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“In this book, the authors delve deep into the affective vibrancies and
forces of digital life. As they show, feelings are the foundation of many
online interactions and content. Feelings are aroused with and through
the internet and compel us to want to stay engaged online - to upload, like,
comment, share and post photos, videos, emojis, GIFs and memes. This
book provides important insights into these processes.”
Prof. Deborah Lupton, author of Data Selves:
More-than-Human Perspectives (Polity) and
Digital Food Cultures (Routledge)
36 Scientific Imperialism
Another Facet of Interdisciplinarity
Edited by Uskali Mäki, Adrian Walsh and Manuela Fernández Pinto
Acknowledgements x
Index 125
Acknowledgements
This book follows from our previous Social Psychology of Emotion (2015) book,
which finished with a realisation of the growing influence of digital and data prac-
tices on our emotional and affective lives. We would like to thank Routledge for
including this book in their Studies in Science, Technology and Society Series
(particular thanks to Neil Jordan and Alice Salt).
We would like to acknowledge the funding provided to support research dis-
cussed in the book, including the “Social Media and Austerity” projects funded
by EPSRC Communities and Culture Network and discussed in Chapter Five.
The University of East London (UEL) also partly funded the empirical work on
a project entitled “Experiences of Social Media” in Chapter Four. Additionally,
the work in Chapter Six was supported by UEL School of Psychology funding.
The ideas developed in this book have emerged through many hugely valu-
able conversations and discussions with colleagues and friends. We would like
to thank them all, as they have been invaluable to the completion of this book. In
particular, we would like to thank Steve Brown, John Cromby, Lewis Goodings,
Dave Harper, Ava Kanyeredzi, Anna Lavis, Laura McGrath, Paula Reavey, Tony
Sampson, Buadaplup Sánchez-Escribano, Paul Stenner, and Angie Voela. We
owe you all a drink (or two).
Last, but not least, we thank our families: Nicola, Katherine, Noah, Lily, Isaac,
Otto, and Arthur.
1 Emotion in the digital age
A word on terminology
The terms emotion and affect are often presented together and used inter-change-
ably. Sometimes, this is acknowledged, with a reason provided (or not!). Part of
the issue is how to articulate their use without providing a clear definition of each.
In this book, we aim to use the terms as they are deployed by those we discuss.
Where this is not possible, we will state so. In the sections in which we discuss the
emotional and/or affective implications of a digital technology (e.g., when it is not
explicitly designed to relate to emotion/affect, but we claim it does), we will pro-
vide a definition. We fully acknowledge existing theory that frames affect in terms
of processes that impact upon individual and social life in ways that are presented
as non-cognitive and/or non-conscious, for instance, in psychoanalysis, critical
Emotion in the digital age 3
media studies, and philosophy. Many of these feature in the field of affect stud-
ies that has emerged strongly in the last 15–20 years (Ahmed, 2004; Ash, 2015;
Clough, 2007; Gregg & Seigworth, 2009; Leys, 2017; Thrift, 2008). There is also
prominent use of affect in relation to affective neuroscience, which emphasises
neurological activity, for example, in relation to mood disorders (e.g., depression
and anxiety) as well as a broader set of psychological activity (Davidson et al.,
2002; Panksepp, 2010; Stein, 2003). The prominence of neurological activity
in such accounts means that questions of cognition and/or consciousness do not
commonly feature.
Whilst affect has featured in approaches that emphasise non-cognitive and
non-conscious approaches (Wetherell, 2012), emotion has often been used in
accounts that emphasise the importance of culture and language in the develop-
ment of meaningful experiences that can be categorised in emotional terms (e.g.,
fear, love, and anger) (Harré, 1986). Emotional categories have been thought of
as being culturally-specific references used when discussing and representing our
feelings, for instance, the use of emojis as visual representations of feeling. The
term emotion has more cultural currency than affect, as well as being core to
mainstream psychological models. Such models have garnered increased promi-
nence through their central role in the development of computerised attempts to
capture and categorise physiological expressions as different kinds of emotion,
for instance, the widespread use of universalist models of a basic set of emo-
tions in artificial intelligence- (AI) based technologies (e.g., facial expression
recognition).
This book considers emotion and affect as core concepts to understand life in
a digital age. They form part of the overall psycho-social operation of experience,
not just discrete psychological forms operating psycho-biologically “within” peo-
ple. Throughout the book, we argue that there is more at stake, emotionally, than
is often considered. For instance, emotion is not just operating at the level of facial
expression but is a more fundamental part of how we orient to ourselves and our
environments. Emotion and affect are important parts of the ways we experience
the world, both in relation to ourselves as individuals and to others. As our lives
increasingly operate in and through digital practices, and processes of datafication
therein, the dimensions of emotion and affect through which we engage and feel
our ways through the world are mediated by digital and data practices. Emotion
and affect are implicated in terms of the relations we have with digital and data
practices, as well as being a core design aim of the technology (e.g., affective
computing). This requires an expanded analytic unit, which goes beyond focusing
on the impact of the functional aim of emotion-related technologies.
We recognise the lack of a universally agreed definition for either emotion
or affect. We also note important attempts to frame processes associated with
emotion and affect through other concepts, such as feeling, e.g. Cromby (2015).
However, we are reluctant to rely on an alternative concept to describe the psy-
chological and social processes associated with existing concepts of emotion and
affect. Creating an additional concept is likely to create as many problems as solu-
tions and can end up subject to the same accusations of essentialising as theories
4 Emotion in the digital age
of emotion and affect. As such, we follow the tradition of using both terms. In
places, we will use affective life as a generic term (e.g., when not discussing spe-
cific emotional and/or affective activity) (Greco & Stenner, 2008; Despret, 2004).
We will not follow other non-essentialist attempts in terms of only using affect (as
a way of avoiding the reductionist baggage of mainstream psychological theory),
as much of what we discuss concerns major psychological models. We also do not
want to exclude the value of emphasising the role of cultural practices in the for-
mation and maintenance of emotion categories (i.e., the impact of language and
meaning in definitions of emotion). The scope is broad, but one which we hope
draws sufficient and valuable attention to developing theoretical and empirical
understandings of emotion and affective processes in a digital age.
You enter a busy train carriage with all the seats taken apart from one. You
sit in the vacant seat and start reading a book. Your experience is as an indi-
vidual in a train carriage with multiple other bodies. There is nothing unto-
ward about your experience. Several stops later your attention is drawn away
from the book to the carriage, and you notice that all, bar one person, has
disembarked. Your experience of the space of the carriage has changed. The
one remaining person is sitting immediately next to you. What felt perfectly
normal when you sat down, now feels strange. Being so close to another
person in an otherwise empty carriage feels like an enforced intimacy that is
disconcerting. You want to get up and move to another seat but are concerned
that this will make your feeling of discomfort visible to the other passenger.
In this example, nothing has changed in your position, or that of the remaining
passenger. What has changed is the relation with the other passengers. In a full
carriage it feels perfectly okay to sit immediately next to another person. In a near
empty carriage, it feels strange. The experience is entirely relational and changes
despite your body remaining static and unmoved. It is the change in the relations
with other passengers that alters your experience. The feeling of that situation
24 A history of emotion-technology relations
is fundamentally relational. Moreover, it is that way for both passengers in this
example. You are part of the collective for the remaining passenger, who now also
potentially feels awkward at the transformed sense of proximity once the carriage
emptied. Each body is simultaneously individual and collective.
Simondon’s relational approach distinguishes him from subsequent philoso-
phers of technology. For instance, Stiegler (1998) sees technics as “processes of
exteriorisation” (p. 17). This prioritises the human individual through claiming
that technologies draw out interiorised psychological processes, such as memory
(e.g. technology reduce the need for memory, because things can be recorded by
technologies rather than relying purely on cognition). For Stiegler, technologies
extend human processes beyond the flesh and bones of the body to the informa-
tional realms of technologies. Simondon does not prioritise the human (psycho-
logical) in such a way, as for him, life is always-already human and technological.
Emotion operates as the next ontogenetic step, it works “on” preceding affects in
the formation of more structured and conscious orientations of the relations of an
individual being to itself and its environment. It is a structuring process that situ-
ates the individual in a more consciously meaningful way with its environment.
Here, the environment is not taken in a general sense but rather, as the immedi-
ate and local milieu with which the living being individuates. What we think of
as a psychological subject “can then be conceived of as the unity of being as an
individuated living being, and as a being that represents its actions through the
world to itself as an element and as a dimension of the world” (Simondon, 2009,
p. 8). Individual bodies come into being as part of relations with elements that
constitute the milieu. This is not about the psychological and social as distinct
realms, but the milieu as a more expanded unit of analysis that does not reduce
the operation and becoming of individual beings to their bodies (human and non-
human). The individual is therefore fundamentally about a relation within and a
relation without. These are not sequential but are simultaneous and involve action.
The individual subject is an agent of its own individuation in terms of intervening
in the problem of its own existence. Simondon’s theory of pre-individuation and
affect shift thinking away from constituted living beings towards the stage of their
genesis. This involves thinking prior to the formation of individual emotional
beings.
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3 Artificial intelligence and emotion
our sense of our situation is determined by our changing moods, by our cur-
rent concerns and projects, by our long-range self-interpretation and probably
also by our sensory-motor skills for coping with objects and people-skills we
develop by practice without ever having to represent to ourselves our body
as an object, our culture as a set of beliefs, and our propensities as situation
→ action rules. All these unique human capacities provide a “richness” or
a “thickness” to our way of being-in-the-world and thus seem to play an
essential role in situatedness, which in turn underlies all intelligent behaviour
(1992, p. 53)
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invention which had failed to recommend itself to the particularity of
London.
“It may be all right,” she would say; “and so may the himage of a
piece of fat pork pulled up and down one’s throat with a string,
which, I am told, is hemployed at sea to encourage ’eaving. At the
same time, sir, I may venture to remark, that there are remedies
known to Londoners to be worse than their diseases.”
Uncle Jenico, in the first instance, secretly inveigled Fancy-Maria
into helping him in his experiment. The parlour fire was extinguished,
and the worthy girl despatched to the roof through a trap-door, where
she performed her share of the task with such inflexible tenacity that
when my uncle tugged at his end of the cord, which she had dutifully
lowered, he pulled her head into the chimney, and would have ended
by drawing her bodily down, I believe, if her gasps and chokings
reaching him below had not warned him in time. Then he slackened
his hold, and commended her excess of loyalty and instructed her
further; but in the end she descended from the roof an absolute
negress, and for days afterwards shed soot from her boots and
sneezed it from her hair in little clouds that flavoured everything.
Subsequently, Harry and I were taken into his confidence and
made his operators, much to our gratification. Climbing-boys, indeed!
It was become a luxury to be a sweep, thanks to Uncle Jenico; and
the world called him a crank! Every one but himself might profit by
his inventions. Certainly Harry and I did. We polished every flue in
Mrs. Puddephatt’s house as clean as a whistle, and, until we tired of
the sport, whatever other chimneys in the village the housewives
would lay open to us. And it was only when we took to angling with
the great sooty ball over parapets for unsuspecting faces pausing
below, that Mr. Sant, giving ear to furious complaints, stepped in with
his authority, and put an end to the game.
So, on us, black and joyous and inseparable, I will let down the
act-drop of our little stage, to raise it on a later development of the
drama I set out to record.
END OF PART I.
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
THE BADGER.
“Which it’s well known that ’ope deferred maketh a cat sick,” said
Mrs. Puddephatt, with unintentional irreverence, referring to my
report to my uncle of our late meeting with Mr. Rampick. She was by
this time quite in the family confidence. “Bless you, Master Richard,”
said she, “it’s not the Lord’s secret the man’s so keerful of; it’s ’is
hown, living all these years on the ’opes of salvidge from the ’ill, and
jealous of hothers steppin’ hin and anticepting of ’im.”
Uncle Jenico laughed.
“You’re still as sceptical as ever about the earthquake, Mrs.
Puddephatt,” said he. “Now, it occurs to me, if the hill was, as you
suppose, a rendezvous for smugglers, who by some folly entombed
themselves therein, why wasn’t the whole village plunged
immediately into mourning for the loss at a blow of so many fathers
and brothers?”
Mrs. Puddephatt, standing with folded arms and a bleak, patient
smile, awaited his good pleasure to answer.
“Hev you adone, sir?” she now demanded. “Don’t let me hinterrupt
you before you’ve got it hall hout.”
“Thank you,” said Uncle Jenico, a little abashed. “I think there’s
nothing more.”
“Ho!” said the lady, drawing in a sharp breath. “Then let me
hexpress at once, sir, before more’s said, my hobligation for your
supposing as I’m supposing.”
“I admit it was unpardonable,” answered my uncle, with a beaming
but rather frightened smile. “I should have understood, of course,
that you have warrant for your smugglers.”
“Not my smugglers, sir,” she said, “begging your pardon. Faults
there may be in my pronounciation; but ’awking and spitting in his
langwidge was never yet, so far as I know, laid to the charge of a
Londoner.”
“My dear soul!” began Uncle Jenico. But she interrupted him—
“No, sir; nor to hend the names of his towns with a hoath, which it
is not permitted to a lady’s lips to pollute themselves with huttering.”
“O, really, Mrs. Puddephatt, I don’t understand!” said my uncle in
despair.
“I dare say not, sir,” went on the inexorable female. “But you must
excuse me if I draw the line at Hamster and Rotter.”
“O!” said Uncle Jenico, gathering light through the gloom. “You
mean to imply that these smugglers were Dutchmen?”
She condescended to smile a little, and, pursing her lips, nodded
at him with a very stiff neck.
“Bein’, you see, a Londoner yourself, sir, to which a nod is as good
as a wink. It was Dutchmen what landed and stowed the stuff, and
Dunberry what distributed of it. They howned to no connection with
one another, and worked apart, which was their safety. Dunberry,
bless you, would be dreaming in their beds that hinnercent, while
’Olland would be stuffing of the ’ill with contraband. Honly that
Rampick was the master sperrit and go-between; and now you
knows the truth about ’im.”
We both stared at her breathless.
“Then,” said my uncle at last, “the unfortunate creatures caught up
there, if caught they were——”
“Made no widders in Dunberry, sir,” she put in decisively.
“God bless me!” said Uncle Jenico, much agitated. “Then Rampick
——”
He turned to me.
“Don’t bait the man, Dick,” he said. “Remember, whoever’s to
blame for it, he’s half crazed by his misfortunes; and small wonder,
when some of us find it difficult to keep our heads in prosperity. Why,
dear, dear! It isn’t the part of luck to throw stones, and certainly not
at a dog in a trap. It’s like enough the poor creature’s dangerous. I
dare say I should be if things had gone against me. Don’t bait him,
Dick. Give him a wide berth.”
He had always been a little nervous about this fellow and our
attitude towards him. His appeal was, however, superfluous. The ex-
smuggler was not attractive; and Harry and I were certainly never the
first to invite collision with him. For, what with blight and rum and
sanctimony—which last, from being assumed for a disguise, had
become a half-demoniac possession in him—he was little better at
this day than a smouldering madman. Nevertheless, I tried loyally
henceforth to emulate Uncle Jenico’s better Christianity by making
allowances for the man because of his provocation. After all,
calumny could visit him with no more formidable charge than that of
having been a successful smuggler—a negative indictment even in
these days. And perhaps, the main impeachment admitted, Mrs.
Puddephatt’s cockney perspicacity was not so deadly a detective as
she supposed.
I took Mr. Sant and Harry, of course, into my confidence with
regard to our landlady’s story. It was little more than a confirmation to
them, if that were needed, that Rampick had been the head and front
of the old trade. But the Dutch part was news to us, and nothing less,
I do believe, to Mrs. Puddephatt herself, who, however she had
become acquainted with it, had acquired her knowledge recently, I
am sure, or she would not have omitted hitherto to impress us with it
in her many allusions to the “herthquake.” The rector, for his part,
had speculated, no doubt, like my uncle, upon the equanimity with
which the village had accepted the supposed visitation of God upon
a number of its bread-winners; but had never to this day, I think, in
spite of the respect in which he was held, succeeded in getting
behind the local esprit de corps which hid the real truth from him.
Now much was explained—provided Mrs. Puddephatt had actually
been permitted to discover what had been kept from us—much, that
is to say, except the nature and cause of the catastrophe; and that, I
supposed, we should never find out. But there I was mistaken, as
events will show. For Destiny, having got her puppets at last into
position, was even now gathering the strings into her hands for the
final “Dance of Death.”
In the meanwhile, the last month of the year opened upon us with
a falling barometer and fresh menace of tempest, which it was not
long in justifying. The little calm had been but a breathing time, to
enable Winter to brace his muscles and fill out his lungs. It was on
the night of the fifteenth, I think, that the great storm which followed,
notable even on those coasts, rose to its height. The wind came from
the north-east, with a high tide, which, racing obliquely, cut the cliffs
like a guillotine. The whole village hummed and shook with the roar
of it. Not a chimney but was a screaming gullet into which its breath
was sucked like water. There were ricks scattered like chaff on the
uplands, and trees uprooted with mandrake groans of agony. God
knows, too, what the quicksands knew that night! When the day
broke the worst was already over, and the sea, scattered with the
bones of its prey, sullenly licking its jaws. Far on the drifts of the
Weary Sands gaped the ribs of a mammoth it had torn, the solitary
monument to its rage. The rest was matchwood.
That same night Uncle Jenico and Harry and I were supping at the
rectory. The occasion is vivid in my memory because of a story
which Mr. Sant told us. After the meal we had drawn our chairs to the
fire, and moved, perhaps, by the unearthly racket overhead, were
fallen upon talk of the supernatural. The house lay so close-shut
within trees that the booming of the tempest came to us half muffled.
In its pauses, we could even hear the drip from broken gutters
treading the drive beneath, upon which the dining-room windows
looked, with a sound like stealthy footsteps. It brought to his mind,
said Mr. Sant, a legend he had once heard about a werewolf—the
German vampire. These creatures, men by day, but condemned, for
their unspeakable crimes, to become wolves with the going down of
the sun, are like nothing mortal. It is forbidden to notice, to pity, to
sympathize with them in any way. Whosoever does, yields himself to
their thrall.
One winter evening a peasant-woman, belated in the snow-bound
woods, was hurrying home, with her basket of provisions for the
morrow over her arm, when she heard a pattering behind her, and
looking back, there was a werewolf following. In the hunger of the
miserable creature’s face she saw an expression which haunted
while it terrified her. It was faintly suggestive of something, or
somebody; but of what or whom she could not tell. Yet the lost horror
in it moved her in spite of herself. Her pity mastered her fear. She
took meat from her basket and threw it back, conscious of her secret
sin. “But who will know!” she thought; “and I could not sleep without.”
The creature stopped to devour the morsel, which enabled the
woman to escape and reach her home in safety. But all the following
day her deed dwelt with her, so that towards evening, unable to bear
her own sole confidence any longer, she went down to the lonely
church to confess her sin and be absolved of it. She rang the little
sacristy bell, and summoned the solitary confesser. He came, and
behind the bars heard her avowal. Then, as listening to it he turned
his face, she saw that snap and change in the gloom. The eyes
rounded, the brows puckered and met, the jaw shot down and forth.
Before her, glaring through the bars, was the werewolf of the
preceding night. It barked and snapped at the grating which divided
them, then dropped, and she heard it issue forth and come pattering
round to the side where——
We were never to know, for at that instant, weird and unearthly in
a pause of the storm, there rose a long melancholy bay outside the
window. We all fell like mutes, staring at one another; then, moved
by a single impulse, jumped to our feet and made for the front door.
The wind battled to crush us with it, driving us back as we raised the
latch, and so whipped our eyelashes and flared the lights in the hall
that for a minute we could do nothing. But when at last we emerged
and stood in the drive, not a living shape of any sort was to be seen
—only the tossed bushes and black tree trunks.
“It must have been a wandering dog,” said Mr. Sant; “something
attracted by the light. Come in again, all of you.”
But we would only re-enter to get our coats and caps for the
homeward march. Some growing sense of unbounded licence in the
storm awed us, I think, and drew us like cowed beasts to our lairs.
As we butted through the darkness, a form detached itself from the
shadows in a deep part of the lane, and followed staggering and
hooting in our wake. It was Rampick, blazing drunk, and his maniac
laugh pursued my uncle and me long after we were housed and
shuddering between the sheets.
CHAPTER III.
OPEN SESAME.
I had a vision sometimes of our tight little island lying on the sea like
a round of bread and butter on a plate, and the Angel of the Storm
amusing himself by biting patterns out of its edges. The coast in our
part of the world was particularly inviting to him, because, I suppose,
it was crumb, and not rocky with crust like other parts. Anyhow he
never flew near without setting his teeth in it somewhere, and on this
occasion to such gluttonous effect that he must have blown himself
out before he had fairly settled down to his meal. His attack was as
short as it was violent. For miles north and south the cliffs had been
torn and gulped—only the birds, mapping them from above, could
have said into what new fantastic outline. Landmarks were gone,
and little bays formed where had been promontories. Here and there
a fisherman’s boat had been licked out of its winter perch, that that
same angel might play bounce-ball with it on the cliffs until it was
broken to bits. The wreck and flotsam on the shore were
indescribable; and sad and ugly was the sight of more than one
drowned mariner entangled in them. I turn my memory gladly from
such retrospects, to concentrate it upon those features of the havoc
which most concern this history.
Waterside folk are a strangely incurious and fatalistic race. Once
having satisfied themselves after a storm that their craft, disposed
here and there in winter quarters, are untouched, the changes
wrought on their sea-front interest them only in so far and so long as
those changes mean profitable wreckage. When that is all gathered,
they withdraw again to their winter burrows and winter occupations,
and leave the foreshore to its natural desolation.
At least, that is what Dunberry did after the gale and within a
couple of days following it, than which no longer was needed, it
appeared, to secure any salvage worth the landing. For there is this
characteristic of great tempests, that from their destructive rage they
yield a poorer harvest of “whole grain,” so to speak, than do
moderate ones. The latter, maybe, deposit some literal pickings in
the shape of crates, barrels, seamen’s chests, etc., yet compact; the
former for the most part mere disjecta membra. It followed, therefore,
that when Harry and I next visited the beach—which, as it happened,
he having been away, and I confined to the house with a beastly
cold, we did not do until the afternoon of the third day succeeding
that night of uproar—we found we had the whole place virtually to
ourselves.
Uncle Jenico, who, from his anxious concern for me, had also kept
at home during the interval, came with us, full of suppressed
eagerness to glean the torn fields of shingle for relics. I think I only
realized the self-restraint which his affection must have imposed
upon him in those two days, when I saw the almost childish joy with
which he greeted the sight of the weedy litter strewn, as far as the
eye could reach, along the shore.
“Why, Richard!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, while his
spectacles seemed to twinkle again, “here’s a chance indeed! It’s an
ill wind that blows nobody—— Poor souls, poor souls! I feel like
robbing the grave to take such advantage of their misery.”
His countenance fell a moment; but his mood was not proof
against the stupendous prospect.
“The sea’s a pretty big grave, sir,” said Harry. “You might as well
have scruples about digging gold out of the earth, seeing we’re all
buried there.”
“That’s true,” said Uncle Jenico, with serious delight. “That’s quite
true, my boy. I only hope I’ve not left it to too late.”
This gave me a little qualm.
“Shall I come with you, uncle?” I said.
“No, Dicky,” he answered; “no, no, no. You and Harry amuse
yourselves as you will. I wouldn’t deny myself for anything the
gratification of the treat I’m going to bring you by-and-by. It’s selfish,
no doubt; but—but I’d rather be alone.”
And he hobbled away, calling out to us not to let our expectations
run too high, or he might be defrauded of his opportunity to surprise
us.
“He’s a real trump,” said Harry. “I hope you think so, Dick.”
“Of course I do,” I answered, rather testily, and began to whistle.
“That’s all right, then,” said he. “And now let’s explore.”
It was a fine, still afternoon, with the tide at quiet ebb, and a touch
of frost in the air. The sun, low down, burned like a winter fire, and
gleamed with a light of sadness on the ribs of the gaunt wreck lying
far away on the Weary Sands. She was visible only at low water; at
high being completely submerged. No one, so far as I knew, had yet
had the curiosity or venturesomeness to row out and investigate the
poor castaway. It was just plain to see, by the aid of glasses, that
she had broken her back on the drift, and that only her stern half
remained, wedged into the sand. But what her name or condition
Dunberry had not had the energy to inquire.
We were standing at gaze at the foot of the Gap, and when Uncle
Jenico went north, we, in obedience to his wish to be left alone,
turned our faces down the coast. But we had not taken a score or so
of steps when we hooted out simultaneously over the sight that was
suddenly revealed to us. The storm had bolted a great hunk, good
ten feet through at its thickest, of the Mitre, obliterating the already
half-effaced step-way by which Rampick had been wont to ascend,
and laying bare, high up in the cliff, a mass of broken masonry. From
the character of this last it was evident at a glance what had
happened. The seaward limit to the crypts of the old abbey had been
shorn through, and the extreme vaulting of that ancient underworld
exposed. Nor was this all. The well, now thus further isolated from
the hill which had once contained it, was grown, from the washing
away of the sand at its base, an apparent five feet or so taller, and
was leaning outwards at a distinctly acuter and more ominous angle
with the shore.
We stood excited a moment, then, without a word, raced to get a
closer view. The wrack and downfall, as we looked up at their traces,
must have been stupendous; yet so great had been the pulverising
force of the waves, the mighty silt from them, except for a few
tumbled blocks of stone, was all dispersed and distributed about the
shore below, so that a new cliff face, clear of ruin, went up in a pretty
clean sweep from beach to summit sixty feet above. From the lower
curve of this, where it ran out and down into the sand, the well
projected, not ten feet above us, like a little tower of Pisa; and yet
thirty feet higher, at a point in the hill face about on a level with the
well top, gaped the jagged ruin of masonry which the storm had laid
bare.
“Dick!” whispered Harry—“Dick!” (He was gulping and gripping my
arm hard, as he stared up.) “Supposing we could climb to there and
look in!”
“Yes!” I choked back. I knew what was in his mind; and the thought
fascinated while it frightened me horribly.
“I’ve never seen a Dutchman,” he said. “Mrs. Puddephatt, she—it
would be fun to find out the truth. What are they like?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, shivering. “They wear lots of breeches,
I believe. But it’s no good. The place is all choked up. You can see
for yourself.”
There was no apparent entrance that way, indeed. The contour of
the vaulting was roughly discernible, it is true, but so stopped with
mud and débris as to offer no visible passage.
“Besides,” I went on, swallowing fast and trying to escape from the
fluttering spell the mere suggestion had laid upon me,—“whether it
was an earthquake or gunpowder, it’s all the same. It must be just all
squash and ruin inside; and—and the things——” I stuck, feeling that
I dare not speculate further.
Harry released my arm, and for some time looked down, making
thoughtful patterns with his foot in the sand.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said, raising his face suddenly. “But I’d
mighty like to see.”
We were both rather silent for the rest of the afternoon; and,
though we neither of us alluded to the subject for a day or two
afterwards, it was evident it stood between us. We avoided the spot,
too; until one evening a long ramble brought us back by the shore
past it. Then, by a common impulse, we stopped, and stood gaping
silent up once more. The light from the sinking sun smote level upon
the face of the cliff, so that it stood out as bright as a grate back. Its
surface, quite dried from the tempest, reflected no glaze of water.
The rivulets of mud, which had flowed over and sealed the scar of
ruin above, were hardened like plaster, though shrinkage had
opened black fissures in them here and there.
Harry, softly whistling, left me suddenly, and, with his hands in his
pockets, toiled indifferently up the slope to the well foot. Here, still
whistling, he began kicking round the base; but in a moment
desisted and called to me. I went up, and he fell upon his knees, and
set to scraping with his fingers.
“See?” he said, stopping.
“No; what?” I answered.
“Why, look, you bat!” said he. “Nothing under; nothing deeper.
Here’s the last bottom course of the thing; the foundation stones, or
I’m a——”
He checked himself, grinning.
“I was going to say ‘Dutchman,’” said he; “and, for all we know,
they may be listening up there.”
“O, don’t be a beast!” I exclaimed, with a wriggle of discomfort.
He chuckled again.
“Well, anyhow,” he said, “here’s the old well just standing on its
end, like a drain-pipe with a tilt to it. If we brought spades and dug
away underneath on the outside, it would fall—and on the top of us,
too; but that’s a detail. Wonder the storm didn’t finish it, don’t you?
Must have come pretty near to.”
As he spoke, staring up at me, he suddenly uttered a soft
exclamation, and scrambling to his feet, pulled at my arm.
“Look there!” he whispered. “Don’t move!”
I followed the direction of his hand, which was pointing to the scar
in the cliff-face above. I could see nothing.
“Hush, you old fool!” he said impatiently. “Keep quiet!”
I did not stir; till, at the end of a long interval, something made me
start involuntarily. It was a wink—a flutter—a motion of some sort, I
knew not what, on the hill front.
“Did you see?” whispered Harry.
“Yes,” I muttered back. “What was it?”
He ran down the slope to the sand, and I followed at a leap,
thinking he meant that the cliff was falling. But when I saw his face I
knew that some excitement other than fear was moving him.
“It was the badger,” he said, turning sharp on me. “Now, do you
understand what that means?”
Perhaps I had a glimmering; but I shook my head feebly to
repudiate it.