The next most curious group of caverns lies out of the Ingleborough district altogether, at the head of Nidderdale, about the hamlets of Middlesmoor and Lofthouse, where comfortable quarters may be had in their unpretentious inns. On Howsteanbeck, which comes down a romantic gorge, are several chambers easy of access; and in a field on the Middlesmoor side is an opening which leads into a long underground passage known as Eglin’s Hole, of unknown extent. The roof is in many parts so low that crawling is an absolute necessity; and as the floor is often covered with soft mud, and there is nothing particular to see, no large chambers or curious formations, the time required for this tunnel may be far more advantageously spent in exploring the most famous and interesting cavern of all, ‘Goyden Pot,’ which lies two miles above Lofthouse, close to the farmstead of Limley, and which carries the river Nidd mysteriously underground to below Lofthouse Church. The mouth of this miscalled ‘pot’ is at the foot of a cliff seven or eight yards high, on the boulder-filled bed of what was the river before it broke its way into the hillside, and which is swept by a noisy torrent still in heavy floods, when the waters fill the cavern to overflowing. A passage varying in height from two to five yards, and about one hundred yards long, with offshoots running right and left, leads, after several descending turns, into a huge chamber, filled with the roar and unseen spray of falling waters; and magnesium ribbon reveals a weird and frightful scene—a deep abyss in front and below, a dome of blackness overhead, on the left a plunging cascade of flashing water, twenty feet at least in height. Opposite and across the yawning gulf, a dark archway marks where a passage leads higher up into the mountain; whilst to right, the stream still foaming after its leap, gurgles and rushes round a bend into a lower pitch-dark tunnel. In dry weather, a descent can be made by the aid of a rope down the side of the chasm, and the stream can be followed often waist-high for a long distance. No one, in the memory of living man, has succeeded in following the water into daylight; but it certainly has yet to be proved that it cannot be done, and though twice baffled, we only wait a favourable opportunity to make another determined attempt. Long settled dry weather is absolutely necessary, as, owing to the steepness of the sides of the narrow valley, a single thunder-shower will raise the level of the river several feet in half an hour; and the tree-roots and other massive debris which are plentifully wedged in the crevices of the roof of the cavern are sufficient evidence of the undesirability of being caught by the tide, so to speak, in Goyden Pot.
Such are some of the Yorkshire caves; and those fond of adventure and rough healthy scrambling will find many a day’s enjoyment therein, and spend, moreover, many a pleasant hour amongst the sturdy dalesmen, hearing quaint country legends, told in a dialect homely and rough, and seeing something of what life is like unaffected by the hurry of the great world outside the hills around. But let not the fastidious venture in those wilds, for ham and eggs—eggs and ham—become monotonous when doing duty daily for breakfast, luncheon, dinner; and though hospitable and open-hearted enough, yet the dalesfolk look upon all, even Yorkshiremen who are not natives, as ‘furiners.’
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER VII.
It was a little after five on the following afternoon that Sir Geoffrey walked from his house into the square. He seemed, by his uneasy air, as if he was afraid of having his movements watched, for he stopped, hesitated, and finally walked away quickly in the direction of Upper Brook Street. Calling a hansom, he was driven to one of the quiet approaches, half town, half country, beyond Paddington, where he dismissed his cab. He then walked quickly on till he reached his destination—a well-appointed though sombre-looking establishment; and there, after some hesitation, he knocked. The room he was shown into was laid out with preparations for dinner; and just as the little clock over the mantel struck the half-hour after six, Le Gautier entered. He greeted his guest quietly, almost coldly, and rang the bell to order the meal. It was a quiet little dinner, really irreproachable in its way—the appropriate wines being perfect, for Le Gautier by no means despised the pleasures of the table, and, moreover, was not the man to spare where he had a purpose to serve.
‘Well, Sir Geoffrey,’ he said, toying with his glass, when the meal had concluded—it was past eight now, and the light was beginning to fail—‘do you feel equal to the coming trial?’
‘O yes,’ the baronet replied eagerly, though his face was perturbed and the glass in his hand shook. ‘Let us get it over; this suspense is killing me. Sometimes I fancy you are playing some devilish arts upon me. I doubt the evidence of my senses.’
‘You do not doubt,’ Le Gautier answered sternly. ‘Listen!’
The light in the room was fading, and nothing distinctly could be seen save the glimmer of the waning day upon glass and silver. At the moment, the strains of music were heard, low and soft at first, then swelling louder, but always melancholy. It was quite impossible to tell whence it came—it seemed to strike the ear as if the earth was full of the sweet sounds. Suddenly it ceased, and a sigh like a mournful wind broke the stillness.
‘It might be my dead brother himself playing,’ Sir Geoffrey said, in great agitation. ‘The organ was his favourite instrument. Strange that the music should be so familiar to me!’