The Vast Abyss

“Out with your knife, Tom,” cried Uncle Richard; “cut a piece three feet long off one of those ropes, and unravel it into string.”

Tom set to work, while the carpenter cut off a couple of straight fir-boughs, which David trimmed quickly with the axe, and a few cross-pieces were sawn off about thirty inches long.

Then Tom stared in wonder to see how rapidly his uncle bound the short pieces of wood across the long, afterwards weaving in small pieces of the green fir, and forming a strong, fairly soft litter.

“Not the first time by many, Tom,” he said. “Accidents used to be frequent in clearing forest in the East. There: that will do. Now for our patient.”

He knelt down beside Pete, placed a bough of thickly-clothed fir beneath the injured arm, and then closely bound all to the boy’s side.

“More harm is often done to a broken limb by letting it swing about,” he said, “than by the fracture itself. Now four of us together. Pass your hands beneath him, enlace your fingers, and when I give the word, all lift.”

This was done, Pete deposited upon the litter, and secured there by one of the ropes, after which he was carefully borne to his grandmother’s cottage, where the doctor was already waiting, and the old woman, tramping about stick in hand, looking as if prepared to attack her visitors for bringing down mischief upon the head of her grandson.

At last, as the boy was laid upon a mattress, she began to scold at Uncle Richard, but only to be brought up short by the doctor, who sternly bade her be silent, and not interrupt him while he examined Pete and set his arm.

This silenced the poor old woman, who stood back looking on, till the doctor had finished, and gone away to fetch medicine for his patient.

“Yes,” he said, “very bad, and will be worse, for in all probability he will have a sharp attack of fever, and be delirious when he recovers his speech. It is really wonderful that he is still alive.”

As these words were said, Tom looked back through the open cottage door, to see Pete lying motionless upon the mattress, and the dog sitting up beside him, looking down at the still white face.

“Looking at the dog, Tom?” said the Vicar.

“Yes, sir. What a faithful beast it is.”

“Splendid,” said the Vicar. “And yet I’ve seen Pete ill-use the poor brute, and I’m afraid it was half-starved; but it does not seem to influence the dog’s affection for him.”

“No, sir, not a bit. There are worse things than dogs, sir.”

“Yes, Tom,” said the Vicar, tightening his lips, “a great deal.”

That night Pete’s eyes opened, and he began talking rapidly about falling trees and sand, and the black darkness; but his grandmother, worn-out with watching, had fallen asleep, and there was no one to hearken but the dog, which reached over every now and then to lick his face or hands.

And at the touch the injured, delirious lad grew calmer, to drop off into his feverish sleep again, while, when Tom came early the next morning, it was to meet the doctor coming away.

“Don’t go in,” he said; “you can do no good; quiet and time are the only remedies for him. – Ah, good-morning, Mr Maxted.”

For the Vicar was up early too, and had come to see after his worst parishioner.

“Good-morning, doctor. May I go in?”

“Yes, if you will be quiet.”

The Vicar stole in, stayed for some time, and then came out as silently as he had gone in, to look inquiringly at the doctor.

“You think he will die?” he said.

“I hope not,” replied the doctor earnestly. “Not if I can prevent it.”

Just then there was another visitor to the cottage in the person of Uncle Richard, while soon after David appeared round the corner, where there was a sharp bend in the lane, having risen and started an hour earlier so as to come round by Mother Warboys’, and inquire about the injured lad.

“Don’t you go a-thinking that I keer a nutshell about Pete Warboys, Master Tom,” said David, as he was looking into the cottage with the boy by his side, “because I don’t, and it sims to me as the fewer Pete Warboyses there is in the world the better we should be. It warn’t him I come about’s mornin’ – not Pete, you know, but the lad as had had an accident, and got nearly killed. See?”

“Yes, I see, David,” said Tom, nodding his head.

“It’s him as has got the friends – the young accident – not Pete. Say, Master Tom?”

“Yes.”

“If Pete Warboys dies – ”

“Hush! don’t talk about it,” cried Tom in horror.

“Oh, cert’ny not, sir, if you don’t wish me to. May I talk about the dog?”

“Oh yes, of course,” cried Tom, as he looked round at the bright, smiling earth, glittering with diamond-like dew, and thought how terrible it would be for one so young to be snatched away.

“Well, sir, I was thinking a deal about that dog last night, for I couldn’t sleep, being a bit overcome like.”

“Yes, I was awake a long time,” said Tom, with a sigh.

“Not so long as I was, sir, I’ll bet a bewry pear. Well, sir, I lay a-thinking that if – mind, I only says if, sir – if Pete Warboys was to die, how would it be, if master didn’t say no, and I was to knock him up a barrel for a kennel to live in our yard?”

“I should ask uncle to let me keep him, David, for he’s a wonderful dog.”

“I don’t go so far as that, sir, for he’s a dog as has had a horful bad eddication, but something might be made of him; and it was a pity, seeing why he came yowling about our place, as you was so handy heaving stones at him.”

“What?” cried Tom indignantly.

“Well, sir, p’r’aps it was me. But it weer a pity, warn’t it?”

“Brutal,” cried Tom.

“Ah, it weer. He’s a horful hugly dog though.”

“Not handsome certainly,” replied Tom.

“That he arn’t, sir, nowheres. But if he was fed reg’lar like, so as to alter his shape, and I took off part of his ears, and about half his tail, he might be made to look respectable.”

“Rubbish!” cried Tom.

“Oh no, it arn’t, sir. Dogs can be wonderfully improved. But what do you say to askin’ cook to save the bits and bones while there’s no one to feed him? I’ll take ’em every day as I go home from work. What do you say?”

“Yes, of course,” cried Tom; and from that day the ugly mongrel was regularly fed, but after the first feeding it did not trouble David to take the food, but left its master’s side about three o’clock every afternoon, and came and fetched the food itself.

“Which it’s only nat’ral,” said David, with a grim smile; “for if ever I did see a dog as had ribs that looked as if they’d been grown into a basket to hold meat, that dog is Pete Warboys’; but I hope as good meat and bones ’ll do something to make his hair grow decent, for he’s a reg’lar worser as he is.”

Chapter Fifty Two

It was about a fortnight after the accident, that Tom was returning one day from Mother Warboys’ cottage, where the old woman had sat scowling at him, while Pete lay back perfectly helpless, and smiled faintly at his visitor, when he met Mrs Fidler by the gate looking out for him.

“There’s some one come from London to see you, Master Tom.”

“From London?”

“Yes, sir; he said his name was Pringle.”

“Pringle!” cried Tom eagerly. “Where is he?”

“In the dining-room with your uncle, sir; and I was to send you in as soon as you came back.”

Tom hurried in, and found the clerk from Gray’s Inn very smartly dressed. His hat was all glossy, and there was a flower in his button-hole.

“Ah, Pringle,” cried the boy, “I’m so glad to see you. This is Pringle, who was so kind to me, uncle, when I was at the office.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, rather grimly; “Mr Pringle has already introduced himself, and – ahem! – told me of the friendly feeling which existed between you.”

The clerk, who had evidently been very uncomfortable, had brightened up a little at the sight of Tom, but his countenance fell again at Uncle Richard’s words.

“Now, Mr Pringle, perhaps you will be good enough to repeat that which you have told me – in confidence, for I should like my nephew to hear it, so that he can give his opinion upon the matter.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Pringle, brightening up, and becoming the sharp-speaking clerk once more. “The fact is, Mr Thomas, I have left Mr Brandon’s office – which I won’t deceive you, sir, he didn’t give me no chance to resign, but in consequence of a misunderstanding with Mr Samuel, because I wouldn’t tell lies for him, he sent me off at once.”

“I am very sorry, Pringle,” said Tom sympathetically.

“So am I, sir,” replied the clerk; “and same time, so I ain’t. But to business, sir. So long as I was Mr Brandon’s clerk, sir, my mouth seemed to be shut, sir; but now I ain’t Mr Brandon’s clerk, sir, it’s open; and feeling, as I did, that there are things that you and your respected uncle ought to hear – ”

“About my uncle and cousin?” cried Tom, flushing.

“Yes, sir. There was certain papers, sir, as – ”

“Thank you, Pringle,” cried Tom quickly; “neither my Uncle Richard nor I want to hear a single word about matters that are dead and buried.”

“Thank you, Tom,” cried Uncle Richard eagerly. “Mr Pringle will bear me out when I say, that you have used my exact words.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pringle, looking into his hat, as if to consult the maker’s name. “I can corroborate that – the very words.”

“So you see, Mr Pringle,” continued Uncle Richard, rising to lay his hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, “you have brought your information to a bad market, and if you expected to sell – ”

“Which I’m sure I didn’t, sir,” cried the clerk, springing up, and indignantly banging his hat down upon the table, to its serious injury about the crown. “I never thought about a penny, sir, and I wouldn’t take one. I came down here, sir, because I was free, sir, and to try and do a good turn to Mr Thomas here, sir, who was always a pleasant young gentleman to me, and I didn’t like the idea of his being done out of his rights.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Richard, looking at the man searchingly.

“Yes, sir, indeed; I’d have spoken sooner if I could, but I always said to myself there was plenty of time for it before Mr Thomas would be of age. Good-morning, sir; good-morning, Mr Thomas. I’d like to shake hands with you once more. I’m glad to see you, sir, grown so, and looking so happy; but don’t you go thinking that I came down on such a mean errand as that. I ain’t perfect, I know, and in some cases I might have expected something, but I didn’t here.”

“I don’t think you did, Pringle,” cried Tom, holding out his hand, at which the clerk snatched.

“Neither do I, Mr Pringle, now,” said Uncle Richard, “though I did at first. Thank you for your proffer, but once more, that unhappy business is as a thing forgotten to my nephew and me.”

“Very good, sir; I’m very sorry I came,” began Pringle.

“And I am not. I beg your pardon, Mr Pringle; and I am sure my nephew is very glad to see you.”

“Oh, don’t say no more about it, sir; I only thought – ”

“Yes, you did not quite know us simple country people,” said Uncle Richard. “There, Tom, see that your visitor has some lunch. Dinner at the usual time, and we’ll have tea at half-past seven, so as to give you both a long afternoon. I dare say Mr Pringle will enjoy a fine day in the country.”

“I should, sir, but I’ve to go back.”

“Plenty of time for that,” said Uncle Richard; “the station fly shall be here to take you over in time for the last train. There, you will excuse me.”

That evening, as Tom rode over to the station with his visitor, and just before he said good-bye, Pringle rubbed away very hard at his damaged hat, but in vain, for the breakage still showed, and exclaimed —

“I don’t care, sir, I won’t believe it.”

“Believe what, Pringle?”

“As them two’s brothers, sir. It’s against nature. Look here, I wouldn’t have it at first, but he was quite angry, and said I must, and that I was to take it as a present from you.”

“What is it?” said Tom; “a letter?”

“Yes, sir, to your uncle’s lawyer, asking him as a favour to try and get me work.”

“Then you’ll get it, Pringle,” cried Tom.

“That I shall, sir. And look here, cheque on his banker for five-and-twenty pounds, as he would make me have, to be useful till I get a fresh clerkship. Now, ought I to take it, Mr Thomas?”

“Of course,” cried Tom. “There, in with you. Good-night, Pringle, good-night.”

“But ought I to take that cheque, Mr Thomas? because I didn’t earn it, and didn’t want to,” cried Pringle, leaning out of the carriage window; “Ought I to keep it, sir?”

“Yes,” cried Tom, as the train moved off, and he ran along the platform, “to buy a new hat.”

Chapter Fifty Three

“And you did not know anything about it, Pete?” said Tom one day, as he sat beside the lad in Mother Warboys’ cottage, while the old woman kept on going in and out, muttering to herself, and watching them uneasily.

Pete looked very thin and hollow-cheeked, but for the first time perhaps for many years his face was perfectly clean, and his hair had been clipped off very short; while now, after passing through a phase of illness which had very nearly had a fatal result, he was slowly gaining strength.

The dog, which had been lying half asleep beside his master, suddenly jumped up, to lay its long, thin nose on Tom’s knee, and stood watching him, perfectly happy upon feeling a hand placed for treating as a sheath into which he could plunge the said nose.

“You give him too much to eat,” said Pete. Then suddenly, “No, I can’t recklect. It was blowin’ when I got in to go and sleep, ’cause she was allus grumblin’, and then somethin’ ketched me, and my arm went crack, and it got very hot, and I went to sleep. I don’t ’member no more. I say.”

“Yes.”

“I shan’t take no more doctor’s stuff, shall I?”

But he did – a great deal; and in addition soups and jellies, and sundry other preparations of Mrs Fidler’s, till he was able to go about very slowly with his arm in a sling, to where he could seat himself in some sandy hollow, to bask in the sun along with his dog.

“But it’s bringing up all the good in his nature, Tom,” said the Vicar, rubbing his hands, “and we shall make a decent man of him yet.”

“Humph! doubtful!” said Uncle Richard.

“You go and look for comets and satellites,” cried the Vicar good-humouredly. “Tom’s on my side, and we’ll astonish you yet. Wait a bit.”

Uncle Richard smiled, and David, when Pete formed the subject of conversation, used to chuckle.

“Not you, Master Tom,” he said; “you’ll never make anything of him, but go on and try if you like. I believe a deal more in the dog. He arn’t such a bad one. But Pete – look here, sir. If you could cut him right down the thick part below his knees, which you couldn’t do, ’cause he arn’t got no thick part, for them shambling legs of his are like pipe-shanks – ”

“What are you talking about, David?” said Tom merrily.

“Pete Warboys, Master Tom. I say, if you could cut him down like that, and then graft in a couple o’ scions took of a young gent as I knows – never you mind who – bind ’em up neatly, clay ’em up, or do the same thing somewheres about his middle, you might grow a noo boy, as’d bear decent sort o’ fruit. But you can’t do that; and Pete Warboys ’ll be Pete Warboys as long as he lives.”

The old gardener had some ground for his bad opinion, for as the time rolled on, Pete grew strong and well, and then rapidly began to grow into a sturdy, strongly-built fellow, who always had a grin and a nod for Tom when they met; but it was not often, for he avoided every one, becoming principally a night bird, and only showed his gratitude to those who had nursed him through his dangerous illness, after saving his life, by religiously abstaining from making depredations upon their gardens.

“Which is something,” David said with a chuckle. “But I allus told you so, Master Tom; I allus told you.”

Tom, too, proved that the country air and his life with his uncle agreed with him, for he grew wonderfully.

“But you do sit up too much o’ nights, Master Tom,” said Mrs Fidler plaintively. “I wouldn’t care if you’d invent a slope up in the top of the mill; but you won’t.”

“I often get a nap on the couch down below,” said Tom, laughing. “Look here, Mrs Fidler, come up again some evening, and you shall see how grand it all is.”

“No, my dear, no,” said the housekeeper, shaking her head. “I don’t understand it all. It scares me when you show me the moon galloping away through the skies, and the stars all spinning round in that dizzy way. It makes me giddy too; and last time I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the world going at a thousand miles an hour, for it can’t be safe. Then, too, I’m sure I should catch a cold in my head with that great shutter open. I was never meant for a star-gazer. Let me be as I am.”

And time went on, with Tom plunging more and more deeply into the grand science, and rapidly becoming his uncle’s right-hand man, helping him with the papers he sent up to the learned societies, till in the course of a couple of years people began to talk of the discoveries made with the big telescope at Heatherleigh.

Then came a morning about two years and a half after the terrible storm. Tom, who had not retired till three o’clock, for it had been a gloriously clear night, and he and his uncle had been busy for many hours over Saturn’s satellites, which had been observed with unusual clearness, was sleeping soundly, when he was awakened by the sharp rattling of tiny pebbles against his window.

“Hulloo! what is it, David?” he cried, as he threw open his window.

“I told you so, sir; I told you so,” cried the gardener. “I allus said how it would be.”

“Some one been after the apples again?”

“Apples! no, sir; ten times worse than that. Pete’s took.”

“What?”

“Just heard it from our policeman, sir, who has been out all night. Pete Warboys has been for long enough mixed up with the Sanding gang, and was out with them last night over at Brackenbury Park, when the keepers come upon them, and there was a fight. One of the keepers was shot in the legs, and two of the poachers was a good deal knocked about. They were mastered, and four of ’em are in the lock-up.”

“But you said Pete was taken.”

“Yes, sir, he’s one of ’em; and that arn’t the worst of it.”

“Then what is?”

“His dog flew at one of the keepers when they were holding Pete Warboys, and the man shot him dead.”

“Poor wretch!” said Tom.

“Ay, I’m real sorry about that dog, sir. He was a hugly one surelie, but just think what a dog he’d ha’ been if he’d been properly brought up.”

The news was true enough; and fresh tidings came the very next day to Heatherleigh, Uncle Richard hearing that his brother had disposed of his practice, and gone to live down at Sandgate for his health.

Then, as the days glided by, the report came of examinations before the magistrates, which the Vicar attended.

“I went, Tom,” he said, “because I was grieved about the young man, for I tried again and again to wean him from his life; but nothing could be done – everything was too black against him. He and the others have been committed for trial, and Pete is sure to be severely punished.”

“Perhaps it will be for the best, Mr Maxted,” said Tom. “It will be a very sharp lesson, and he may make a decent man after all.”

“Nil desperandum,” said the Vicar; “but I am afraid.”

The trial came on, and Tom felt tempted to be present. It was not for the sake of seeing his old enemy in the dock, but out of interest in his fate, which on account of his youth resulted in the mildest sentence given to a prisoner that day; and as soon as he heard it pronounced by the judge, Pete rather startled the court by shouting loudly to Tom, whom he had sat and watched all through —

“Good-bye, Master Tom; God bless yer!”

The next minute he was gone, and somehow the young astronomer went away back home feeling rather sad, though he could not have explained why.

It was about a month later that a legal-looking letter arrived, directed to him, beautifully written in the roundest and crabbiest of engrossing hands.

It was from Pringle, telling how, thanks to Uncle Richard’s letter of recommendation, he was never so happy in his life, for he was in the best of offices, and had the best of masters, who was a real gentleman, with a wonderful knowledge of the law.

“You’d have taken to it, Mr Thomas, I’m sure, if you’d been under him; but one never knows, and it wasn’t to tell you this that I’ve taken the liberty of writing to you. I suppose you know that your uncle sold his practice, but perhaps you don’t know why. I heard all about it from the new man they had. I met him over a case my gov’nor was conducting. It was all along of Mr Samuel, who used to go on awfully. He got at last into a lot of trouble and went off. You’ll never believe it; but it’s a fact. He’s ’listed in the Royal Artillery.”

“And the best place for him,” said Uncle Richard, frowning, when he read the letter in turn; “they will bring him to his senses. By the way, Tom, Professor Denniston is coming down to see our glass; he wants to make one himself double the size, and says he would like our advice.”

“Our advice, uncle?” said Tom, laughing.

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard seriously; “your advice, gained by long experience, will be as valuable as mine.”

One more reminiscence of Tom Blount’s country life, and we will leave him to his star-gazing, well on the high-road to making himself one of those quiet, retiring, scientific men of whom our country has such good cause to be proud.

Heatherleigh and its neighbourhood had been very peaceful for four years, and the word poacher had hardly been heard, when one day, as Tom was in the laboratory, he heard a sharp tapping being given at the yard gate with a stick, and going to the window he started, for there was a tall, dark, smart-looking artillery sergeant, standing looking up, ready to salute him as his face appeared.

“Cousin Sam!” mentally exclaimed Tom, and his face flushed.

“Beg pardon, sir; can I have a word with you?” came in a loud, decisive, military way.

“Why, it’s Pete Warboys!” cried Tom. “Yes, all right; I’ll come down,” and he went below to where the sergeant stood, drawn up stiff, well set-up, and good-looking, waiting for the summons to enter.

“Yes, sir, it’s me,” said the stranger, smiling frankly.

“I shouldn’t have known you, Pete.”

“S’pose not, sir. They rubbed me down, and set me up, and the clothes make such a difference. Besides, it’s over four years since you saw me.”

“Yes – how time goes; but I did not know you had enlisted.”

“No, sir; I never said anything. You see, I came out of prison, and I didn’t want to come back here, for if I had, I couldn’t ha’ kept away from the rabbits and birds, and I should have been in trouble again. You made me want to do better, sir, but I never seemed as if I could; and just then up comes a recruiting sergeant, just as I was hesitating, and I looked at him, and heard what he had to say, how the service would make a man of me.”

“And you took the shilling, Pete?”

“Yes, sir; and the best day’s work I ever did,” said Pete, speaking sharply, decisively, and with a manly carriage about him that made Tom stare. “I was was bombardier in two years, and a month ago I got my sergeant’s stripes.”

He gave a proud glance at the chevrons on his arm as he spoke.

“I’m very glad, Pete.”

“Thankye, sir. I knew you would be. You did it, sir.”

“I?”

“Yes, sir. Mr Maxted used to talk to me, but it was seeing what you were set me thinking so much; but there was no way, and I got into trouble. I’m off to Malta, sir, in a month. On furlough now, and down here to see the old woman.”

“Ah! She’s very feeble now, Pete.”

“Very, sir. She’s awfully old; but she knew me directly, and began to blow me up.”

“What for?”

“Throwing myself away, sir,” cried Pete, with a merry laugh. “Poor old soul, though, she knows no better. Good-bye, sir. I shall see you again. I read your name in the paper the other day about finding a comet, and it made me laugh to think of the old days. Good-day, sir. I’m going to see Mr Maxted. I find he has been very good to the poor old granny since I’ve been away.”

“And some people say that the army’s a bad school,” said Mr Maxted that night at dinner, when Uncle Richard and Tom were spending the evening at the Vicarage. “If they would only do for all rough young men what they have done for Pete Warboys, it would be a grand thing. But I always did have hopes of him, eh, Tom?”