language of raillery; how on earth was he now to address her in accents of love and sentiment? However, it must be done; and he took ‘a header.’

‘My dear Nan,’ he began, ‘it is really too bad of you to mention that estimable old lady. I like her very much, as I am sure would you if you knew her. But she might easily be my mother! Ah, Nan,’ he continued, slipping his arm round her waist underneath the waterproof—‘ah, Nan, there is only one girl in all the world I care a pin for, and it is your own sweet self! Nan—will you be my wife?’

As he spoke the last few words, Nan’s face grew deadly pale; then the truant blood rushed back to her cheeks tumultuously, flushing them carmine.

‘Oh, no, no!’ she piteously cried as she shrunk from him, and gently disengaged his arm from round her waist; ‘oh, no! Mr Hannay, that can never, never be! O how stupid and foolish I’ve been. Forgive me, forgive me, my dearest of friends! But—but—indeed I never looked on you in any way like that. I have been very imprudent—I have been far too free with you—but it was all thoughtlessness. Tell me you don’t for a moment believe I was so wicked as to have done it purposely.’

She put her hands over her face, and sobbed aloud. Here was a nice position for a lover to be in, who an hour ago was confidently dreaming of years of sweet companionship with her who now told him in language not to be misunderstood that such could never, never be. These were not the simulated tears and sobs of a heartless coquette; the honest simple girl had evidently never dreamed of the possibility of him being a wooer. He was too old—that was it. And what a fool he had made of himself! Well, he would just require to swallow it all, and comfort himself with the reflection that no one knew of his folly, for he knew _she_ would never tell. His heart went out in pity to her. He told her never to mind. He even went the length of pretending that he was almost glad she had refused him, for he was so wedded to city life, with its clubs, greenrooms, and what not, that he was certain he would have been a very careless, inattentive husband, and she a neglected, heart-broken wife. In such wise did he comfort the girl, who dried her eyes and tried to look quite gay and cheerful. There was no more fishing; they rowed slowly back to the hotel. Nan insisted on taking the oars; her rejected lover sat musing at the stern. Suddenly he raised his head, and said with a sedate smile: ‘Some one else, eh, Nan?’

His question was not very intelligibly put; but she understood well enough what he meant. Drooping eyelids, a face slightly averted, and a faint blush for answer. After a pause, ‘Papa does not know—at least not yet,’ she timidly said; ‘you’ll not tell him?’

‘Oh, of course not!’ he answered, and biting the end of a fresh cigar, began smoking vigorously. A few minutes, and they were at the Inn jetty, and to old Mr Porteous’ extreme astonishment, without a fin to show for their three hours’ work.

Dinner past, father and daughter and guest adjourned to the private parlour. Anne retired early under the plea of headache. Host and guest continued to enjoy a cheerful glass and gossip all to themselves.

‘By-the-bye, Mr Porteous,’ said the latter as he was lighting his candle preparatory to going up-stairs to bed, ‘I forgot to say my stay this time will be but a brief one. I am expecting every day to have a letter from a friend at Lucerne who wants me to join him in the fishing there. He says the sport is excellent, and I promised to go if he found such to be the case. Good-night!’

The landlord was astonished, but was too well bred to press him to stay. The truth is, our friend had been far more seriously ‘hit’ by simple Nan than he had supposed, or was even yet inclined to admit. Try as he would, sleep refused to come to his tired brain; mocking visions of ‘what might have been’ flitted through his waking dreams; and he arose in the morning more tired than when he went to bed. The post brought him two letters; one of them, he said, required his instant presence in London on an important matter of business; after that, he would go to Switzerland to join his friend in the fishing; and meantime, he would have reluctantly to bid them farewell. Porteous was both surprised and vexed; his daughter was neither, for she felt it would be happier for them both to be apart—at least for the present.

LANDSLIPS.

Scarcely less alarming than the fall of an avalanche, and sometimes, indeed, far more destructive, are those sudden descents of earth and other materials commonly known as landslips. The cause of these remarkable calamities—for such they commonly are—may be briefly described. The strata of a mountain or lesser elevation are often found to deviate considerably from a horizontal position; and if shale or any other substance pervious to water forms the lowest stratum, a landslip may take place. For instance, if there be an abundance of rain or melted snow, which percolates down so as to soften the lower stratum, the upper strata are liable to be loosened, and, in process of time, to slide away. Such was the case in Shropshire towards the close of last century, as related by Mr Fletcher of Madeley. This took place at a spot on the Severn between the Grove and the Birches. ‘The first thing that struck me,’ says Mr Fletcher, ‘was the destruction of the little bridge that separated the parish of Madeley from that of Buildwas, and the total disappearing of the turnpike road to Buildwas Bridge, instead of which, nothing presented itself to my view but a confused heap of bushes and huge clods of earth, tumbled one over another. The river also wore a different aspect; it was shallow, noisy, boisterous, and came down from a different point. Following the track made by a great number of spectators who came from the neighbouring parishes, I climbed over the ruins and came to a field well grown with ryegrass, where the ground was greatly cracked in several places, and where large turfs—some entirely, others half-turned up—exhibited the appearance of straight or crooked furrows, as though imperfectly formed by a plough drawn at a venture. Getting from that field over the hedge into a part of the road which was yet visible, I found it raised in one place, sunk in another, concave in a third, hanging on one side in a fourth, and contracted as if some uncommon force had pressed the two hedges together. But the higher part of it surprised me most, and brought directly to remembrance those places of Mount Vesuvius where the solid stony lava had been strongly marked by repeated earthquakes; for the hard beaten gravel which formed the surface of the road was broken every way into huge masses, partly detached from each other, with deep apertures between them, exactly like the shattered lava. This striking likeness of circumstances made me conclude that the similar effect might proceed from the same cause, namely, a strong convulsion on the surface, if not in the bowels, of the earth.’

This conjecture was not confirmed by facts and circumstances related by others; indeed, the latter part of his description proves, almost beyond question, that the various results described were occasioned by a landslip, and not by a shock of an earthquake, of which no one heard anything.

He continues: ‘Going a little further towards Buildwas, I found that the road was again totally lost for a considerable space, having been overturned, absorbed, or tumbled, with the hedges that bounded it, to a considerable distance towards the river. This part of the desolation appeared then to me inexpressibly dreadful. Between a shattered field and the river, there was that morning a bank, on which, besides a great deal of underwood, grew twenty-five large oaks; this wood shot with such violence into the Severn before it, that it forced the water in great volumes a considerable height, like a mighty fountain, and gave the overflowing river a retrograde motion. This is not the only accident which happened to the Severn, for, near the Grove, the channel, which was chiefly of a soft blue rock, burst in ten thousand pieces, and rose perpendicularly about ten yards, heaving up the immense quantity of water and the shoal of fishes that were therein.’

John Philips in his work on _Cider_ alludes to Marcley Hill as the scene of a landslip:

I nor advise, nor reprehend, the choice Of Marcley Hill; the apple nowhere finds A kinder mould; yet ’tis unsafe to trust Deceitful ground; who knows but that, once more, This mount may journey, and, his present site Forsaking, to thy neighbour’s bounds transfer The goodly plants, affording matter strange For law debates.

Marcley Hill is near the confluence of the Lug and Wye, about six miles east of Hereford. In the year 1595, it was, says Mr Brown, the editor of White’s _Selborne_, ‘after roaring and shaking in a terrible manner for three days together, about six o’clock on Sunday morning put in motion, and continued moving for eight hours, in which time it advanced upwards of two hundred feet from its first position, and mounted seventy-two feet higher than it was before. In the place where it set out, it left a gap four hundred feet long, and three hundred and twenty broad; and in its progress it overthrew a chapel, together with trees and houses that stood in its way.’

That interesting naturalist, Mr White of Selborne, gives at length, in one of his letters to the Honourable Daines Barrington, an account of an extraordinary landslip in his own neighbourhood, at a date corresponding with that of the landslip in Shropshire. He says: ‘The months of January and February 1774 were remarkable for great melting snows and vast gluts of rain, so that, by the end of the latter month, the land springs, or _levants_ [eastern; so called, I suppose, because of the prevalence of easterly winds at this season], began to prevail, and to be near as high as in the memorable winter of 1764. The beginning of March also went on in the same tenor, when in the night between the 8th and 9th of that month, a considerable part of the great woody hanger [a local term for an overhanging woody cliff] at Hawkley was torn from its place and fell down, leaving a high freestone cliff naked and bare, and resembling the steep side of a chalk-pit. It appears that this huge fragment, being perhaps sapped and undermined by waters, foundered, and was ingulfed, going down in a perpendicular direction; for a gate which stood in the field on the top of the hill, after sinking with its posts for thirty or forty feet, remained in so true and upright a position as to open and shut with great exactness, just as in its first situation. Several oaks also are still standing [written in 1775 or 1776] and in a state of vegetation, after taking the same desperate leap.