The Vast Abyss

“Yes, my dear,” cried the housekeeper; “but you never will let me.”

“Well, who’s going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?”

“There, Mrs Fidler, you hear,” said Uncle Richard; “we have had a narrow escape, but I don’t think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down.”

“Well – er – really,” said the Vicar; “if you will not think it selfish of me, I believe it would do my head good if I lay down for an hour. I am a good deal shaken.”

Mrs Fidler sighed and left the room as the Vicar took the couch, Uncle Richard one easy-chair, and Tom the other, to lie back and listen to the murmur of voices out in the lane, where the village people were still discussing the startling affair. Every now and then some excited personage raised his voice, and a word or two floated through the window about “lightning,” and “heared it,” and “mussy no one was killed.”

Uncle Richard was the first to break the silence by saying dryly —

“I’m afraid Mrs Fidler does not believe in the thunder and lightning theory.”

“No?” said the Vicar, turning his head.

“No,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, but wincing at the same time; “she has had experience of me before in my dabblings in other things. What do you say was the cause of the trouble, Tom?”

“Well, I should say, uncle, that the silver was too strong for the glass, and made it split all to pieces.”

“Not a bad theory,” said Uncle Richard. “What do you say, Maxted?”

“Well,” said the Vicar, “do you know, I’m puzzled. Of course it was not an electric shock, and my knowledge of chemistry is so very shallow; but really and truly, I feel convinced, that you must have got hold of wrong chemicals, and formed some new and dangerous explosive compound.”

“Quite right, only it was not new,” said Uncle Richard. “As soon as I could collect my shattered thinking powers, I began to consider about what I had done, and I think I see correctly now. The fact is, I forgot one very important part of the instructions I have for silvering mirrors.”

“Indeed!” said the Vicar, in an inquiring tone, while Tom pricked up his singing ears.

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard. “You remember how the silvery surface was covered with a greyish powder?”

“Yes, thickly,” said Tom.

“That had no business there, and it would not have been if I had been more careful to remember everything. When I took the speculum glass out of the silvering bath, I ought to have deluged it with pure water till all that greyish powder was washed away, then it would have been fairly bright.”

“Yes, uncle; but what has that to do with the explosion?”

“Everything, my boy. If there had been no powder there we should have had no explosion.”

“But it wasn’t gunpowder, uncle,” cried Tom, “it couldn’t be. I know what gunpowder’s made of – nitre, brimstone, and charcoal; and besides, we had no light.”

“No, Tom, but it was a mixture far stronger than gunpowder, and one which will explode with a very slight friction.”

“I know,” cried the Vicar eagerly, “fulminate of silver.”

“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard; “and I feel quite ashamed of my ignorance. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; and I ought to have known that in this process I was preparing so dangerous a compound.”

“I know,” cried Tom now; “fulminate of silver is what they put in percussion caps, isn’t it, uncle?”

“No; that is a very similar compound, but it is fulminate of mercury. – Well, Maxted, what am I to say to you for trying to kill you?”

“I think you had better say nothing,” said the Vicar quietly. “It seems to me that the less we talk about it the better, and content ourselves with being thankful for our escape.”

“It’s lucky, uncle, that it missed the big speculum, and a lot more stuff being used.”

“Fortunate indeed, Tom. We must be more careful next time.”

“But surely you will not try so dangerous an experiment again?” said the Vicar anxiously.

“Certainly I shall,” said Uncle Richard. “The experiment is not in the least dangerous if properly carried out. The accident was from my ignorance. I know better now.”

“You’ve paid very dearly for your experience,” said the Vicar, smiling. “It’s rather hard upon your friends, though, to try such risky experiments in their presence.”

“Next time all will go well. Will you come and see it?”

“Really, my dear Brandon, I respect you very much, as my principal parishioner, and a man after my own heart, but I’m afraid I shall be too busy to come next time. I’ll wait till the big telescope is ready for use, when I shall want to peep through; but even then I shall approach it with fear and trembling. It will look like a great gun, and I shall always feel afraid of its going off.”

“And you, Tom,” said his uncle, “what do you say?”

“What about, uncle?”

“Shall you be afraid to come and help silver another time?”

“Oh no, uncle, I think not,” replied the boy. “But I say, will my ears leave off?”

“What, listening?”

“No, uncle; it’s just as if I’d got a little tiny muffin-man ringing his bell in each ear as hard as he can go.”

“Try a night’s rest,” said Uncle Richard. “Yes, I’m very sorry we had such a mishap.”

“Never mind,” said the Vicar; “it will give our little glazier a job. And now I feel rested and better, so good-evening, I’m going home.”

Chapter Thirty One

Tom gave proof of his readiness a few days later, when the broken windows had been replaced, fresh solutions made, and the village had again calmed down to its regular natural state of repose; for, upon his uncle proposing that they should proceed at once to silver the big speculum, he eagerly went off to the workshop to get all ready for his uncle’s coming.

Short as the distance was though, he did not get away without encountering Pete, who hurried up to the wall to shout over at him —

“I know. Yer did shoot at me, but I shan’t forget it, so look out.”

Then hearing some one coming from the cottage, he ducked down like a wild animal seeking concealment, and hurried away.

Then the whole process was gone through to the smallest minutiae, and only an hour after the silvered face of the mirror was deluged with rain-water, and uncle and nephew gazed in triumph at their work, for there was no sign of greyish-drab powder about the mirror, and it was so bright that polishing seemed unnecessary.

The next day it was polished, till by a side light it looked black, while in face it was a brilliant looking-glass ready to reflect the faintest stars; and after being put away securely, the great tube was set about, and in due time this was lightly and strongly made of long laths hooped together. A shallow tray was contrived deep enough to hold the speculum, and fitted with screws, so that it could be secured to one end. Next followed the fitting of a properly-constructed eye-piece from a London optician, contrived so that it looked at right angles into a small reflector, which also had to be carefully fixed in the axis of the great speculum.

Chapter Thirty Two

“What’s the matter, Tom?” said Uncle Richard one day, as they were busy at work over the telescope, and Tom was scratching his head.