Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (893 page)

“How tantalising!” exclaimed Steve, as he held the candles above his head, and peered across. “If it were not for this trickling riband of water, we could get over and climb up into that arched nook, and sit there like kings on a crystal throne!”

“Perhaps it would not look so wonderful if we got close to it,” I suggested. “But, for that matter, if you had a spade, you could soon turn the water out of the way, and into that hole.” The fact was, that just at that moment I had discovered a low opening on the left hand, like a human mouth, into which the stream would naturally flow, if a slight barrier of sand and pebbles were removed.

On looking there also, Steve complimented me on the sharpness of my eyes. “Yes,” he said, “we could scrape away that bank, and the water would go straight into the hole surely enough. And we will. Let us go for a spade!”

I had not expected him to put the idea into practice; but it was no sooner said than done. We retraced our steps, and in a few minutes found ourselves again in the open air, where the sudden light overpowered our eyes for awhile.

“Stay here, while I run home,” he said. “I’ll not be long.”

I agreed, and he disappeared. In a very short space he came back with a spade in his hand, and we again plunged in. This time the candles had been committed to my charge. When we had passed down the gallery into the second cave, Steve directed me to light a couple more of the candles, and stick them against a piece of rock, that he might have plenty of light to work by. This I did, and my stalwart cousin began to use the spade with a will, upon the breakwater of sand and stones.

The obstacle, which had been sufficient to turn the stream at a right angle, possibly for centuries, was of the most fragile description. Such instances of a slight obstruction diverting a sustained onset often occur in nature on a much larger scale. The Chesil Bank, for example, connecting the peninsula of Portland, in Dorsetshire, with the mainland, is a mere string of loose pebbles; yet it resists, by its shelving surface and easy curve, the mighty roll of the Channel seas, when urged upon the bank by the most furious southwest gales.

In a minute or two a portion of the purling stream discovered the opening Steve’s spade was making in the sand, and began to flow through. The water assisted him in his remaining labours, supplementing every spadeful that he threw back, by washing aside ten.  I remember that I was child enough, at that time, to clap my hands at the sight of larger and larger quantities of the brook tumbling in the form of a cascade down the dark chasm, where it had possibly never flowed before, or at any rate, never within the human period of the earth’s history.  In less than twenty minutes the whole stream trended off in this new direction, as calmly as if it had coursed there always.  What had before been its bed now gradually drained dry, and we saw that we could walk across dryshod, with ease.

We speedily put the possibility into practice, and so reached the beautiful, glistening niche, that had tempted us to our engineering, We brought up into it the candles we had stuck against the rockwork further down, placed them with the others around the niche, and prepared to rest awhile, the spot being quite dry.

“That’s the way to overcome obstructions!” said Steve, triumphantly. “I warrant nobody ever got so far as this before — at least, without wading up to his knees, in crossing that watercourse.”

My attention was so much attracted by the beautiful natural ornaments of the niche, that I hardly heeded his remark.  These covered the greater part of the sides and roof; they were flesh coloured, and assumed the form of frills, lace, coats of mail; in many places they quaintly resembled the skin of geese after plucking, and in others the wattles of turkeys.  All were decorated with water crystals.

“Well,” exclaimed I, “I could stay here always!”

“So could I,” said Steve, “if I had victuals enough.  And some we’ll have at once.”

Our bread and cheese and apples were unfolded, and we speedily devoured the whole.  We then tried to chip pieces from the rock, and but indifferently succeeded, though while doing this we discovered some curious stones, like axe and arrow heads, at the bottom of the niche; but they had become partially attached to the floor by the limestone deposit, and could not be extracted.

“This is a long enough visit for to-day,” said my cousin, jumping up as one of the candles went out.  “We shall be left in the dark if we don’t mind, and it would be no easy matter to find our way out without a light.”

Accordingly we gathered up the candles that remained, descended from the niche, recrossed the deserted bed of the stream, and found our way to the open air, well pleased enough with the adventure, and promising each other to repeat it at an early day.  On which account, instead of bringing away the unburnt candles, and the wood candlestick, and the spade, we laid these articles on a hidden shelf near the entrance, to be ready at hand at any time.

Having cleaned the tell-tale mud from our boots, we were on the point of entering the village, when our ears were attracted by a great commotion in the road below.

“What is it?” said I, standing still.

“Voices, I think,” replied Steve. “Listen!”

It seemed to be a man in a violent frenzy. “I think it is somebody out of his mind,” continued my cousin. “I never heard a man rave so in my life.”

“Let us draw nearer,” said I.

We moved on, and soon came in sight of an individual, who, standing in the midst of the street, was gesticulating distractedly, and uttering invectives against something or other, to several villagers that had gathered around.

“Why, ‘tis the miller!” said Steve. “What can be the matter with him?”

We were not kept long in suspense, for we could soon hear his words distinctly. “The money I’ve sunk here!” he was saying; the time — the honest labour — all for nothing! Only beggary afore me now! One month it was a new pair of mill-stones; then the back wall was cracked with the shaking, and had to be repaired; then I made a bad speculation in corn and dropped money that way! But ‘tis nothing to this! My own freehold — the only staff and dependence o’ my family — all useless now — all of us ruined!”

“Don’t you take on so, Miller Griffin,” soothingly said one who proved to be the Man who had Failed. “Take the ups with the downs, and maybe ‘twill come right again.”

“Right again!” raved the miller; “how can what’s gone forever comeback again as ‘twere afore — that’s what I ask my wretched self — how can it?”

“We’ll get up a subscription for ye,” said a local dairyman.

“I don’t drink hard; I don’t stay away from church, and I only grind into Sabbath hours when there’s no getting through the work otherwise, and I pay my way like a man!”

“Yes — you do that,” corroborated the others.

“And yet, I be brought to ruinous despair, on this sixth day of September, Hannah Dominy; as if I were a villain!  Oh, my mill, my millwheel — you’ll never go round any more — never more!” The miller flung his arms upon the rail of the bridge, and buried his face in his hands.

“This raving is but making a bad Job worse,” said the Man who had Failed.  “But who will listen to counsel on such matters.”

By this time we had drawn near, and Steve said, “What’s the cause of all this?”

“The river has dried up — all on a sudden,” said the dairyman, “and so his mill won’t go any more.”

I gazed instantly towards the stream, or rather what had been the stream.  It was gone; and the mill wheel, which had pattered so persistently when we entered the cavern, was silent.  Steve and I instinctively stepped aside.

“The river gone dry!” Steve whispered.

“Yes,” said I. “Why, Steve, don’t you know why?”

My thoughts had instantly flown to our performance of turning the stream out of its channel in the cave, and I knew in a moment that this was the cause.  Steve’s silence showed me that he divined the same thing, and we stood gazing at each other in consternation.

CHAPTER II

How We Shone in the Eyes of the Public.

As soon as we had recovered ourselves we walked away, unconsciously approaching the river-bed, in whose hollows lay the dead and dying bodies of loach, sticklebacks, dace, and other small fry, which before our entrance into Nick’s Pocket had raced merrily up and down the waterway. Further on we perceived numbers of people ascending to the upper part of the village, with pitchers on their heads, and buckets yoked to their shoulders.

“Where are you going?” said Steve to one of these.

“To your mother’s well for water,” was the answer. “The river we have always been used to dip from is dried up. Oh, mercy me, what with the washing and cooking and brewing I don’t know what we shall do to live, for ‘tis killing work to bring water on your back so far!”

As may be supposed, all this gave me still greater concern than before, and I hurriedly said to Steve that I was strongly of opinion that we ought to go back to the cave immediately, and turn the water into the old channel, seeing what harm we had unintentionally done by our manoeuvre.

“Of course we’ll go back — that’s just what I was going to say,” returned Steve. “We can set it all right again in half an hour, and the river will run the same as ever. Hullo — now you are frightened at what has happened! I can see you are.”

I told him that I was not exactly frightened, but that it seemed to me we had caused a very serious catastrophe in the village, in driving the miller almost crazy, and killing the fish, and worrying the poor people into supposing they would never have enough water again for their daily use without fetching it from afar. “Let us tell them how it came to pass,” I suggested, “and then go and set it right.”

“Tell ‘em — not I!” said Steve. “We’ll go back and put it right, and say nothing about it to any one, and they will simply think it was caused by a temporary earthquake, or something of that sort.” He then broke into a vigorous whistle, and we retraced our steps together.

It occupied us but a few minutes to rekindle a light inside the cave, take out the spade from its nook, and penetrate to the scene of our morning exploit. Steve then fell to, and first rolling down a few large pieces of stone into the current, dexterously banked them up with clay from the other side of the cave, which caused the brook to swerve back into its original bed almost immediately. “There,” said he, “it is all just as it was when we first saw it — now let’s be off.”

We did not dally long in the cavern; but when we gained the exterior we decided to wait there a little time till the villagers should have discovered the restoration of their stream, to watch the effect.  Our waiting was but temporary; for in quick succession there burst upon our ears a shout, and then the starting of the mill-wheel patter.

At once we walked into the village street with an air of unconcern.  The miller’s face was creased with wrinkles of satisfaction; the countenances of the blacksmith, shoemaker, grocer and dairyman were perceptibly brighter. These, and many others of West Poley, were gathered on the bridge over the mill-tail, and they were all holding a conversation with the parson of the parish, as to the strange occurrence.

Matters remained in a quiet state during the next two days.  Then there was a remarkably fine and warm morning, and we proposed to cross the hills and descend into East Poley, the next village, which I had never seen.  My aunt made no objection to the excursion, and we departed, ascending the hill in a straight line, without much regard to paths.  When we had reached the summit, and were about half way between the two villages, we sat down to recover breath.  While we sat a man overtook us, and Steve recognized him as a neighbour.

“A bad Job again for West Poley folks!” cried the man, without halting.

“What’s the matter now?” said Steve, and I started with curiosity.

“Oh, the river is dry again.  It happened at a quarter past ten this morning, and it is thought it will never flow any more.  The miller he’s gone crazy, or all but so.  And the washerwoman, she will have to be kept by the parish, because she can’t get water to wash with; aye, ‘tis a terrible time that’s come.  I’m off to try to hire a water-cart, but I fear I shan’t hear of one.”

The speaker passed by, and on turning to Steve I found he was looking on the ground.  “I know how that’s happened,” he presently said. “We didn’t make our embankment so strong as it was before, and so the water has washed it away.”

“Let’s go back and mend it,” said I; and I proposed that we should reveal where the mischief lay, and get some of the labourers to build the bank up strong, that this might not happen again.

“No,” said Steve, “since we are half way we will have our day’s pleasure.  It won’t hurt the West Poley people to be out of water for one day.  We’ll return home a little earlier than we intended, and put it all in order again, either ourselves, or by the help of some men.”

Having gone about a mile and a half further we reached the brow of the descent into East Poley, the place we had come to visit.  Here we beheld advancing towards us a stranger whose actions we could not at first interpret. But as the distance between us and him lessened we discerned, to our surprise , that he was in convulsions of laughter. He would laugh until he was tired, then he would stand still gazing on the ground, as if quite preoccupied, then he would burst out laughing again and walk on. No sooner did he see us two boys than he placed his hat upon his walking-stick, twirled it and cried “Hurrah!”

I was so amused that I could not help laughing with him; and when he came abreast of us Steve said “Good morning; may I ask what it is that makes you laugh so?”

But the man was either too self-absorbed or too supercilious to vouchsafe to us any lucid explanation. “What makes me laugh?” he said. “Why, good luck, my boys! Perhaps when you are as lucky, you will laugh too.” Saying which he walked on and left us; and we could hear him exclaiming to himself, “Well done — hurrah!” as he sank behind the ridge.

Without pausing longer we descended towards the village, and soon reached its outlying homesteads. Our path intersected a green field dotted with trees, on the other side of which was an inn. As we drew near we heard the strains of a fiddle, and presently perceived a fiddler standing on a chair outside the inn door; whilst on the green in front were several people seated at a table eating and drinking, and some younger members of the assembly dancing a reel in the background.