Part 7

"Oh, your fortune! I tell you I've wished a thousand times that every investment of yours went to smash, and you lost every penny of it! So there! I'll just leave you for awhile to make up your mind whether you're going to tell me who the man is, or not!" He flung out of the room in a heat, and banged the door.

Kitty laughed a little low laugh of extreme relief; but her eyes were all shining; and she said with a little shiver, "He loves me--he does--he does--he does!!!"

Presently she rose, with a very resolute face, took a hat and coat from a peg in the hall, went out of the back-door, and down to the stables. She went into a coach-house, switched on the electric light above her motor-car, and considered it thoughtfully. It was a big car, with something of the air of a trap, built to hold two. Then she went to the box of tools used for its machinery, and selecting a fine file stepped into the car, and set deliberately to work to file through the handle of the lever which started and stopped it. Her Australian life had made her a capital work-woman, and she did it neatly; but it was a long piece of work, and now and again she stopped to test it. She wished to file through it, so that she could break it with a jerk. All the while she worked she whistled softly. Something about her task seemed to amuse her.

At last she completed it to her liking, and then sat back in the car, weighing, with a face that grew very serious, the risks of the dangerous game she had resolved to play. After a long while she rose and said between her teeth, "I don't care if we are smashed, Jack and I, together."

She came back to the house, went to him in the billiard-room, and said, "We're going to dine at the Hall to-night. Aunt will go in the brougham, and you and I in the motor-car."

"I hate the beastly thing. I know there will be a smash some day," he said. His temper was still ruffled.

"Very well," said Kitty, gently. "You go with aunt, and I will go in the car by myself."

"I'll be shot if I do!" said Jack; then he said, "I suppose Malmesford will be there?"

"I suppose he will," said Kitty, very demurely. "But why do you speak so contemptuously of your cousin?"

"I didn't choose my cousins, did I?" said Jack.

"You're very irritable to-day," said Kitty, severely, and she left him.

Later, as they were settling themselves in the motor-car, Jack, still captious, said, "How many more rugs? are we going to the North Pole?"

Kitty's heart jumped: they might be going a good deal further: she only said, "There are ten degrees of frost already; and it isn't like a closed carriage."

She handled the lever very gingerly, and brought them to the Hall safely. Jack did not enjoy the dinner. Kitty and the Marquis of Malmesford were plainly great friends: she had never, indeed, been so nice to him before. Jack tried to regard their friendship with the eye of an indulgent guardian, hardened, as he believed himself, to the thought of her marrying; he made a very poor hand at it. He had accustomed himself, indeed, to looking at her across the great gulf of her wealth; but the sight of another man making fortunate love to her awoke in him a desperate jealousy.

They were late leaving the Hall; and it was a bitter black frost. Aunt Anne started first in her brougham, and then Kitty, in a long sealskin jacket and sealskin cape, walked down between Jack and Malmesford to the stables, where the motor-car awaited them. Jack wrapped the rugs round her very carefully, and took his seat at her side; she cried a careless "Good-night!" to Malmesford, and started the car gently. As they turned into the road at the end of the drive, she moved the lever nearly to full speed, and with a sharp jerk of her strong little wrist snapped off the handle.

"What's that?" said Jack.

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, with an odd, excited thrill in her voice, "I've smashed the handle, and we can't stop!"

"Good Heavens!" cried Jack, and threw his arm around her.

The speed began to quicken.

"The lever's nearly at full speed," said Kitty, quietly. "What are we to do?"

His arm tightened round her, and the alternatives raced through his mind. "We must strike the Great North Road at Anderfield, and heaven forgive any one who gets in our way!" he said.

"Six miles and two turns," said Kitty; "but it's our only chance."

The hedges were flying past. The first turn was two miles away, and they were very soon on it. Kitty put on all the brake she could; and they came round it safely. They came down hill to the second turn: fortunately it was not sharp: a long hill fairly steep, and, for all the brake, the machine went quicker and quicker until it seemed almost to fly, scarcely touching the ground. The hedge of the other side of the Great North Road sprang suddenly up before them: they seemed almost on it; Jack, with his heart in his mouth, lifted Kitty half out of her seat as they whizzed round the corner on two wheels: the car settled with a jerk that proved the strength of its springs, and they ripped down the Great North Road.

Kitty laughed a short hysterical laugh.

"I thought we'd gone to glory together!" she said: and they both lay back panting.

"How far are we going?" said Jack.

"It won't stop for fifty miles," said Kitty.

"Good Lord!" said Jack. "Can't I do anything? Let me get at the machinery."

"You can do nothing!" said Kitty, sharply.

For a long while neither said a word. The car sped along with a querulous, eerie whirr that rose to a clattering snarl as it hurtled down hill. The cold air stung their faces; the hedges were level, black walls on either side; now and again they flew through a sleeping village; and the dogs who ran out to bark, turned and fled yelping from this sinister, rushing monster. Kitty's firm hand steered them steadily, save when the car jerked snarling down hill, out of control; now and again she set the whistle hooting. Jack sat with his mind in a whirl of fears of what might befall her. Little by little the oppression of a nightmare began to weigh upon them as a binding spell.

Jack broke it by withdrawing his arm from around her, and lighting a cigar; he did not slip his arm back.

Presently she said softly, "Hold me again, Jack, I feel safer"--his arm slipped round her--"I feel--I feel--as if some dreadful beast were carrying us away."

She looked infinitely childlike; and he gripped her closer.

"Poor aunt Anne, she'll think we've had a smash, as indeed we may," she said presently.

"By Jove, yes; they'll be hunting the neighbourhood for us!" said Jack.

"As for Lord Malmesford, he'll think you've run away with me," said Kitty.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Jack, uneasily.

"He will though. Juliette Halliwell will tell him so. I saw her get very angry at the affectionate way you were looking at me at dinner," said Kitty.

"I wasn't!" said Jack.

"Oh, yes, you were; ever so affectionately. What kind of affection was it, Jack--paternal?"

"Talk of something else!" said Jack, in a thick voice; and nestling against him, she felt him quiver and his heart shake him at each thumping beat.

Some miles further on the lights of a town rose suddenly a little way ahead. Kitty set the whistle hooting, and slowed the car as much as she could, but even then they dashed down the long silent street at a very dangerous pace. It was fortunate that it was empty. They were a mile beyond it before they breathed easily again, and Kitty said, "What town was that?"

"I don't know," said Jack. "We're five-and-twenty miles from home."

The road stretched far away ahead, very white in the moonlight; and the feeling that the car was a malignant living creature came upon them more oppressively than ever, wearing their nerves.

Kitty nestled closer to him--a fear that her desperate freak would have a tragic end invading and filling her heart. They rushed up a long hill--the car seemed to breast it like a strong demon--and at the top saw before them a long steep descent.

"Now the brute's going to have all its own way," said Kitty, between her clenched teeth.

"Never mind, little girl," said Jack, cheerily, "sit tight." If she had not been there, he felt that he would have enjoyed the danger; as it was, he sat in torture.

"It is out of control!" cried Kitty; and, peering ahead: "There's--there's a waggon at the bottom of the hill!"

The whistle hooted and hooted; she gave the car the brake; and at each leap it jarred every bone in her body. They rushed towards the waggon; if the waggon was not on its right side of the road, they were smashed: they were upon it; Kitty screamed out; there was a snapping crash; then they were rushing along the empty road with the left splash-board torn off. Kitty lay back in a dead faint. Jack caught the steering-gear in his right hand, raised Kitty with his left arm, and twisted into her place, holding her on his knees. The car began to slacken and go smoother up the opposite hill; in three minutes it was steady again. Kitty lay heavy and still in his arms, her face very white in the moonlight; her faint breathing scarce parted her lips.

Uphill and downhill, through villages, through another town the car fled on. Now and again Kitty murmured a word, now she seemed to sleep. The night was wearing on. At last it seemed to him that the beast was tiring; and he scarce dared believe it. But breasting the next long hill it slowed and slowed; its moan hushed; it came to a crawl. Thirty yards from the top it stopped a moment, moved on again, then stopped for good. For all its danger he sighed that their ride was at an end. Kitty never stirred; he gave her a little shake; and she sighed too, and raised herself. They looked down on a great stretch of country; here and there the dim twinkling showed the lights of a town.

"There are some biscuits and a flask of cherry brandy, if it isn't broken, in the box of your seat," said Kitty, slipping into the place at his side. He fished them out unharmed, and they munched the biscuits, and drank from the flask by turns.

He looked at his watch, and said, "Ten past three! By Jove, we've had a narrow squeak!"

"Three in the morning, and miles from anywhere. I'm hopelessly compromised," said Kitty.

Jack knitted his brows, thinking it out; he could not gainsay it. He said nothing. "Oh!" said Kitty, almost in a wail, "I thought you were a man of honour, Jack."

"Well?" said Jack.

"There is only one course open to you," said Kitty.

"Well, I suppose there is," said Jack, a little stiffly. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes: I will--I must--I must," said Kitty, with a deep sigh.

Presently she said in a very low voice, "Have you no sense of what is fitting?" As she spoke she looked into his eyes, swiftly and away.

He caught her to him, and kissed her; it seemed to him that her lips were responsive.

A sudden jealous pang wrung his heart. "But--but--the other man: the man you want to marry?" he said.

"Ah, yes," said Kitty, carelessly--"the other man. It's no use talking about him now. Let us forget him. I will tell you about him when--when--we are married."

She threw her arms round his neck and whispered, "Do you think you will learn to love me, Jack?"

He pressed her to him and cried passionately, "For four years I have loved you more and more every day. Every day I have cursed your money more!"

"Poor Jack!" said Kitty, and her eyes were full of tears. He lifted her out of the car, putting his arm round her, and supporting her; and they began to walk down the hill in search of a railway station, careless, in the glow of their happiness, of that bitter cold, and of the inevitable long wait for a train.

HOW WE GET OUR WEATHER.

BY GAVIN MACDONALD.

_With photographs illustrating the queer side of the matter._

In most of the morning papers we are accustomed to the luxury of a detailed weather report and forecast. The majority glance at it with a sceptical smile. They are of opinion that in order to be on the safe side they must invert its message. If fine weather and sunshine are predicted, they sagely nod and take down the homely gamp. The prediction of a hurricane or stormy showers is the signal for leaving umbrellas and overcoats at home.

However, those who know anything of the gigantic strides meteorology has made within the past few years are aware that in the main its prognostications are accurate. In fact, it is a matter for great surprise that its practical uses are not more generally recognised and taken advantage of.

If you meet your best friend in the street his first six words contain some reference to the weather. The merest stranger looks questioningly at the sky when he has made his bow. Two-thirds of the daily conversation of the British Isles has to do with this subject; nor is this surprising, for it is a matter of vital importance, affecting all classes alike.

A wet Bank Holiday may mean thousands of pounds out of a railway company's pocket, not to mention the disappointment and chagrin of countless thousands of prospective holiday makers. A severe frost may disorganise a whole trade. In 1881, for instance, the whole building trade was at a standstill for a period of nearly three weeks, owing to the severity of the frost. And to the farmers, horticulturists, and fruit-growers the weather is a matter of financial life or death.

Meteorology is of invaluable assistance in other ways: in warning our coasts of coming storms; in deciding the climate and consequent healthfulness of the different parts of the country.

You can't even build a new town successfully without it, for only by accurate meteorological observation can the two most important factors of water-supply and sewerage be dealt with. For example, in planning a new waterworks, the ground subject to the greatest rainfall, and having the utmost gathering capacity, must be selected; while in constructing the system of sewerage, it is essential for the surveyor to accurately gauge the force and volume of the heaviest thunder-shower. If this is miscalculated, pipes of insufficient capacity may be laid with disastrous results to the city and its inhabitants.

These things are only to be learned by a study of meteorology.

Few people have any knowledge of the science beyond that supplied them by the forecasts and charts in the daily papers. Consequently the charts, which are more or less abstruse, are only understood by the few, and the forecasts are indulgently tolerated as a description of useless fortune-telling, rendered respectable by scientific recognition.

The popular idea seems to be that certain scientific men who have given the subject considerable study, cast a knowing eye on the evening sky, and pass on written prognostications for use in the morning papers.

As a matter of fact the method by which we obtain our weather reports and forecasts is very different, and savours even more strongly of romance than the clairvoyant system usually identified with the seers of the weather office.

Two institutions look after our weather--the Meteorological Office, a Government department with a grant of £15,000 per annum, and the Royal Meteorological Society, a scientific institution maintained by the subscriptions and donations of its members.

The Meteorological Office occupies a dull set of rooms in Victoria Street over a shop, and, other than the latest weather chart, hung up outside the street door, there is nothing to intimate that the presiding wizards of the weather sit upstairs, and that if you are particularly anxious to have the latest information in their possession you have only to walk up and pay the nominal sum of one shilling.

Likewise you may receive the latest information by letter for the same fee, or by wiring to "Weather," London, the shilling fee and the cost of a telegraphic reply.

Farmers and others to whom the question of weather is a vital one, especially at the hay and harvest seasons, are supplied with harvest forecasts for the nominal sum of 2_s._ 6_d._ per quarter, in addition to the cost of the telegrams.

In addition to this, a set of forecasts is daily supplied to the newspapers, and about twenty-eight well-known agriculturists, for public exhibition in their neighbourhoods.

The system employed in making up the weather is of more than usual interest, and is worthy of some description.

In connection with the office are some 140 observing stations, including 17 belonging to the Royal Meteorological Society and 19 to the Scottish Meteorological Society. These stations are divided into classes according to the value and quantity of the observations supplied by them. Excepting the cases of telegraphic stations, which are subsidised by the central office, the observers are mostly volunteers who are interested in meteorology, and who provide their own instruments.

The office receives sixty telegraphic weather reports each morning, eighteen every afternoon, and twenty-nine each evening, in addition to an enormous mass of data supplied by volunteer and casual observers.

The forecast we are accustomed to find in our morning paper is compiled from the telegraphic reports of the subsidised stations. There is something peculiarly fascinating in the idea of the clerk of the weather scenting out a big gale and issuing a warning hours before its arrival on our coasts. One associates him with a prophet or witch, and very naturally wonders how it is done.

As a matter of fact forecast work is far from romantic, entails very great mental labour, excellent judgment, and great scientific knowledge and experience.

The forecasts are made three times a day--at 11 a.m., 3.30 p.m., and 8.30 p.m. They are, of course, based on the telegraphic reports and observations. The 8.30 p.m. forecast is made for the morning newspapers.

Among the volunteer observers are representatives of all professions. In one case a deaf and dumb gentleman presides over a station of considerable importance.

The stations themselves are mostly situated in the observers' grounds, and the surroundings of some of them are very picturesque. The stations at Rousdon and Chapel Hill, Torquay, are both beautifully situated. Princetown station is particularly interesting, because of its situation in the yard of the great Dartmoor penal establishment! We may be quite sure that its presence in such surroundings has nothing to do with the well-being of the convicts themselves, the dreary routine of whose lives is little affected by considerations of weather. In another case, the meteorological observatory is found on the tower of a church--that of Boston, Lincolnshire. Among the instruments on the tower is an electrical thermometer connected with the ground by a wire so that it may be read without the necessity of ascending. It is impossible to over-estimate the usefulness of a station such as this, situated as it is in the midst of purely agricultural country. The farmers round Boston avail themselves, it need scarcely be said, of the valuable information furnished by the mysterious little instruments on their church tower.

More interesting, perhaps, than any of these is the observatory situated in a London churchyard.

Although every day a ceaseless throng of human beings crowd and jostle in the streets of the City of London, yet it has always been difficult to obtain observations there, for the very good reason that scarcely anybody lives within its precincts. The only station of the kind is to be found in the churchyard of St. Luke's, Old Street, one of the few restful spots in this busiest corner of the world.

The highest station in Great Britain is that on the summit of Ben Nevis, 4,407 feet above the sea. The northmost station is in the Shetland Isles.

Many gentlemen among the volunteer observers are leading meteorological experts, and spend much time and money on the equipment and maintenance of their stations.

A very fine private observatory is that belonging to Col. Knight, of Harestock, Winchester, of which an illustration appears on page 60.

The scaffolding in the foreground was erected for the purpose of lowering an earth thermometer into the ground. This instrument, which is constructed to register the temperature seventy feet below the surface, is contained in the wooden chamber standing at an angle to the scaffolding, and was photographed during the sinking process.

Besides the work of preparing weather reports and forecasts, the office fulfils many other functions, such as the study of ocean meteorology, climatology, and so forth. In connection with the former work, the office annually receives some hundreds of reports and observations from officers of ships of the Royal Navy and Mercantile Marine.

The fishermen and sailors round our coasts have much to thank the office for. Besides supplying all the ports with daily weather reports and forecasts, it has lent over 200 barometers to fishing villages and other places on the coast for the benefit of the seafaring population.

Fortunately in this country we suffer comparative immunity from tornados, sirrocos, cyclones, and other dangerous natural phenomena.

That we can produce something more ferocious than an April shower, however, is amply demonstrated by our illustration of two huge rents torn in a hillside at Langtoft, East Yorkshire, by the bursting of a waterspout.

Hailstorms are another great source of destruction. Most people will remember the damage caused by a hailstorm in Essex last year, when several farms and homesteads were utterly wrecked, and great numbers of cattle killed.

Many people who have not encountered the big hailstorm regard it with the cheerful scepticism with which they view the sea serpent and the abnormal gooseberry. However, by permission of the Royal Meteorological Society, we are enabled to reproduce a photograph of some of the hailstones--actual size--which fell in a great storm at York on July 8th, 1893, together with a section of corrugated iron, showing holes and damage caused by hailstones which fell in a similar storm at Tulcumbah, N.S.W., on Oct. 13th, 1892.

However, most people would rather lose a section of corrugated roofing than encounter the flash of lightning that struck the man whose clothes appear in the illustration on the next page. As will be seen, the clothes are literally shredded to rags, and the strong leather boots are torn as though they were tissue paper.

Photographs of lightning are no longer novel; but our picture of a flash taken at midnight in Shanghai Harbour is one of the most remarkable ever seen. It is some distance behind the anchored steamer, but the reflection on the water is so vivid as to give it the appearance of moonlight.

The tornado is a phenomenon we can very well do without, and we sincerely hope the clerk of the weather will give us ample notice of the very faintest indication that one of these inanimate monsters is coming our way.

The tornado is soon over, it is true, but hailstorms are to be preferred. On May 27th, 1893, a storm of this nature put in an appearance at Wellington, Kansas, and practically wrecked the whole city. A horse was picked up, stable and all, and blown some hundreds of yards to leeward. The stable was smashed, but curiously enough the horse came down on his feet and escaped unhurt.