‘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.