Chapter Nineteen.The Great Peril.The Vicar had no chance to ask Josh what he had heard, for the boy had rushed on to the dam, regardless of any danger that might be near, to reach Mr Willows, to whom he clung breathless and exhausted from his efforts to answer the summons of the bell.“Where’s Will?” he cried, earnestly. “Where’s Will?”“Safe, boy, safe,” replied Willows, huskily. “Back to the side. It’s dangerous here.”“I only wanted to know where Will was. I don’t mind now. I’m going to stop and help.”“Ahoy, there! Drinkwater!” shouted the north-country man. “Come on! Here’s lots to do. This is bigger job than putting t’fire oot.”The man addressed heard the appeal, shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand, and as if influenced by the strong man’s words, came slowly down from his place of vantage to join the group, which now set to work loosening the stones near the top of the dam, to carry them to the wall end and pitch or roll them down into the weakened part.For a full half-hour all worked as men had never worked before, conscious the while that those they loved were gathered at each end of the threatened wall high up in safely, and watching their efforts to save the mill. But at the end of that half-hour Willows suddenly stepped to where the Vicar and Manners were toiling like the rest, the latter, with dripping face, displaying his giant strength.“Stop!” he cried. “The dam is bound to go! Labour in vain! We are sure to have some warning. All follow to the mill. Let’s save there all we can.”There was a hearty cheer at this, and the jocose weaver shouted—“Now, them’s the words I like. We’d have stopped till the old dam burst, but speaking for self and family, ah’d say I’d reather not.”There was another good-humoured roar at this, but it was mingled with a sigh of relief, and a swift walk was soon hastened into a run, till all were gathered in a fairly safe position above the mill, where they paused to breathe.Willows and his friends came last, the former standing smiling to see the stack of household treasures Will and his helpmates had piled up.“Well done, my lads!” he cried. “We’ve come to help you now.”“Have you saved the dam, father?” cried Will, excitedly.There was a look of resignation on the father’s face, as he gazed in his son’s eyes and slowly shook his head.“Ahoy, there! Drinkwater! Ahoy! What are you hinging back there for?” shouted the north-country man. “More wuck to do. Come on and help.”All eyes were directed now to a solitary figure standing on the top of the great stone wall as if inspecting the damaged spot.“What’s he stopping there for?” cried the Vicar, excitedly.“Why, Drinkwater, my lad,” shouted Willows, between his hands, “you can’t stay there. Come over to us here. Quick, man! Quick!”The old fellow turned and shaded his eyes again, gazing fiercely at the speaker, and, as he lowered his hand and came slowly towards them, Will noticed that across his white brow there was a broad mark of blood.“Father, look,” he whispered, hoarsely; “what does that mean?”“A mark from his hands, my boy. He must have worn them raw. Poor fellow! He has been like a hero in this strife.”The man came down, still slowly, and then ascended to where the group were awaiting further orders; but when these orders came, and with a rush the workers formed a line from the mill up to a shelf-like path where by no possibility could the pent-up water rise if the dam gave way, and began handing up rapidly bale after bale of finished silk, and mighty skeins of twisted thread, he did not stir a hand, but stood with the stain upon his brow, leaning against a corner of the mill, apparently exhausted, and never once taking his eyes from his master.For a full hour the men worked on, cheering loudly as the announcement was made that the wareroom was empty; and then a rush was made for the Mill House, where in turn all that was portable and good was borne away. Then came the end.For a long while past Willows and his friends had ceased to give any thought to the worldly goods, standing together intently watching for the danger they felt must come, and watching as it were in vain; for, save its ragged edge, from whence stones had been torn, the green and mossy old wall stood intact. The sluices still roared; along the great chute a solid-looking mass of crystal water rushed and gleamed and flashed before it bent over in a glorious curve to plunge on to the wheel and break in spray, while the men laughed and joked merrily, as they made a play of their heavy toil and shouted gaily to the two groups of watchers—their wives and children and work-mates—who shouted encouragingly back.And all at once, as if hoping to lighten their labours—lovers of music as these people are—a shrill, musical, woman’s voice arose, starting a familiar chorus, which was taken up directly by the young, to rise and fall and swell along the valley, the sweet soprano tones supported by the roaring waters’ heavy bass.“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted the Vicar, huskily, and as he spoke Will noticed that his voice sounded strange, and in the glance he obtained he noted that his eyes were filled with tears.The next minute he was hurrying up towards his people, walking-stick in hand, to leap upon a stone where he could be well seen by the choral singers on either side of the vale, and there for about a minute he stood, waving his baton-like stick, conducting his strange double choir, who sang more loudly their cheery mill-song, and at their best, till in an instant, like a thunderclap, there was a sharp report, the song became a wail of agony, and the voice of the master was heard above all, crying—“For your lives, men, run!”It could only have been for a few seconds, during which nothing seemed to happen save that there was the patter and scramble of many feet as with one accord all seemed to have made for safety, while, as that haven was reached, all turned their eyes towards the dam, to look in wonder, seeking as they did in vain for the cause of that sharp report.Another or two of those strangely drawn-out seconds passed, and then the watchers had their reward. The great, green, mossy wall, with all its luxuriance of orange-tinted bracken and golden fern, seemed to shiver as if touched by a passing wind. Then the quivering motion ceased, the whole centre crumbled softly down, and it was as if some huge, hoary monster, a living earthquake, had leaped from the prison in which it was bound, to spring upon its prey—the great mill buildings below.One moment all were there intact; the next they were gone, and in their place a mighty river of water was tearing down the vale with a hiss and roar that struck the gazers dumb; and then a great gap was visible where the vast dam-wall had been, the pool was empty, there was little more than a stream, and the roaring monster that had swept all before it could be heard gnashing, raging and destroying, far away below.
The Vicar had no chance to ask Josh what he had heard, for the boy had rushed on to the dam, regardless of any danger that might be near, to reach Mr Willows, to whom he clung breathless and exhausted from his efforts to answer the summons of the bell.
“Where’s Will?” he cried, earnestly. “Where’s Will?”
“Safe, boy, safe,” replied Willows, huskily. “Back to the side. It’s dangerous here.”
“I only wanted to know where Will was. I don’t mind now. I’m going to stop and help.”
“Ahoy, there! Drinkwater!” shouted the north-country man. “Come on! Here’s lots to do. This is bigger job than putting t’fire oot.”
The man addressed heard the appeal, shaded his eyes for a moment with his hand, and as if influenced by the strong man’s words, came slowly down from his place of vantage to join the group, which now set to work loosening the stones near the top of the dam, to carry them to the wall end and pitch or roll them down into the weakened part.
For a full half-hour all worked as men had never worked before, conscious the while that those they loved were gathered at each end of the threatened wall high up in safely, and watching their efforts to save the mill. But at the end of that half-hour Willows suddenly stepped to where the Vicar and Manners were toiling like the rest, the latter, with dripping face, displaying his giant strength.
“Stop!” he cried. “The dam is bound to go! Labour in vain! We are sure to have some warning. All follow to the mill. Let’s save there all we can.”
There was a hearty cheer at this, and the jocose weaver shouted—
“Now, them’s the words I like. We’d have stopped till the old dam burst, but speaking for self and family, ah’d say I’d reather not.”
There was another good-humoured roar at this, but it was mingled with a sigh of relief, and a swift walk was soon hastened into a run, till all were gathered in a fairly safe position above the mill, where they paused to breathe.
Willows and his friends came last, the former standing smiling to see the stack of household treasures Will and his helpmates had piled up.
“Well done, my lads!” he cried. “We’ve come to help you now.”
“Have you saved the dam, father?” cried Will, excitedly.
There was a look of resignation on the father’s face, as he gazed in his son’s eyes and slowly shook his head.
“Ahoy, there! Drinkwater! Ahoy! What are you hinging back there for?” shouted the north-country man. “More wuck to do. Come on and help.”
All eyes were directed now to a solitary figure standing on the top of the great stone wall as if inspecting the damaged spot.
“What’s he stopping there for?” cried the Vicar, excitedly.
“Why, Drinkwater, my lad,” shouted Willows, between his hands, “you can’t stay there. Come over to us here. Quick, man! Quick!”
The old fellow turned and shaded his eyes again, gazing fiercely at the speaker, and, as he lowered his hand and came slowly towards them, Will noticed that across his white brow there was a broad mark of blood.
“Father, look,” he whispered, hoarsely; “what does that mean?”
“A mark from his hands, my boy. He must have worn them raw. Poor fellow! He has been like a hero in this strife.”
The man came down, still slowly, and then ascended to where the group were awaiting further orders; but when these orders came, and with a rush the workers formed a line from the mill up to a shelf-like path where by no possibility could the pent-up water rise if the dam gave way, and began handing up rapidly bale after bale of finished silk, and mighty skeins of twisted thread, he did not stir a hand, but stood with the stain upon his brow, leaning against a corner of the mill, apparently exhausted, and never once taking his eyes from his master.
For a full hour the men worked on, cheering loudly as the announcement was made that the wareroom was empty; and then a rush was made for the Mill House, where in turn all that was portable and good was borne away. Then came the end.
For a long while past Willows and his friends had ceased to give any thought to the worldly goods, standing together intently watching for the danger they felt must come, and watching as it were in vain; for, save its ragged edge, from whence stones had been torn, the green and mossy old wall stood intact. The sluices still roared; along the great chute a solid-looking mass of crystal water rushed and gleamed and flashed before it bent over in a glorious curve to plunge on to the wheel and break in spray, while the men laughed and joked merrily, as they made a play of their heavy toil and shouted gaily to the two groups of watchers—their wives and children and work-mates—who shouted encouragingly back.
And all at once, as if hoping to lighten their labours—lovers of music as these people are—a shrill, musical, woman’s voice arose, starting a familiar chorus, which was taken up directly by the young, to rise and fall and swell along the valley, the sweet soprano tones supported by the roaring waters’ heavy bass.
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted the Vicar, huskily, and as he spoke Will noticed that his voice sounded strange, and in the glance he obtained he noted that his eyes were filled with tears.
The next minute he was hurrying up towards his people, walking-stick in hand, to leap upon a stone where he could be well seen by the choral singers on either side of the vale, and there for about a minute he stood, waving his baton-like stick, conducting his strange double choir, who sang more loudly their cheery mill-song, and at their best, till in an instant, like a thunderclap, there was a sharp report, the song became a wail of agony, and the voice of the master was heard above all, crying—
“For your lives, men, run!”
It could only have been for a few seconds, during which nothing seemed to happen save that there was the patter and scramble of many feet as with one accord all seemed to have made for safety, while, as that haven was reached, all turned their eyes towards the dam, to look in wonder, seeking as they did in vain for the cause of that sharp report.
Another or two of those strangely drawn-out seconds passed, and then the watchers had their reward. The great, green, mossy wall, with all its luxuriance of orange-tinted bracken and golden fern, seemed to shiver as if touched by a passing wind. Then the quivering motion ceased, the whole centre crumbled softly down, and it was as if some huge, hoary monster, a living earthquake, had leaped from the prison in which it was bound, to spring upon its prey—the great mill buildings below.
One moment all were there intact; the next they were gone, and in their place a mighty river of water was tearing down the vale with a hiss and roar that struck the gazers dumb; and then a great gap was visible where the vast dam-wall had been, the pool was empty, there was little more than a stream, and the roaring monster that had swept all before it could be heard gnashing, raging and destroying, far away below.
Chapter Twenty.Fighting the Destroyer.An awful hush of silence. It seemed as if it was too much for human brain to bear. The breath was held pent-up in every breast, so that it might have been the dwelling-place of the dumb.Then the Vicar’s voice was heard, and the sound thereof was like the key that opened a closed-up door.“Where’s Mr Willows?” he shouted.“Here!” came from close at hand, followed by, “And who has seen Will?”“Here—close by me,” cried Manners.“Josh! Josh!” shouted Will.“Here! Here! All right!”“Then everyone is safe,” cried the boy. “No, no, no!” he shouted, in anguished tones. “Where’s poor old Boil O? He was there just now, standing by that corner. No, no! there is no corner—everything has gone. Oh, surely he can’t be drowned!”There was no reply, but, headed by Willows, a strong party of the men followed him and the boys down the track of the mighty torrent—a clean-swept path of stone, for mill, house, sheds, cottages, the whole of the tiny village was not!There was nothing to impede their way for fully half a mile, and there, in a deep curve down in the valley, in a turgid stream still running fast, lay in wild confusion, baulk and beam, rafter and mass of swept-down stone, the relics of the water’s prey.In his excitement Willows was the first to reach this pool; but Will was close behind, near enough to stretch out a hand to try an check him as he tore off his coat, rushed to the edge, stepped on to one stone, and leaped to another and another projecting above the surface, before plunging in and swimming towards where a pile of timbers were crushed together with the water foaming by.“What’s he going to do?” cried Manners, panting as he came up.“I don’t know,” cried the boy, wildly. “Oh, Mr Manners, help me—he’ll be drowned!”As the boy spoke he followed his father’s example, to leap from stone to stone and finally plunge in, trying almost vainly to swim, for the foaming water gave but the poorest support. There were stones, too, everywhere, hewn blocks and others that had been torn from their native beds; but somehow, helped by the stream, Will reached the spot at length where he could see his father, apparently helpless, clinging to the naked roots of a swept-down tree as if for his very life.“Father!” cried the boy, as he anchored himself in turn, and gazing in horror in the staring eyes that met his own. “What shall I do?” he cried.But help was near, and the despairing feeling that was overcoming poor Will died out as the gruff, familiar voice of Manners just behind cried—“Hold on, Will, lad! That’s right! I’ve got him tight! Why, Willows, man, what’s gone wrong?”He whom he addressed turned his eyes slowly to give the speaker an appealing look, and then they closed, the head dropped back, the surging waters swept over the face, and, but for the artist’s sturdy arm, it would have gone ill indeed; but the next moment the fainting man’s head was raised and rested on the artist’s shoulder.“He must be badly hurt, Will. But all right; I’ve got him safe, and I’ll soon take him to the shore.”“Here, let me take one side,” cried Will.“Nonsense, dear lad! Stay as you are.”“I can’t,” cried Will; “I must help. He is my father, and I must and will!”“That’s right, my boy, but on my word you can’t. I am a strong man, I believe, but it is all I can do to hold my own. If you leave go you’ll be swept away, and your father will be drowned; for I tell you now, I couldn’t stop by him and see you go.”Will gazed at him blankly, and for a few moments that group in the midst of the tangle of broken timber and jagged root hung together, boy and man staring into each other’s eyes.“Will, dear lad,” said the artist, at last, “we are good old friends. Trust and believe in me. I’ll save your father if I can. If I don’t, it is because I can’t, and I’ve gone too. Promise me you’ll hold on there till I come back, or some of your friends come down. They must know how we are fixed. Will you do what I say? I am speaking as your father would. Hold on where you are.”“Would he say that?” gasped Will, faintly.“He would, I vow.”Will bowed his head, and the next moment he was clinging there, to the clean-washed roots of the uptorn tree, watching the heads of father and friend being rapidly swept-down the stream, while the waters were surging higher and higher about his breast, for the depression was being filled rapidly by the undammed stream.“To be alone like this!” groaned Will. “Why didn’t I swim with them and try to help?”He spoke aloud, his words sounding like a long-drawn moan; and then he started, for an echo seemed to come from close at hand, heard plainly above the rushing of the stream. His next thought was that it was fancy, but, as the idea flitted through his brain in silence, there was the moan again from somewhere at the back.It was the faint cry of someone in grievous peril, and it drove out self from the generous boy’s breast. Someone wanted help, and he was strong and hearty still. It took but little time to find out whence the deep-toned moaning came. It was from out of a jagged mass of broken timbers, whose ends were anchored among the stones, and through them the rising waters were rushing fast.It was like turning from a great peril into dangers greater far, but the boy never thought of that. He measured the distance with his eyes, and came to the conclusion that he could pass hand by hand through the waters, among the roots, till he was straight above the swaying timbers. To swim would be impossible, he knew; but he felt that he could let himself go, be carried those few yards, catch at one or other of the timbers, and hold on there.As he finished thinking, he drew a deep breath, felt stronger than ever, and began to act.Reaching out with his right hand, he got a grip of the nearest root, let go with his left, and in an instant, he felt as if the water had seized him, and was trying to tear his right arm out of the socket. The jerk was numbing, but he got a grip with his left hand, and tried again and again, till he lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head, his feet pointing straight at the chaos of timbers, took another deep breath, and then let go.There was a quick, gliding motion, and his feet struck against one big beam, slipped right over it, and the next minute he was in the very centre of the tangle, while his progress was checked for a sufficiently long time for him to get a good hold, and feel that for the time being he was safe. His breath was coming and going fast, though, from the excitement as well as exertion. And then it was almost in horror that his heart seemed to stand still. It was a momentary sensation, and it gave way to a feeling of joy, for there, close at his side, so near that he could touch, was the grim, upturned face of Drinkwater, with eyes staring wildly into his. He, too, was clinging with all his might to one of the broken timber baulks, and, as his eyes met Will’s, he uttered a piteous, gasping cry, and murmured the one word—“Help!”That appeal went straight to the boy’s heart, and seemed to nerve him for his task.“Help? Yes!” he cried. “I’ve come to bring you help;” and then a pang shot through his breast as he spoke his next words. “Mr Manners was here just now, and he’ll soon be back.”Would, he asked himself, as he thought of his father, those words prove true?“Cheer up, old fellow!” he cried, and he felt stronger still.Here was something he could do.“Can you raise yourself a little higher?” he said, for the rising water lapped in a wave nearly to the sufferer’s mouth.“No, no,” said the man, faintly; “I’m gripped between two timbers fast by the legs. There, I feel better now. Ah, Will, lad, I am glad you have come! I can think and see all now. That burning pain has gone from my head, and it’s all quite clear. And how just and right all is, if we could always only see.”“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Will, cheerily; “but keep a good heart. They’ll come and help us soon. But I want to see you higher up; the water’s getting deeper, and you must raise your head.”The man smiled softly in his face; his old grim and savage look had gone, and, after making a vain effort, his head sank back so low that the water swept right over his nostrils, and, fast held as he was, he must have drowned; but in an instant Will shifted his position, took another grip, and forced his legs beneath him till his knees were below the prisoner’s shoulders, wedging him up so that he could breathe freely once more.“There, that’s better,” cried Will, hoarsely. “You’ll be all right now.”“Yes, for a few minutes, lad, but the end is near, and it’s all quite right. Will, lad, I used to make toys for you, when you were a little child, and, when you grew bigger, I used to let you spoil my tools, for I never had bairn of my own, and, after my way, I somehow got to love you, lad. And then, I must have gone kinder sorter mad. That burning pain came in my head. I can see it all clearly now, just at the last. I got cursing the best of masters that ever stepped, and one night in a mad fit, I tried to burn him out of house and home; but when I saw the dear old mill a-fire, I couldn’t bear it, and fought, like the madman I was, to put it out—and did. Then it all came back again worse and stronger than before. I felt that I must do it—and did. ‘The fire fails,’ I said, ‘but the water wins. It made him a rich man’—your good father, boy—‘and now it shall make him poor. My revenge!’ I said. Yes, my revenge! Last night, Will—tell him this when I am gone—I got down by the bottom of the dam and worked with mallet and long crowbar, as I had worked night after night before, till the water began to run just in one little tiny trickle. And then I stopped. Water—my slave then—I knew would do the rest. And it has, lad, just as I thought, given me my revenge, as I called it, but turned and slain me too. Well, it was right it should be so. I know it now. Tell him—my good old master—all that I have said, and ask him to forgive me, if he can, for I know it now—I must have been mad.”He ceased speaking, and lay quite still with his eyes gazing sadly in the son’s face, while a feeling of horror and repulsion was gathering strongly in the lad’s breast, till the wretched being spoke again, with the water once more gathering closely about his lips.“Now then,” he said, “you know the truth. It’s all over Will, lad. But for you, I should have been drowned before. You are young and strong; I know you can swim. This water’s nowt to you. Go, dear lad, and save your life. Don’t look back once to see me die. It would come harder if I thought you did. There,” he gasped, as a wave lapped close to his lips once more, “think of your own self now. I have had my day, and ended badly. Your time has all to come. Will, lad, bad as I have been, can you grip my hand once more?”“Only in my heart! If I let go, we both shall drown. There! Cheer up! Help must come soon.”“Not for me. Quick, swim for your life. Good-bye!”“What, and leave you here to drown? Not if I know it!”“What, after all that I have done?”“Yes; I couldn’t leave you even now. I tell you, help must come, and—there, what did I say?”At that moment, the artist’s cheery voice sounded from close at hand, and, directly after, he and two more of the mill hands were helping to free the wretched prisoner from his wooden bonds.
An awful hush of silence. It seemed as if it was too much for human brain to bear. The breath was held pent-up in every breast, so that it might have been the dwelling-place of the dumb.
Then the Vicar’s voice was heard, and the sound thereof was like the key that opened a closed-up door.
“Where’s Mr Willows?” he shouted.
“Here!” came from close at hand, followed by, “And who has seen Will?”
“Here—close by me,” cried Manners.
“Josh! Josh!” shouted Will.
“Here! Here! All right!”
“Then everyone is safe,” cried the boy. “No, no, no!” he shouted, in anguished tones. “Where’s poor old Boil O? He was there just now, standing by that corner. No, no! there is no corner—everything has gone. Oh, surely he can’t be drowned!”
There was no reply, but, headed by Willows, a strong party of the men followed him and the boys down the track of the mighty torrent—a clean-swept path of stone, for mill, house, sheds, cottages, the whole of the tiny village was not!
There was nothing to impede their way for fully half a mile, and there, in a deep curve down in the valley, in a turgid stream still running fast, lay in wild confusion, baulk and beam, rafter and mass of swept-down stone, the relics of the water’s prey.
In his excitement Willows was the first to reach this pool; but Will was close behind, near enough to stretch out a hand to try an check him as he tore off his coat, rushed to the edge, stepped on to one stone, and leaped to another and another projecting above the surface, before plunging in and swimming towards where a pile of timbers were crushed together with the water foaming by.
“What’s he going to do?” cried Manners, panting as he came up.
“I don’t know,” cried the boy, wildly. “Oh, Mr Manners, help me—he’ll be drowned!”
As the boy spoke he followed his father’s example, to leap from stone to stone and finally plunge in, trying almost vainly to swim, for the foaming water gave but the poorest support. There were stones, too, everywhere, hewn blocks and others that had been torn from their native beds; but somehow, helped by the stream, Will reached the spot at length where he could see his father, apparently helpless, clinging to the naked roots of a swept-down tree as if for his very life.
“Father!” cried the boy, as he anchored himself in turn, and gazing in horror in the staring eyes that met his own. “What shall I do?” he cried.
But help was near, and the despairing feeling that was overcoming poor Will died out as the gruff, familiar voice of Manners just behind cried—
“Hold on, Will, lad! That’s right! I’ve got him tight! Why, Willows, man, what’s gone wrong?”
He whom he addressed turned his eyes slowly to give the speaker an appealing look, and then they closed, the head dropped back, the surging waters swept over the face, and, but for the artist’s sturdy arm, it would have gone ill indeed; but the next moment the fainting man’s head was raised and rested on the artist’s shoulder.
“He must be badly hurt, Will. But all right; I’ve got him safe, and I’ll soon take him to the shore.”
“Here, let me take one side,” cried Will.
“Nonsense, dear lad! Stay as you are.”
“I can’t,” cried Will; “I must help. He is my father, and I must and will!”
“That’s right, my boy, but on my word you can’t. I am a strong man, I believe, but it is all I can do to hold my own. If you leave go you’ll be swept away, and your father will be drowned; for I tell you now, I couldn’t stop by him and see you go.”
Will gazed at him blankly, and for a few moments that group in the midst of the tangle of broken timber and jagged root hung together, boy and man staring into each other’s eyes.
“Will, dear lad,” said the artist, at last, “we are good old friends. Trust and believe in me. I’ll save your father if I can. If I don’t, it is because I can’t, and I’ve gone too. Promise me you’ll hold on there till I come back, or some of your friends come down. They must know how we are fixed. Will you do what I say? I am speaking as your father would. Hold on where you are.”
“Would he say that?” gasped Will, faintly.
“He would, I vow.”
Will bowed his head, and the next moment he was clinging there, to the clean-washed roots of the uptorn tree, watching the heads of father and friend being rapidly swept-down the stream, while the waters were surging higher and higher about his breast, for the depression was being filled rapidly by the undammed stream.
“To be alone like this!” groaned Will. “Why didn’t I swim with them and try to help?”
He spoke aloud, his words sounding like a long-drawn moan; and then he started, for an echo seemed to come from close at hand, heard plainly above the rushing of the stream. His next thought was that it was fancy, but, as the idea flitted through his brain in silence, there was the moan again from somewhere at the back.
It was the faint cry of someone in grievous peril, and it drove out self from the generous boy’s breast. Someone wanted help, and he was strong and hearty still. It took but little time to find out whence the deep-toned moaning came. It was from out of a jagged mass of broken timbers, whose ends were anchored among the stones, and through them the rising waters were rushing fast.
It was like turning from a great peril into dangers greater far, but the boy never thought of that. He measured the distance with his eyes, and came to the conclusion that he could pass hand by hand through the waters, among the roots, till he was straight above the swaying timbers. To swim would be impossible, he knew; but he felt that he could let himself go, be carried those few yards, catch at one or other of the timbers, and hold on there.
As he finished thinking, he drew a deep breath, felt stronger than ever, and began to act.
Reaching out with his right hand, he got a grip of the nearest root, let go with his left, and in an instant, he felt as if the water had seized him, and was trying to tear his right arm out of the socket. The jerk was numbing, but he got a grip with his left hand, and tried again and again, till he lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head, his feet pointing straight at the chaos of timbers, took another deep breath, and then let go.
There was a quick, gliding motion, and his feet struck against one big beam, slipped right over it, and the next minute he was in the very centre of the tangle, while his progress was checked for a sufficiently long time for him to get a good hold, and feel that for the time being he was safe. His breath was coming and going fast, though, from the excitement as well as exertion. And then it was almost in horror that his heart seemed to stand still. It was a momentary sensation, and it gave way to a feeling of joy, for there, close at his side, so near that he could touch, was the grim, upturned face of Drinkwater, with eyes staring wildly into his. He, too, was clinging with all his might to one of the broken timber baulks, and, as his eyes met Will’s, he uttered a piteous, gasping cry, and murmured the one word—
“Help!”
That appeal went straight to the boy’s heart, and seemed to nerve him for his task.
“Help? Yes!” he cried. “I’ve come to bring you help;” and then a pang shot through his breast as he spoke his next words. “Mr Manners was here just now, and he’ll soon be back.”
Would, he asked himself, as he thought of his father, those words prove true?
“Cheer up, old fellow!” he cried, and he felt stronger still.
Here was something he could do.
“Can you raise yourself a little higher?” he said, for the rising water lapped in a wave nearly to the sufferer’s mouth.
“No, no,” said the man, faintly; “I’m gripped between two timbers fast by the legs. There, I feel better now. Ah, Will, lad, I am glad you have come! I can think and see all now. That burning pain has gone from my head, and it’s all quite clear. And how just and right all is, if we could always only see.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Will, cheerily; “but keep a good heart. They’ll come and help us soon. But I want to see you higher up; the water’s getting deeper, and you must raise your head.”
The man smiled softly in his face; his old grim and savage look had gone, and, after making a vain effort, his head sank back so low that the water swept right over his nostrils, and, fast held as he was, he must have drowned; but in an instant Will shifted his position, took another grip, and forced his legs beneath him till his knees were below the prisoner’s shoulders, wedging him up so that he could breathe freely once more.
“There, that’s better,” cried Will, hoarsely. “You’ll be all right now.”
“Yes, for a few minutes, lad, but the end is near, and it’s all quite right. Will, lad, I used to make toys for you, when you were a little child, and, when you grew bigger, I used to let you spoil my tools, for I never had bairn of my own, and, after my way, I somehow got to love you, lad. And then, I must have gone kinder sorter mad. That burning pain came in my head. I can see it all clearly now, just at the last. I got cursing the best of masters that ever stepped, and one night in a mad fit, I tried to burn him out of house and home; but when I saw the dear old mill a-fire, I couldn’t bear it, and fought, like the madman I was, to put it out—and did. Then it all came back again worse and stronger than before. I felt that I must do it—and did. ‘The fire fails,’ I said, ‘but the water wins. It made him a rich man’—your good father, boy—‘and now it shall make him poor. My revenge!’ I said. Yes, my revenge! Last night, Will—tell him this when I am gone—I got down by the bottom of the dam and worked with mallet and long crowbar, as I had worked night after night before, till the water began to run just in one little tiny trickle. And then I stopped. Water—my slave then—I knew would do the rest. And it has, lad, just as I thought, given me my revenge, as I called it, but turned and slain me too. Well, it was right it should be so. I know it now. Tell him—my good old master—all that I have said, and ask him to forgive me, if he can, for I know it now—I must have been mad.”
He ceased speaking, and lay quite still with his eyes gazing sadly in the son’s face, while a feeling of horror and repulsion was gathering strongly in the lad’s breast, till the wretched being spoke again, with the water once more gathering closely about his lips.
“Now then,” he said, “you know the truth. It’s all over Will, lad. But for you, I should have been drowned before. You are young and strong; I know you can swim. This water’s nowt to you. Go, dear lad, and save your life. Don’t look back once to see me die. It would come harder if I thought you did. There,” he gasped, as a wave lapped close to his lips once more, “think of your own self now. I have had my day, and ended badly. Your time has all to come. Will, lad, bad as I have been, can you grip my hand once more?”
“Only in my heart! If I let go, we both shall drown. There! Cheer up! Help must come soon.”
“Not for me. Quick, swim for your life. Good-bye!”
“What, and leave you here to drown? Not if I know it!”
“What, after all that I have done?”
“Yes; I couldn’t leave you even now. I tell you, help must come, and—there, what did I say?”
At that moment, the artist’s cheery voice sounded from close at hand, and, directly after, he and two more of the mill hands were helping to free the wretched prisoner from his wooden bonds.
Chapter Twenty One.The Story Told.The alarm had so spread, carried as the disaster was by the galloping messenger from the mill, as well as by the flood itself, that help was pouring in from all quarters, and as soon as the sufferers were borne dripping and senseless from the water, scores of hands were ready to bear them into shelter, where doctors soon declared that there was no further danger to fear.John Willows, as he lay on a couch grasping his son’s hand, hurriedly explained his action when he had dashed into the flood, for he had caught sight of Drinkwater for a moment, and seen that he was in peril of his life, but it was only to nearly lose his own, for he had been caught between two heavy beams sailing with the rapid current, and been so crushed that insensibility came on.As for Drinkwater, he lay calm and sensible, like a man just recovering from some long illness, and there was a look of pathetic wonder in his eyes that he was still alive which was pitiful to see.“No wonder,” said one of the doctors; “he’s been within an inch of losing his life; but in a few days he will be all right again;” and his words proved true.That same afternoon the man was carried by friendly hands up to his own cottage, which, of course, lay high above the broken dam, while others formed a kind of litter upon which Mr Willows was borne up to the Vicarage, which he was bidden to consider his home. So that, after the horrors of the morning, as the various employés found shelter or returned to their uninjured homes, a strange feeling of peace began to reign.It was quite evening when Josh and Will descended to Drinkwater’s cottage, Will having declared himself none the worse for all that he had gone through, and, as his father was sleeping calmly, and the boy was looking strained and white, Mr Carlile agreed that the fresh air would do him good.“Tell Mr Manners,” he said, “that we have plenty of room here, and that I should be glad if he will join us, and so leave the cottage to its owner, and his wife’s hands tree. You understand, Josh. Be insistent, and tell him that if he does not come I shall feel quite hurt.”“Yes, father, I understand,” cried Josh, and the boys set off. “I wonder,” said Josh, “that old Toadstool has not been up.”“Oh, he meant kindly,” said Will. “He was afraid of disturbing us, for I heard the doctor tell him that father must be kept very quiet for a day or two.”They reached the cottage, which looked as attractive as ever in its nest of flowers; but, as they approached, they saw no sign of the artist, and they were about to go up to the door when they heard a voice from one of the open bedroom windows, and both stopped short as the words struck their ears.It was Mrs Drinkwater speaking, and her voice was half-choked with sobs, so that her words were indistinct. But Will caught this—“Don’t, don’t say more. I have nothing to forgive you. It is enough for me that you are your own dear self again.”The boys stole away on tiptoe, Will saying, huskily: “We can’t disturb them now. Let’s go and look at the broken dam.”Josh stopped short to peer into his companion’s face.“Can you stand it, Will?” he said.The boy was silent for a few moments, and then, after making an effort to clear his voice—“Yes,” he said, but very huskily. “Everybody has been saved, and I am going to try and bear it like—well, like a man.”“Hooray!” cried Josh, softly. “But I say, what can have become of old Manners?” And then, with a hearty laugh, “I say! Oh, just look there!”He pointed in the direction of a verdant shelf overlooking the clean-swept vale; and there, beneath his white umbrella, sat the object of their search, calmly smoking his big black briar pipe, contemplating the ruins of the dam and a small pile of stones, the only vestige of the vanished mill.“Why, here you are,” cried Josh.“Ah, boys,” he said, sadly. “But you, Will, ought not you to be in bed?”“Bed?” cried the boy, scornfully. “What for? Josh lent me a suit of his clothes, and I’m quite dry now.”“Oh, yes,” said Manners; “so am I, but I feel as if I could make a handkerchief precious wet by blubbering like a great, weak girl.”“Oh, don’t worry about it,” cried Will. “Think how we’ve all been saved. Father’s in the best of heart, and he says as soon as he’s well that he’ll set to and build the whole place up bigger and better than it was before.”“Yes,” said Josh, “I heard him; and he said, too, that he could do it with a better heart in his thankfulness that not a life was lost.”“Ah, yes,” said Manners, sadly, “that’s quite right, boys; but when you came I wasn’t thinking about that, but about my own loss.”“Oh,” said Will. “You mean about the place being so spoiled?”“No, I don’t,” said the artist, gruffly. “I was thinking about my pictures—twelve canvases, a whole year’s work, washed right away, dead, as it were, and buried under some heap of stones. Ah, boys, they were only so much painted cloth, and I’m afraid they were very bad, but it was all so much work that was somehow very dear to me, and—bah! Never say die! I’ll begin again like your father, and build up something fresh.”For some days Will paced about the devastated scene, looking white and strange—like one who had a burden on his mind.The Vicar noticed it, and spoke to the doctor when he came to see his patient.“Oh, yes,” said the doctor; “I saw it at once. Shock, my dear sir—shock! The poor boy has a deal to bear, but a young, elastic, healthy chap like that will soon come round.”Josh mentioned it, too, in confidence to his father, saying—“I don’t like poor Will’s looks. He’s so white and strange.”But, on hearing the doctor’s words, he said—“Well, he ought to know. We must wait.”He had not long to wait. A few days later, Will was himself again, for the burden was off his mind. He had rested till he thought that his father was well enough to hear what he had to say, and then, alone by his bedside, he repeated almost word for word the confession Drinkwater had made.Mr Willows listened silently right to the end, and then, after a long silence, he lay holding his son’s hand clasped between his own.“Horrible, indeed, my boy,” he said, gently.“Yes, horrible, indeed, father. What shall you do?”There was another spell of silence before Mr Willows spoke again.“Forgive, my boy,” he said, “as I hope to be forgiven. What did he say when he believed he was a dying man—that he was mad? Those must have been the words of truth.”They were, for the time passed on, and as the new mill rose, James Drinkwater was one of the busiest hands, restoring the place to its old working state, a man completely changed, the most faithful worker about the establishment.“It is our joint secret, Will, my boy,” said his father. “Let it rest.”And it has rested until now, when, long years after the Drinkwaters have been laid to their rest, and Manners, the artist, has ceased to visit the beautiful vale, the story of Will of the Mill is told.The End.
The alarm had so spread, carried as the disaster was by the galloping messenger from the mill, as well as by the flood itself, that help was pouring in from all quarters, and as soon as the sufferers were borne dripping and senseless from the water, scores of hands were ready to bear them into shelter, where doctors soon declared that there was no further danger to fear.
John Willows, as he lay on a couch grasping his son’s hand, hurriedly explained his action when he had dashed into the flood, for he had caught sight of Drinkwater for a moment, and seen that he was in peril of his life, but it was only to nearly lose his own, for he had been caught between two heavy beams sailing with the rapid current, and been so crushed that insensibility came on.
As for Drinkwater, he lay calm and sensible, like a man just recovering from some long illness, and there was a look of pathetic wonder in his eyes that he was still alive which was pitiful to see.
“No wonder,” said one of the doctors; “he’s been within an inch of losing his life; but in a few days he will be all right again;” and his words proved true.
That same afternoon the man was carried by friendly hands up to his own cottage, which, of course, lay high above the broken dam, while others formed a kind of litter upon which Mr Willows was borne up to the Vicarage, which he was bidden to consider his home. So that, after the horrors of the morning, as the various employés found shelter or returned to their uninjured homes, a strange feeling of peace began to reign.
It was quite evening when Josh and Will descended to Drinkwater’s cottage, Will having declared himself none the worse for all that he had gone through, and, as his father was sleeping calmly, and the boy was looking strained and white, Mr Carlile agreed that the fresh air would do him good.
“Tell Mr Manners,” he said, “that we have plenty of room here, and that I should be glad if he will join us, and so leave the cottage to its owner, and his wife’s hands tree. You understand, Josh. Be insistent, and tell him that if he does not come I shall feel quite hurt.”
“Yes, father, I understand,” cried Josh, and the boys set off. “I wonder,” said Josh, “that old Toadstool has not been up.”
“Oh, he meant kindly,” said Will. “He was afraid of disturbing us, for I heard the doctor tell him that father must be kept very quiet for a day or two.”
They reached the cottage, which looked as attractive as ever in its nest of flowers; but, as they approached, they saw no sign of the artist, and they were about to go up to the door when they heard a voice from one of the open bedroom windows, and both stopped short as the words struck their ears.
It was Mrs Drinkwater speaking, and her voice was half-choked with sobs, so that her words were indistinct. But Will caught this—
“Don’t, don’t say more. I have nothing to forgive you. It is enough for me that you are your own dear self again.”
The boys stole away on tiptoe, Will saying, huskily: “We can’t disturb them now. Let’s go and look at the broken dam.”
Josh stopped short to peer into his companion’s face.
“Can you stand it, Will?” he said.
The boy was silent for a few moments, and then, after making an effort to clear his voice—
“Yes,” he said, but very huskily. “Everybody has been saved, and I am going to try and bear it like—well, like a man.”
“Hooray!” cried Josh, softly. “But I say, what can have become of old Manners?” And then, with a hearty laugh, “I say! Oh, just look there!”
He pointed in the direction of a verdant shelf overlooking the clean-swept vale; and there, beneath his white umbrella, sat the object of their search, calmly smoking his big black briar pipe, contemplating the ruins of the dam and a small pile of stones, the only vestige of the vanished mill.
“Why, here you are,” cried Josh.
“Ah, boys,” he said, sadly. “But you, Will, ought not you to be in bed?”
“Bed?” cried the boy, scornfully. “What for? Josh lent me a suit of his clothes, and I’m quite dry now.”
“Oh, yes,” said Manners; “so am I, but I feel as if I could make a handkerchief precious wet by blubbering like a great, weak girl.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” cried Will. “Think how we’ve all been saved. Father’s in the best of heart, and he says as soon as he’s well that he’ll set to and build the whole place up bigger and better than it was before.”
“Yes,” said Josh, “I heard him; and he said, too, that he could do it with a better heart in his thankfulness that not a life was lost.”
“Ah, yes,” said Manners, sadly, “that’s quite right, boys; but when you came I wasn’t thinking about that, but about my own loss.”
“Oh,” said Will. “You mean about the place being so spoiled?”
“No, I don’t,” said the artist, gruffly. “I was thinking about my pictures—twelve canvases, a whole year’s work, washed right away, dead, as it were, and buried under some heap of stones. Ah, boys, they were only so much painted cloth, and I’m afraid they were very bad, but it was all so much work that was somehow very dear to me, and—bah! Never say die! I’ll begin again like your father, and build up something fresh.”
For some days Will paced about the devastated scene, looking white and strange—like one who had a burden on his mind.
The Vicar noticed it, and spoke to the doctor when he came to see his patient.
“Oh, yes,” said the doctor; “I saw it at once. Shock, my dear sir—shock! The poor boy has a deal to bear, but a young, elastic, healthy chap like that will soon come round.”
Josh mentioned it, too, in confidence to his father, saying—
“I don’t like poor Will’s looks. He’s so white and strange.”
But, on hearing the doctor’s words, he said—
“Well, he ought to know. We must wait.”
He had not long to wait. A few days later, Will was himself again, for the burden was off his mind. He had rested till he thought that his father was well enough to hear what he had to say, and then, alone by his bedside, he repeated almost word for word the confession Drinkwater had made.
Mr Willows listened silently right to the end, and then, after a long silence, he lay holding his son’s hand clasped between his own.
“Horrible, indeed, my boy,” he said, gently.
“Yes, horrible, indeed, father. What shall you do?”
There was another spell of silence before Mr Willows spoke again.
“Forgive, my boy,” he said, “as I hope to be forgiven. What did he say when he believed he was a dying man—that he was mad? Those must have been the words of truth.”
They were, for the time passed on, and as the new mill rose, James Drinkwater was one of the busiest hands, restoring the place to its old working state, a man completely changed, the most faithful worker about the establishment.
“It is our joint secret, Will, my boy,” said his father. “Let it rest.”
And it has rested until now, when, long years after the Drinkwaters have been laid to their rest, and Manners, the artist, has ceased to visit the beautiful vale, the story of Will of the Mill is told.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21|