The Vast Abyss

The large-stoppered bottle was fetched from its shelf, and a small portion of the most coarse ground emery taken out with a spatula, spread upon the fixed glass, the speculum carefully laid upon it, and turned a little to spread the material more equally, a few drops of water having been added, and the slow, tedious grinding went on again.

“Hard work, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, as they paused at last from their laborious work, the disc they moved to and fro and round and round, as they slowly changed their positions, being exceedingly heavy.

But Tom, as soon as he got his breath, was too much interested to mind the labour, and after helping to lift one disc from the other, he looked on eagerly at his uncle’s busy fingers, as he carefully sponged and cleaned both glasses.

“See how the coarse emery we began with has become ground down.”

“Yes, into a slime,” said Tom.

“Partly glass,” said Uncle Richard, as he drew attention now to the face of the speculum, which was scratched more deeply already, and displayed a different grain.

Fresh emery out of the bottle was applied, moistened a little more, and the grinding went on for a while. Then there was a fresh washing, more of the coarse emery applied, and so the task went on hour after hour that day and the next, when in the afternoon when the zinc mould was applied to the surface it fitted in almost exactly, and Tom gave a cheer.

“Yes, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, whose face glowed with the exertion.

“What next then?” said Tom eagerly.

“The next grade of emery, boy,” was the reply; “our task is of course now not to grind the speculum deeply, but to grind out all these scratches till it is as limpid as the surface of pure water.”

“Don’t look possible,” said Tom. “Well, we will try.”

The next morning they worked for an hour before breakfast in precisely the same way, gave a couple of hours to the task after breakfast, two more in the afternoon, and one in the evening – “a regular muscle-softener,” Uncle Richard called it; but when for the last time the finely-ground emery number two was washed off, and the speculum examined, its surface looked much better, the rougher scratchings having disappeared.

Tom was all eagerness to begin the next day, when the number three emery was tried in precisely the same way. Then came work with the number four, very little of which was used at a time; and when this was put aside for number five, Tom again cheered, for the concave surface had become beautifully fine.

“Two more workings, and then the finishing,” said Uncle Richard. “Think we shall polish out all the scratchings?”

“Why, they are gone now,” cried Tom.

“Yes, it shows what patience will do,” said Uncle Richard; “a man can’t lift a house all at once, but he could do it a brick at a time.”

The speculum was carefully placed aside after its cleansing, and the pair of amateur opticians locked up the place after hanging up their aprons.

“Wouldn’t do to break that now, Tom, my boy.”

“Break it?” cried the boy; “oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again.”

“Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow.”

“What, shall we get it done?”

“By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?”

“I’m sure of it, uncle,” cried Tom.

Chapter Fifteen

Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.

“Only a dream,” he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.

“Time to go over and see if it is all right,” he said, as he finished dressing, “and then come back and call uncle.”

Going down-stairs, he took the keys of the mill from where they hung by the front door, went out into the garden, unlocked the gate, and went across to the mill, where, on peering through the window, he could see the glass lying just as it had been left.

“That’s all right,” said Tom; and he walked round by the back of the tower to see how the flowers and shrubs looked, when, to his startled surprise, he found footprints made by a heavy, clumsy pair of boots on the border beneath the wall.

Their meaning was plain enough. Some one had walked along there, and got out of the yard over the wall, while, upon a little further search, he found the spot where whoever it was had entered the yard by jumping down, the prints of two heels being deeply-marked in the newly-dug earth.

“That must have been Pete,” said Tom, flushing; and he looked over the wall, half expecting to see the slouching figure of the lad.

But there was no one within sight, and he looked round the yard in search of the visitor’s object. There was nothing but the old millstones stealable, and they stood here and there where they had been leaned against tower and wall; and at ten minutes to five, after noting that the sun was shining brightly, Sam went back to his uncle and called him, and at half-past five they went together to the mill-yard, where the footprints were pointed out.

“Have to keep the door carefully locked, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “Hah! capital! the sun will be shining right through that window in a few minutes.”

They entered the workshop, where a bench was drawn opposite to the last window, and about twelve feet away. To this, with Tom’s help, the partly-polished speculum was borne.

“Not very bright for a reflector, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “What am I to do to make it brighter?”

“Go on polishing, uncle.”

“Ah, but I want to test it this morning, to see if we have a good curve,” said Tom’s elder, smiling. “Fill the sponge with clean water and bring it here.”

This was done, and the finely-ground surface was freely wetted, with the effect that it became far more luminous directly.

“Now, Tom,” said his uncle, “I’m going to show you something in reflection. The sun is not quite high enough for the speculum, so give me that piece of looking-glass.”

This was handed to him, and he held it on high, so that the low-down sun shone into it, and a reflection was cast from it back upon the wall just above the window.

“See that?”

“Yes, uncle. Done that many a time. Used to call it making jack-o’-lanterns.”

“Well, that is the effect of a reflection from a flat or plane surface; the rays of light strike back at the same angle as they hit the surface. Now then, I’ll show you what happens from a curved surface.”

He passed the sponge rapidly over the ground speculum again, so as to glaze it – so to speak – with water, raised it upon its edge with the carefully-ground face directed at the window just as the sun rose high enough to shine in; and then by turning the great mirror slightly, the light reflected from it struck upon the wall at the side of the window.

“Now, Tom, what do you see?”

“A round spot of light about as big as a two-shilling piece,” said the boy.

“Yes; all the rays of light which fall upon our mirror, gradually drawn together to where they form an image of the sun. It is only dull, my boy, but so far finely perfect, and we can say that we have gone on very successfully.”

As he spoke he laid the mirror down upon its back.

“Is that all you are going to do?” asked Tom.

“Yes; I can test it no better till it is more advanced, my boy. It may seem a little thing to you, but it is enough to show me that we may go on, and not begin our work all over again. Now for a good turn until breakfast-time. Two good hours’ work ought to produce some effect.”

The lower disc, now become convex, was wetted and lightly touched over with number five emery, which seemed soft enough for anything; the well-advanced mirror was turned over upon it, fitting now very closely, and with the sweet morning air floating in from the pine-woods, and the birds singing all around, the monotonous task went on with its intermissions till Uncle Richard gave the final wash off, and said – “Breakfast!”

They were so far advanced now that Tom was as eager to recommence as his uncle, and by that evening so much progress had been made that the setting sun was made to shine in upon it, to be reflected back in a bright spot on the wall without the aid of water; while two evenings later, when the great round glass was stood all dry the polish upon it was limpid, and seemed to be as pure as could be. There was not the faintest scratch visible, and Tom cried in triumph —

“There, now it is done! Oh, uncle, it is grand!”

“Grand enough so far, my boy. We have succeeded almost beyond my expectations; but that is only the first stage.”

“First – stage?” faltered Tom, looking at his uncle aghast.

“Yes, boy; we have succeeded in making a beautiful spherical concave mirror, which could be of no use whatever for my purpose.”

“Then why did we make it?” cried Tom. “For practice?”

“No, boy; because it is the step towards making an ellipse, or, as they call it when shaped for a reflecting telescope, a parabola. You know what an ellipse is?”

“Gooseberry,” said Tom bluntly.

“Gooseberry-shaped,” said his uncle. “Well then, what is a parabola?”

“One of those things we used to learn about in geometry.”

“Good. Well, to-morrow we must begin polishing, or rather I must, to turn our glass from a spherical-curved mirror into a parabola.”

“You’ll let me help, uncle?”

“As much as I can, my boy; but the amount I have to polish off, in what is called figuring, is so small that it requires the most delicate of treatment, and first of all we have to prepare a small polisher to work by hand.”

This was formed of lead in the course of the next day – a nearly flat but slightly convex disc, with a handle upon its back, and when made perfectly smooth it was covered with hot pitch, which, as it cooled, was made to take the exact curve of the nearly finished mirror, by being pressed upon it, the pitch yielding sufficiently for the purpose.

This done the pitch was scored across and across, till it was divided into squares, with little channels between them, so that the polishing powder and water might run freely between; then a final pressure was given upon the mirror and the implement was left to harden till the next day.

“Now for a few hours’ polishing,” said Uncle Richard the next morning, as he took up the curved pitch tool and moistened it, no longer with emery, but with fine moistened rouge; “and if I am successful in slightly graduating off the sides here, and flattening them in an infinitesimal degree, we shall have a good reflector for our future work.”

But upon testing it the result that evening was not considered satisfactory. There were several zones to be corrected.

It was the same the next day, and the next. But on the fourth Uncle Richard cried “Hold: enough! I think that is as good as an amateur can make a speculum, and we’ll be content.”

That night Tom slept so soundly that he did not dream till morning, and then it was of the sun resenting being looked at, and burning his cheek, which possessed some fact, for the blind was a little drawn on one side, and the bright rays were full upon his face.

“All that time spent in making the reflector!” thought Tom; “and all that work. I wonder what the next bit will be.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Now, uncle, what’s the next thing to be done?” said Tom at breakfast that morning.

“I think we may begin the body of the telescope now, Tom,” said his uncle.

“The body?”

“Yes; the speculum is what we might call the life of the whole instrument, and the rest will be simplicity itself. We’ve got to bring a little mechanical work to bear, and the thing is done.”

“But it will want a lot of glasses fixed about in a big tube, won’t it?”

“No; nothing but the flat and eye-pieces, and I have the lenses to make these. By the way, I have some letters to write, and shall be busy all the morning. Your uncle seems to be still unwell, and I must write to him, for one thing. I tell you what I want done. We have no place there for keeping papers or drawings in, and where one can sit down and write at times, and lock up afterwards. I’ve been thinking that I’ll have the big old bureau desk with its drawers taken out of the study, and carried up into the laboratory. It can stand beneath the shelves on the right of the east window; and you might take up a chair or two, and a piece of old carpet as well. Get David to help you.”

“All right, uncle.”

So when breakfast was over, Tom went out and found David, who was sticking stakes along the outside of the asparagus bed, and tying tarred twine from one to the other, so as to keep the plume-like stems from blowing about and breaking.

“Mornin’, Master Tom,” he said. “I say, my Maria Louisas are swelling out fast. We shall soon have to be on the look-out for pear-ketchers.”

“All right, David, I’ll help you. I hope it is Pete Warboys. I should like to give him stick.”

“We’ll give him stake instead, Master Tom.”

“Never mind that now. I want you to help me move that chest of drawers and desk out of uncle’s study to the laboratory.”

“Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade.”

“What do you mean?” said Tom, staring.

“Labor hatory, sir! why don’t you say windmill?”

“Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one,” said Tom, rather stiffly.

“Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can’t make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill.”

“Well, we won’t argue,” said Tom. “Come along.”

He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom’s great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.

“Come along, David,” said Tom. “This is it.”

The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.

“You can’t manage one end o’ that, Master Tom,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“No, too weighty,” said his master; and without looking round he passed his keys. “Take out the drawers, they’re heavy, and carry them separately.”

This plan was followed out, each taking a drawer and carrying it out through the garden, and across the lane to the yard gate, which Tom unlocked after resting his drawer on the wall; leaving it there while he ran up and unlocked the tower door, then going back for the load he had left.

These two drawers were carried into the stone-floored workshop, where the bench under the window was covered with an old blanket, another doing duty as cover for the glass tool which had been replaced on the head of the cask.

“My word! what a differ there is here,” said David, as he glanced round with the drawer in his hands. “What yer put to bed under they blankets, sir?”

“Specula, David.”

“Speckle-hay? What, are you forcing on ’em?”

“Forcing?” said Tom, laughing.

“Yes; are they coming up?”

“Nonsense! Here are those two great pieces of glass uncle brought down. We’ve been polishing one.”

“Oh! them,” cried David. “My word! Wonder what old miller would ha’ said to see his place ramfoozled about like this?”

“Come along,” cried Tom; and the drawers were carried up, each being crammed full of papers and books, and laid on the floor close to the old mill-post.

“Worser and worser,” said David, looking round. “Dear, dear! the times I’ve been up here when the sacks was standing all about, some flour and some wheat, and the stones spinning round, the hopper going tippenny tap – tippenny tap, and the meal-dust so thick you could hardly breathe. I ’member coming out one night, and going home, and my missus says to me, ‘Why, Davy, old man, what yer been a-doing on? Yer head’s all powdered up like Squire Winkum’s footman.’ It was only meal, yer know.”

“And now you can come and go without getting white, David,” said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. “This is where the bureau is to go.”

“Is it now?” said David, scratching his head. “Why that’s where the old bin used to be. Ay, I’ve set on that bin many’s the time on a windy night, when miller wanted to get a lot o’ grist done.”

“Back again,” said Tom; and two more drawers were carried over. Then the framework and desk were fetched, with Mrs Fidler standing ready, dustpan and brush in hand, to remove any dirt and fluff that might be underneath.

“Tidy heavy now, Master Tom,” said David, as they bore the old walnut-wood piece of furniture across the garden and up to the mill, only setting it down once just inside the yard by way of a rest, and to close the gate.

Then the piece of furniture was carried in, and after some little scheming, hoisted up the steep ladder flight of steps, David getting under it and forcing it up with his head.

“Wonderful heavy bit o’ wood, Master Tom,” said the gardener.

“It’s an awkward place to get it up, David,” replied the boy. “Now then, just under those shelves. It will stand capitally there, and get plenty of light for writing.”

But the bureau did not stand capitally there, for the back feet were higher than the front, consequent upon the floor having sunk from the weight of millstones in the middle.

“She’ll want a couple o’ wedges under her, Master Tom,” said David.

“Yes. I’ve got a couple of pieces that will just do – part of a little box,” cried Tom. “I’ll fetch them, and the saw to cut the exact size. You wait here.”

“And put the drawers in, sir?”

“Not till we’ve got this right,” replied Tom, who was already at the head of the steps; and he ran down and across to the house, obtained the saw from the tool-chest, and hurried back to the mill, where he found David down in the workshop, waiting for him with his hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t yer uncle ought to leave his tool-chest over here, sir?” said the gardener.

“Oh yes, I suppose he will,” said Tom. “It would be handier. Halloo, did you open that window?”

“No, sir. I see it ajar like when we first came, and it just blowed open like when the door was swung back.”

Tom said no more, but led the way up-stairs, where the pieces of wood were wedged in under the front legs, sawn off square, and the drawers were replaced.

“Capital, Master Tom,” cried the gardener. “You’d make quite a carpenter. I say, what’s it like up-stairs?”

“Come and see,” said Tom, ready to idle a little now the work was done, and very proud of the place he had helped to contrive.

David tightened his blue serge apron roll about his waist, and followed up into the observatory, smiling, but ready to depreciate everything.

“Ay, but it’s a big change,” he said; “no sacks o’ wheat, no reg’lar machinery. There’s the master’s tallow scoop; he give me a look through it once, and there was the moon all covered with spots o’ grease like you see on soup sometimes. Well, it’s his’n, and he’s a right to do what he likes with the place. Ah, many’s the time I’ve been up here too. Why, Jose the carpenter chap’s cut away the top of the post here. You used to be able to move a bit of an iron contrapshum, and that would send the fan spinning, and the whole top would work round till the sails faced the wind.”

“Well, the whole top will work round now, David.”

“Not it, sir, without the sails.”

“But I tell you it will,” said Tom, moving a bar, and throwing open the long shutter, which fell back easily, letting in a long strip of sunshine, and giving a view of the blue sky from low-down toward the horizon to the zenith.

“Well, you do get plenty of ventilation,” said David oracularly. “Nothing like plenty of air for plants, and it’s good for humans too. Make you grow strong and stocky, Master Tom. But the top used to turn all round in the old days.”

“So it does now, so that uncle can direct his telescope any way. Look here!”

The boy moved to the side, and took hold of an endless rope, run round a wheel fixed to the side, pulled at the rope, and the wheel began to revolve, turning with it a small cogged barrel, which acted in turn upon the row of cogs belonging to the bottom of the woodwork dome, which began to move steadily round.

“Well, that caps me,” said David. “I thought it was a fixter now.”

“And you thought wrong, Davy,” said Tom, going up two or three steps, and passing out through the open shutter, and lowering himself into the little gallery that had once communicated with the fan, and here he stood looking out.

“All right there, Master Tom?”

“Yes.”

“May I move the thing?”

“If you like.”

David, as eagerly as a child with a new toy, began to pull at the rope, when the top began to revolve, taking the little gallery with it, and giving Tom a ride pretty well round the place before the gardener stopped, and turned his face through the opening left by the shutter.

“Goes splendid!” he said, as Tom came in and closed the shutter. “I wouldn’t ha’ believed it. And so the master’s going to build a big tallow scoop up there, is he?”

“Yes; and we’ve got a good deal of it done. There, let’s get down. Uncle may want me.”

“Ay, and I must get back to my garden, sir. There’s a deal to do there, and I could manage with a lot of help.”

“Uncle was talking of making this place quite a study, and putting a lot of books here, the other day,” said Tom, as they descended to the laboratory.

“Was he now? Rare windy place, though, sir, isn’t it? Windy milly place, eh?”

“Well, you said air was good,” said Tom, laughing; and they went down into the workshop. “Mustn’t have that window left open though,” said Tom; and, going to the side, he reached over the bench with the blanket spread over it, drew in the iron-framed lattice window, and fastened it, and was drawing back, when the blanket, which had been hanging draped over a good deal at one end, yielded to that end’s weight, and glided off, to fall in a heap upon the stones.

Tom stooped quickly to pick it up, but as his head was descending below the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener, and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find something there.

But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to remove it – to lift it up from the worn flagstones.

“Anything the matter, sir?” said David, looking at him curiously from the door.

“Matter? Yes!” cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor. “David, you – you opened that window.”

“Nay, sir, I never touched it,” said the gardener stoutly.

“Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges.”

“Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that’s all; I never touched the window.”

“But – but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered over last night – with the blanket – and – and – ” he added in a tone of despair, “it isn’t there now.”

“Well, I never touched it, sir,” said the gardener; “you may search my pockets if you like.”

Tom could not see the absurdity of the man’s suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.

“It’s broken,” he moaned to himself; “I know it is!” and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.