The Vast Abyss

At last, when the strength of the squall was partly spent, Uncle Richard, as he held on by the rope, shouted to Tom to come back; but in his excitement the boy heard nothing. He gave a fierce drag at the rope, crept sidewise beneath the shutter, and exerting all his strength tried to turn it over upon its hinges. But each effort was in vain, for the wind pressed it down.

“I can’t do it – I can’t do it,” he panted, as, pressing his feet against the rail of the gallery, he heaved and heaved with all his might, but only succeeded in getting his arms underneath a little.

Then the rope was dragged fiercely, and his uncle’s voice came through the opening overhead and to his left, but only in a confused murmur, though he felt what must be said; and in despair he was dragging out his hands, for the wind roared louder than ever, pressing him down against the structure with tremendous force. But all at once his hands were set free, for the slight raising of the shutter had been sufficient for the wind to get beneath, and with a rush it was swept by his face, just grazing his chin. There was a tremendous clap, and it was closed, while the boy thought of nothing but holding on as the wind once again pressed him against the building.

And now for a few moments he lost nerve, and clung desperately, feeling as if he must be plucked from his feeble hold and dashed down into the yard. Hammer and nails were forgotten, and he pressed his forehead against the woodwork, while the confusion caused by the roaring of the wind seemed to increase.

Then it was as if a great nerve communicating with safety had been touched, for he felt the rope jerked along sidewise, till it was in the jagged opening at the bottom left-hand corner of the broken shutter.

The feeling was electric, and sent a thrill through the boy.

“I’m all right, I can’t fall,” he muttered; and dragging out the hammer by its head, he felt for the first nail, then ran his hand up the side of the shutter for some distance, judged what would be a fair position for the nail, tapped it in a little way, and then began to drive with vigorous strokes, sometimes missing in the darkness, but nearly always getting good blows on the nail-head, and at last feeling that it was well home.

All this while he felt himself held tightly to the woodwork by the strain upon the cord, and the pressure of the wind:

Getting out another nail, he drove that in a foot lower, close to his chest; another minute, and a third nail was driven home, the exertion and excitement of doing something effectual driving away all thought of danger.

Then jerking the rope a little so as to get more freedom he stood well up, reached as high as possible, and drove in several more nails, and reached over to the other edge of the shutter, where he drove in a couple between the hinges, in case they should be wrenched.

“That must be safe now,” he said to himself, as he lowered himself down to a kneeling position in the gallery, the rope being tightened as he did so, yielding at first, but drawing as if it were made of indiarubber instead of the best hemp.

And now once more Tom felt a sensation of shrinking, for the time had come for his descent, which seemed very easy to talk about in the observatory, but very difficult to perform with the wind blowing a hurricane, and all around him a darkness so thick that it was like that of old – a darkness to be felt.

“But the telescope’s right,” thought Tom, “and the roofs safe;” and getting his lips to the broken opening, he yelled out, doubtful whether his words would be heard in the midst of that bewildering noise – “All right, uncle; lower away!”

He had thrust the hammer back inside his jacket, and now gave the rope a snatch, feeling it yield gently and steadily, as he rose and tried the knot with both hands, but had to thrust them out again to save himself from being dashed against the building, so fierce a squall once more struck him from behind.

The next instant he was once more pinned against the place, and held by the rope as well. This gave him renewed confidence.

“Uncle is on the look-out,” he muttered; and as soon as the worst pressure of the wind was over, he once more shouted through the opening, and losing no time, laid hold of the rail with both hands, resting his chest upon it, raised his legs horizontally, allowed them to drop down, and hung by his arms and the cord; then, as the rope gave, by his hands, and the next minute by the rope, which glided over the rail slowly, and then stopped short, leaving him swinging with his face level with the flooring, and swinging to and fro.

Whoosh! came the wind again, making him lose his hold of the rope and catch at the floor of the gallery, into which he drove his finger-nails for a moment, but only to have them wrenched away, as the wind shrieked and yelled in his ears, and turned him right round and round rapidly like an over-roasted joint.

“Lower away, uncle, lower away!” he shouted; but he might just as well have spared his voice, for not a word could by any possibility have been heard in the observatory, the wind sweeping breath and sound away, and nearly strangling him when he faced it.

Twice over he got a grip of the edge of the gallery, but only to be snatched away again and swung to and fro.

“Why don’t you lower away? Quick! quick!” he shrieked out; and as if in response, he descended three or four feet, and then a couple more in little painful jerks. Then the rope stopped; the wind dashed at him, and he was swung to and fro and round and round like a feather. Now his feet touched the bricks of the mill, then he was far away again, for the rail over which the rope passed projected fully four feet from the top.

He was more and more bewildered; the rope cut into his chest, in spite of his seizing it and holding it with both hands, but only to let go again to stretch them out in the darkness, as he was swung about by the gale, for he was seized now by a dread that he would be dashed heavily against the wall.

Once more he was in motion in jerks, but only for a foot or two, and then the horror of being dashed against the wall grew worse, for the greater length of rope gave the wind more power to swing him violently to and fro.

“Why doesn’t he let me down?” thought Tom, with a fierce feeling of anger rising against his uncle; but that was only momentary, for a fresh dread assailed Tom – he was certain that he had felt the knot of the rope crawling as it were upon his breast, which he knew must mean its giving way, and with a frantic dash he flung up his hands to grasp the cord high up once more.

“Could he climb back into the gallery?”

He tried, but his strength was failing, and after three or four efforts he gave it up, to hang there inert, certain that the rope was nearly undone, and that as soon as his grasp failed upon the thin cord, which could not be long, down he must go, fully five-and-twenty feet – a distance which the horror and darkness and agony made ten times as terrible as it really was, though it would have been bad enough if half.

And all the while the wind raved and roared and tossed him about till he was giddy, and rapidly losing consciousness; twice over he banged heavily against the wall, though for the most part he was swung to and fro parallel to the little gallery. Then a horrible feeling of sickness attacked him, his hands fell to his sides, his head drooped, but the next moment he felt himself reviving, for he was gliding rapidly down; his feet touched the bottom, the rope slackened, then tightened, slackened again, and fell at his feet; while by the time he had staggered to the door, round at the other side of the building, trailing the rope after him like an elongated tail, and holding his painful chest with his hands, that door was opened, and he staggered into his uncle’s arms.

“Well done, my brave lad!” cried Uncle Richard in the comparative silence of the workshop; but Tom could not answer.

“What is it? You are not hurt?”

There was no reply, only a feeble gasp or two, and in his horror his uncle gave him a rough shake, but directly after felt in the darkness for the rope, and rapidly untied it.

“Speak, my boy, if you can,” cried Uncle Richard then. “You are not hurt?”

“No; I’m going to be all right now, I think,” said Tom hoarsely. Then in quite a fierce way he grasped at his uncle’s arm. “Why didn’t you lower me down?” he cried.

“I couldn’t, boy. It was all in the dark, and the rope kept getting wedged by the broken wood. I was afraid to use violence for fear of breaking it, or ravelling it through. Let me help you back into the house. You’ve saved the roof of the mill.”

“Think so?” said Tom huskily.

“Yes, more, Tom – sure,” cried his uncle, jerking the rope into a corner, and re-opening the door.

“Think the light’s quite out?”

“Yes, certain,” cried Uncle Richard; and banging to and locking the door, he caught hold of Tom’s arm.

“I’m all right now,” said the boy; and they hurried back into the house, securing gates as they went, to find Mrs Fidler looking whiter than ever; and quite tearful as she exclaimed —

“Oh dear! I was afraid something dreadful had happened. Do pray sit down and have a cup of tea, sir.”

They did, and with the storm increasing in violence, Tom went up once more to his room, to lie down in his clothes, and listen to the raging wind, and the sounds which told from time to time of destruction to tile, chimney-pot, or tree.

At least he meant to do this, but in ten minutes or so the sound of the wind had lulled him to sleep, and he did not open his eyes again till morning, to find the storm dropped and the sun shining brightly.

Chapter Forty Eight

“Them four lights from the cowcumber frames, Master Tom, lifted off, carried eight-and-forty foot, dashed down and smashed, so as there arn’t a single whole pane o’ glass left.”

“That’s a bad job, David,” said Tom, as he stood looking about him at the ruin caused by the hurricane; “but the telescope is all right.”

“Yer can’t grow cowcumbers with tallow-scoops, Master Tom. The first thing I see as soon as I goes into the little vinery there was two big slates off the top o’ the house, blowed off like leaves, to go right through the glass, and there they was sticking up edgeways in the vine border.”

“Well, only a job for the glazier,” said Tom.

“Strikes me there won’t be glass enough left in the village to do all the mending. Mrs Bray’s front window was blowed right in, and all the sucker and lollypop glasses knocked into a mash o’ glass splinters and stick. There’s a limb off the baking pear-tree; lots o’ branches teared loose from the walls; a big bit snapped off the cedar, and that there arby whitey blowed right sidewise. It’s enough to make a gardener as has any respect for himself break his ’art.”

“Never mind, David; I’ll come out and help you try to put things straight.”

“Will you, Master Tom?”

“Of course I will.”

“But we can’t mend them there frame-lights. The wood’s gone too.”

“No, but I’ll ask uncle to buy some new ones; they were very old.”

“Well, if you come to that, sir, they was that touch-woody that if it hadn’t been for the thick paint I put on ’em every spring, till they had quite a houtside skin o’ white lead, they wouldn’t ha’ held together. Stop, that arn’t all: the tool-house door’s blowed right off. Natur’s very well in some things, but I never could see what was the good o’ so much wind blustering and rampaging about. I was very nigh gettin’ up and coming to see how things was, on’y the tiles and pots was a-flying, so that I thought I’d better stop in bed.”

“I wish you had come,” said Tom.

“Ay, that’s all very well, Master Tom; but s’pose one o’ they big ellums as come down on the green – four on ’em – had dropped atop o’ me, what would master ha’ done for a gardener? There’s nobody here as could ha’ kept our garden as it ought to be.”

“It was a terrible night, David.”

“Terrible arn’t the word for it, Master Tom. Why, do you know – Yah! You there again. Here, stop a minute.”

David ran to a piece of rock-work, picked up a great pebble, and trotted to the side of the garden, whence a piteous, long-drawn howl had just arisen – a dismal mournful cry, ending in a piercing whine, such as would be given by a half-starved tied-up dog left in an empty house.

David reached the hedge, reached over, hurled the stone, and sent after it a burst of objurgations, ending with —

“Yah! G’long home with yer. Beast!”

“That’s about settled him,” he said as he came back, smiling very widely.

“Strange dog, David?”

“Strange, sir? Not him. It’s that ugly, hungry-looking brute o’ Pete Warboys’. That’s four times he’s been here this morning, chyiking and yelping. You must have been giving him bones.”

“I? No, I never fed him.”

“Then cook must. We don’t want him here. But I don’t think he’ll come again.”

“Did you hit him?”

“Hit him, sir? What with that there stone? Not I. Nobody couldn’t hit him with stick or stone neither. Keepers can’t even hit him with their guns, or he’d been a dead ’un long ago. He’s the slipperest dog as ever was.”

“Hy – yow – ow – oo – ooo!” came from a distance – a pitiful cry that was mournful in the extreme.

“Hear that, sir?”

Before Tom could answer the gardener went on —

“So you had the trap-door atop busted open, did yer, sir?”

“Yes, and a terrible job to shut it,” said Tom. “I thought we should never get it fast.”

“Ah, I arn’t surprised. Wind’s a blusterous sort o’ thing when its reg’lar on. Just look: here’s a wreck and rampagin’, sir. What am I to begin to do next?”

“David!”

“Yes, sir; comin’, sir,” cried the gardener, in answer to a call; and as he went off to where his master was pointing out loose slates and a curled-up piece of lead on the roof to the village bricklayer, the miserable howl came again from much nearer.

“Pete must be somewhere about,” thought Tom; and then, after giving another glance round at the damage done by the storm, he hurried out to have a look round the village, going straight to the green, where half the people were standing talking about the elms, which lay broken in a great many pieces, showing the brittleness of the wood, for the huge trunks had snapped here and there, and mighty boughs, each as big as a large tree, were shivered and splintered in a wonderful way.

Every here and there a ruddy patch in the road showed where tile or chimney-pot had been swept off and dashed to pieces. The sign at the village inn had been torn from its hinges, and farther on Tom came upon the Vicar examining the great gilt weather-cock on the little spire at the top of the big square, ivy-clad tower.

He was at the edge of the churchyard using a small telescope, and started round as Tom cried, “Good-morning.”

“Ah, good-morning, Tom. What a night! There, you try. Your eyes are young.”

He handed the telescope.

“It’s terrible, my lad,” he said. “There’s a barn out at Huggins’s laid quite flat, they say, and two straw-stacks regularly swept away.”

“The stacks, sir?” cried Tom, pausing, glass in hand.

“Well, not all at once, but the straw. They tell me it has been swept over the country for miles. I never remember such a storm here. I’ve seen them on the coast.”

“Why, the bar under the letters has bent right down, sir,” said Tom, after a minute’s examination. “I can’t see whether it’s broken.”

“Not likely to be, Tom,” said the Vicar; “it is of copper. See anything else broken?”

“One of the arms – the one with the E on it – is hanging right down.”

“Hah! Well, it must be mended. Did you hear the small bell in the night?”

“No,” said Tom.

“It kept on giving a bang every now and then, for the tower shutters are all gone on the other side. Four came into my garden. I can’t find more, so I suppose they have been blown into the tower among the bells. Good-morning. I must go round the place and see who is damaged. Your uncle says you nearly had the top off the mill, and that you behaved splendidly.”

“Oh, nonsense, sir!” said Tom, colouring. “I only nailed down the top shutter.”

“Only? Well, Tom, I wouldn’t have got up there and nailed it down for all the telescopes in England. Good-morning.”

They parted, and Tom continued his way round by the church, getting a glimpse of the gaping window opening in the tower where the bells hung exposed; and then after passing a great horse-chestnut lying in the next field, he went on round by Mother Warboys’ and the other cottages, catching sight of the old woman standing at her door, with her hand over her eyes, as if watching.

The next minute she caught sight of him, and shouted. Then she shook her stick at him, and said something in a threatening way.

But the boy hurried on, crossed the fields, got into the narrow lane, and then went on and on till he was able to turn into the road which divided his uncle’s field and grounds from the mill-yard.

No sooner had he turned into the sandy road than his ears were saluted by the dismal howling of Pete’s dog, which was evidently somewhere near the mill.

“What a nuisance!” thought Tom, and he paused for a few moments, looking in that direction. “Bound to say Master Pete’s hanging about somewhere, and the dog can’t find him.”

However, he did not stop, but trotted off in the opposite direction to have a look at Huggins’s barn, which lay completely flat, the thatch scattered, and the wooden sides and rafters strewed all over the farm-yard.

Of the two straw-stacks nothing was visible on the spot but the round patches of faggots upon which they had been raised. The straw itself decorated hedges, hung in trees, and was spread over fields as far as he could see.

All at once he heard a yelp, and turning, there was Pete Warboys’ dog racing toward him as hard as it could come. As it drew nearer, tearing along the sandy road, it began to bark furiously, and looked so vicious that Tom stooped and picked up a big stone.

That was sufficient; the dog yelped aloud, turned, leaped over a hedge, and ran for its life.

“Awful coward, after all,” muttered Tom, throwing down the stone and returning to the house, where he set to work and helped David for the rest of the day.

Three times had David charged out after the dog, which kept coming and howling close at hand, and each time the gardener came back grumbling about some one having been “chucking that there dog bones.”

“Cook says she arn’t, sir, and t’other says she arn’t; but I put it to you, sir, would that there dog come a-yowling here if he warn’t hungry?”

“Perhaps that’s why he has come, David,” said Tom.

“No, sir, not athout he expected to get something. I wish him and Pete Warboys had been jolly well blowed out o’ the parish last night, that I do.”

That night at intervals the dog came howling about the place, and kept Tom awake for a while, but the exertions of the past night and the work of the day had told so upon him that he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, but only to be awakened just after sunrise by the mournful howl.

Chapter Forty Nine

“Oh, I can’t stand this,” said Tom, jumping up, and hurriedly beginning to dress, after throwing open his window to see the east gradually turning red, and the clouds far up tinged and necked with orange.

Then there was another low, piteous howling.

“Lie down, you brute!” he shouted out of the window, to be answered by a quick, yelping bark.

“Perhaps Pete is not about, and the dog really is starving,” thought Tom; and he finished dressing as another howl broke out, more piteous and mournful than ever.

“Will you be quiet!” he shouted from the window. “Lie down, and I’ll bring you a bone, you ugly, rat-tailed, low-bred dog-ruffian.”

He was interrupted by a joyous, yelping bark.

“That dog does want to be friends with me, but I can’t have him here,” thought Tom, who now opened his door as quietly as he could, but it gave a loud creak, so did one of the boards, as he walked towards the staircase.

“That you, Tom?” came from his uncle’s room.

“Yes, uncle.”

“There’s a dog making a miserable noise. Try and drive it away.”

“Just going to, uncle,” said Tom. Then to himself, as he went down-stairs – “Driving’s no good, or old Dave would have got rid of him yesterday. I shall have to try him with a bone.”

He laughed to himself as he made his way into the larder, wondering what Mrs Fidler would say if she could see him; and after looking beneath two or three wire covers, he pounced upon a bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, pretty literally a bone, and bore it away, taking his cap and going out into the garden, getting to the side gate in the lane, and passing out just as the sun rose above the horizon.

“Here, hi! ugly!” he cried, breaking into the midst of a howl; and the dog came bounding toward him with its yelping bark. “There; it’s very stupid of me, but just you take that and be off into the woods, and if you come here again look out for squalls.”

The dog made a fierce snap at the bone, upon which its sharp teeth clapped, and then with a growl bounded off, but stopped and came back, dropped the bone in the sand, looked up at Tom, and threw up its head to howl again.

“Why, halloo! what’s the matter then?” cried Tom, holding out his hand; “got another adder-bite in the nose?”

“Ow – ow!” moaned the dog, pressing its head up against the hand. Then it started away, barked sharply, turned, and looked at Tom.

“Here, let’s have a look,” he cried; and the dog uttered an eager bark. “Come here.”

The dog ran to him directly, and after a momentary hesitation Tom took hold of its head, and held up its muzzle without the slightest resistance being offered.

“Well, we seem to have got to be pretty good friends,” said Tom, as he looked carefully, and then let go; “but I don’t see anything wrong. Besides, it isn’t swollen.”

The dog barked loudly now, and started away for a few yards.

“Here, here! Don’t leave your sandy bone,” cried Tom, and the dog ran back. “Here, catch hold.”

Then there was a snap made at the tempting morsel, but it was dropped again directly, for the poor brute to throw up its muzzle and give forth another piteous howl.

“Oh, I say, don’t do that,” cried Tom; and this was responded to by a burst of barking.

“Why, what’s the matter with you? Mouth sore? Toothache?”

There was another burst of barking, and the dog ran on a few yards, and looked back to bark again.

“I don’t understand your language, old chap,” cried Tom. “What do you want? Found a rabbit round here?”

Another eager bark, and the dog pricked up its ears, and looked more and more excited.

“All right, come and pick this up then. It’s too good to leave.”

The dog rushed at the bone as Tom turned it over with his foot, seized it, and ran on again, dropped it, and barked. Then, as the boy advanced, it seized the bone and ran on farther, to go through the same performance.

“Very well, I’ll come,” cried Tom. “Bound to say he has found an adder somewhere, and wants me to kill it, though I should hardly think there are any about now,” and he set off at a trot after the dog, whose whole manner changed at this, for it went bounding off along the road, stopping every now and then to drop the bone and bark excitedly; twice over it left the meat and ran on, but at a word it came back, picked it up, and went on as before, with tail and ears erect, looking as full of business as could be.

“Isn’t this very stupid?” muttered Tom; “me running after this miserable-looking brute. He’s going to change masters, and wants me to go hunting with him – that’s what it is. Pete has knocked him about once too often. Wonder what uncle would say if I took such an object back. And old David!”

He laughed heartily as he pictured the gardener’s disgust, but somehow he could not help feeling satisfied by the dog’s show of affection.

At this point he stopped, for they had gone some distance along beside the fir-wood, and to try how the animal would behave, he called it.

The bone was dropped, and the animal rushed back to him barking excitedly, allowing itself to be patted, and then jumping up and butting its head against him in a way more eager than pleasant.

“Well, isn’t that enough?” cried Tom, giving the dog a few friendly pats, which made it dart on again barking.