"A burnt child fears the fire." So says the old proverb; and therefore
it was quite reasonable for a couple of big lads to feel a certain
sensation of shrinking when they talked about their adventure while
trying to investigate the mysteries surrounding the portion of Crag, or
Cormorant Island, as it was called, known as the Scraw.
For they did talk about it a great deal. Then, too, Vince had some
_very_ unpleasant dreams about hanging over a tremendous gulf. One
night in particular he was especially bad.
It happened in this way: Mike came over to the Doctor's cottage one
evening after tea--though this was no novelty, for he was always coming
over to the cottage after tea, when Vince was not going over to Sir
Francis Ladelle's quaint, semi-fortified house, which had stood there
for hundreds of years, being repaired by its various occupants, but very
little altered. In fact, when the little island was for sale, many
years before this story commences, and the baronet became the purchaser,
he was so pleased with the old place that he determined to keep up the
traditions of the past, in spite of low ceilings, dark windows, and what
Mike described to Vince as "the jolly old ghosts," which, being
interpreted, meant rats.
So Mike came over one evening, after Vince had eaten a tremendous meal,
and the two lads went out for a stroll to the cliff edge, where there
was always something to see, returning after dusk by the light of the
moon and glowworms, of which there were abundance. Then Vince had to
see Mike up to the gates of the old house; and, to make things straight,
Mike said he would walk back a few yards with him, the few yards being
so elastic that they stretched out to five hundred, more or less.
At last Vince reached home and had his supper, which had been put out
for him, and when he had finished, found that the sea air and exercise
had made him ravenous.
"I must have something else to eat," he said to himself, and he was
going into the parlour to speak upon this important subject to Mrs
Burnet; but as he reached the door he could hear her pleasant voice, and
he knew what was going on, though he could not see through the panels.
For the picture rose plainly before his mind's eye of his father lying
back in his easy chair, tired out with his round of the island and
gardening, while by the light of a pair of mould candles--
_What_? You don't know what mould candles are? The happier you!
People did fifty years ago, and they were largely used by those who
could not afford wax or spermaceti; and they did what Vince heard the
Doctor do from time to time--took up the old-fashioned, scissor-like
snuffers from their plated tray, snuffed the candles, and laid them back
with a sharp click. And let me tell you that there was an art in
snuffing a candle which required practice and a steady hand. For if you
of the present generation of boys who live in the days of gas, electric
lights, spirit lamps, and candles ingeniously made after the analytical
experiments of chemists on a material very different from the
old-fashioned Russian tallow--if you, I say, were to try and snuff an
old candle, the chances are that you would either cut the cotton wick
too much or too little, if you did not snuff the light out. After a
time these sources of light would grow lengthy of black, burnt wick, a
curious mushroomy, sooty portion would grow on the top, and the flame of
the candle would become dull yellow and smoky. Then, if you cut too
little off, the light would not be much improved; if you cut too low
down, it was worse; if lower still, you put the light out. But the
skilful hand every few minutes cut to the happy medium, as the Doctor
did, and the light burned up fairly white and clear; so that, according
to the custom at the cottage, Mrs Burnet could see well to continue
reading aloud to her weary husband, this being his one great enjoyment
in the calm life on the island.
Now, it seems rather hard on Vince to keep him waiting hungrily at the
door while the writer of this little history of boy life runs away from
his narrative to begin prattling in print about candles; but what has
preceded these lines on light, and the allusion to chemistry, does ask
for a little explanation, for many of you who read will say, What can
chemistry have to do with tallow candles?
A great deal. I daresay you have read a little chemistry, or heard
lectures thereon. Many of you may have been bitten by the desire to try
a little yourselves, as I was, and tried making hydrogen and oxygen
gases, burning phosphorus, watch-spring and sulphur in the latter; and
even tried to turn the salts of metals back into the metals themselves.
But that by the way. Let us return to the candle--such a one as Vince
had left burning, smoking and smelling unpleasantly, in the flat brass
candlestick upon the little hall table, for it was time he was off to
bed. Now, the chemists took the candle, and pulled it to pieces, just
as the candle-makers took the loose, fluffy cotton wick metaphorically
to pieces, and constructed another by plaiting the cotton strands
together and making a thin, light wick, which, as it burned, had a
tendency to curl over to the side of the conical flame where the point
of the wick touched the air and burned more freely--so freely, in fact,
from getting more oxygen from the air than the other part, as to burn
all away, and never need snuffing. That is the kind of wick you use in
your candles to-day; and the snuffers have gone into curiosity cases in
museums along with the clumsy tinder-boxes of the past.
But that is to do with the wick, though I daresay some chemist or
student of combustion gave the first hint to the maker about how to
contrive the burning away of the unpleasant snuff.
Let us go back to the candle itself, or rather to the tallow of which it
was made.
Now, your analytical chemist is about the most inquisitive person under
the sun. Bluebeard's wife was a baby to him. Why, your A C would have
pulled the Blue Chamber all to bits, and the key too, so as to see what
they were made of. He is always taking something to pieces. For
instance, quite lately gas tar was gas tar, and we knew that it was
black and sticky, good for palings and horribly bad for our clothes,
when, on hot, sunny days, we climbed over the said palings. But, all at
once, the A C took gas tar in hand to see what it was made of, and the
result is--what? I must not keep Vince and you waiting to tell all--in
fact, I don't know, but may suggest a little. Gas tar now means
brilliant aniline dyes, and sweet scents, and flavours that we cannot
tell from pears and almonds, and ammonia and carbolic preparations good
for the destruction of disease germs. But when the A C attacked the
tallow of the candle he astonished us more.
For, so to speak, he took the tallow, and he said to himself, Now,
here's tallow--an unpleasant animal fat: let's see what it is made of.
Years ago I should have at once told him that it was grease, obtained by
melting down the soft parts of an animal. But the A C would have said
to me: Exactly; but what is the grease made of?
Then he began making tests and analysing, with the result that out of
candle fat he distilled a beautifully clear white, intensely sweet
fluid, and made a name for it: glycerine, from the Greek for "sweet,"
for which, as Captain Cuttle would have said, consult your lexicon.
Then our friend the chemist tested the glycerine, and tried if it would
burn; but it would not burn in the least, and he naturally enough said,
Well, that stuff is no good for candles, so it may be extracted from the
tallow. To make a long dissertation short, that was done at once, and
the result was that, instead of the new tallow candles being soft, they
were found to be hard, and to burn more clearly. Then chemicals were
added, and they became harder still, and were called composites.
That was the beginning of the improvements, which subject I must carry
no further, but return to our hungry lad, who, hearing the reading going
on, would not interrupt his mother, but took up his candle and went to
the larder to investigate for himself.
There was bread and butter, and bread and cheese, and a small piece of
mutton--but this last was raw; and Vince was about to turn to the bread
and cheese when his eyes lighted upon a wedge of cold apple dumpling,
which he seized upon as the very thing, bore off to his bedroom, after
putting his head in at the parlour door to say good-night, ate with the
greatest of gusto, and then, thoroughly drowsy, tumbled into bed.
The next minute, as it seemed most vividly to Vince, the new rope that
Mike took with them to the tempest-torn ridge above the Scraw was
cutting into his chest and compressing it so that he could hardly
breathe. But he would not complain, for fear his companion should think
it was because he was too cowardly to go on down that steep slope of
thirty or forty feet to look over the edge of the precipice. So he went
on lower and lower, suffering horribly, but more and more determined to
go on; and as he went the rope stretched out, and the slope lengthened,
till he seemed to have descended for hours. Flocks of ravens came down,
flapping their wings about him and making dashes with their great beaks
at his eyes; while stones were loosened, rattled down into the gulf and
startled clouds upon clouds of birds, which came circling up, their
wings beating the air, till there was a noise like thunder.
Down to the stone at last; and upon this he sat astride, gazing at the
vast gulf below, where the cove spread out farther than eye could reach,
while the waters rushed by him like many cataracts of Niagara rolled
into one. At last Mike's voice came to him, in imploring tones,
sounding distant, strange and familiar, begging him to come up; and he
drew himself up once more, and, with the rope tightening, gave that
great thrust with his heels which sent the block upon which he had
ridden falling down and down, as if for ever, into space, while he hung
motionless, with the line compressing his chest so that he could not
breathe. He could not struggle, he could not even stir--only hang there
suffocating, till his senses were leaving him fast, and a burning light
flashed into his eyes. Then the rope parted, the terrible tension about
his chest was relieved, and he began falling more and more swiftly, with
a pleasant feeling of restfulness, till a voice said loudly:
"Vince, Vince! What is it, boy? Wake up!"
Vince not only woke up, but sat up, staring at his father and mother,
who were standing in their dressing-gowns on either side of his bed.
"He must have something coming on," said Mrs Burnet anxiously.
"Coming on!" said the Doctor, feeling the boy's temples and then his
wrist; next, transferring his hand to where he could feel the pulsation
of the heart, "Nightmare!" he cried.
"What's the matter?" said Vince confusedly. "Fire?"
"Any one would have thought so, and that you were being scorched, making
all that groaning and outcry. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," said Vince, whose dreaming was all hidden now by a mental
haze. "Is anybody ill, then?"
"I'm afraid you are, my dear," said Mrs Burnet anxiously; and she laid
her cool hand upon her son's forehead. "His head is very hot and wet,
dear," she added to the Doctor.
"Yes, I know," he said gruffly. "Here, Vince!"
"Yes, father."
"What did you have for your supper?"
"Oh! only a couple of slices of bread and butter, with a little jam on,"
said Mrs Burnet hastily. "I cut it for him myself."
"Nothing else?" said the Doctor.
"No, dear."
"Yes, I did, mother," said Vince, whose head was growing clearer now.
"I was so hungry I went into the larder and got that piece of cold
pudding."
"Wurrrh!" roared the Doctor, uttering a peculiar growling sound, and, to
the astonishment of mother and son, he caught up the pillow and gave
Vince a bang with it which knocked him back on the bolster. "Cold
pudding!" he cried. "Here! try a shoe-sole to-morrow night, and see if
you can digest that. Come to bed, my dear. Look here, Vince: tell Mr
Deane to give you some lessons in natural history, and then you'll learn
that you are not an ostrich, but a boy."
The next minute Vince was in the dark, but not before Mrs Burnet had
managed to bend down and kiss him, accompanying it with one of those
tender good-nights which he never forgot to the very last.
But Vince felt hot and angry with what had passed.
"I wish father hadn't hit me," he muttered. "He never did before. I
don't like it; and he seemed so cross. I wonder whether he did feel
angry."
Vince lay for some minutes puzzling his not quite clear brain as to
whether his father was angry or pretending. There was the dull murmur
of voices from the next room, as if a conversation were going on, but he
could not tell whether his mother was taking his part or no. Then, all
at once, there came an unmistakable "Ha, ha, ha!" in the Doctor's gruff
voice, and that settled it.
"He couldn't have been cross," thought Vince, "or he wouldn't laugh like
that. And it was only the pillow after all."
Two minutes later the boy was asleep, and breathing gently without
dreams, and so soundly that he did not hear the handle of the door creak
softly, nor a light step on the floor. Neither did he hear a voice say:
"Asleep, Vince?" nor feel a hand upon his forehead, nor two soft, warm
lips take their place as a gentle voice whispered: "God bless my darling
boy!"