Tales of the West Riding by Phyllis Bentley Page B

he hurried down, driven on by the strong cold wind at his back.Remembering what his father had said, he eyed the mills on the banks of the river apprehensively and thought it was lucky that the overflow would occur—if it occurred at all—during the night when the mills were closed. Now that the rain had ceased, the peak of the water intake would be past in a few hours; if nothing happened before dawn, the reservoir would be safe for this time. Luckily Beaumont’s Row stood halfway up the hillside, where surely the overflow would not reach. Beaumont House, however, stood on the level of the mill yard, tucked into the side of the hill. Joe hesitated. Pride made him exceedingly reluctant to approach the Beaumonts, yet it seemed to him mean, ignoble, not to give them warning. At length his natural goodness triumphed; he entered the massive front portico and pulled the bell. The maid who opened the door started back in alarm as she recognised him, and this angered Joe.
    â€œPlease tell Mester Beaumont as the Ling is still filling and there’s like to be an overflow,” he said drily.
    â€œShall I say who brought the message?”
    â€œNo. It’s no matter. Well, say it came from the drawer—that’s true enough,” said Joe.
    â€œWe’ve heard about Ling before,” said the maid pertly, “from your family.”
    Joe shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
    He went home, ate his tea, talked with his wife and mother about the Ling and went to bed.
7
    It was ten o’clock that night when the water in the reservoir, driven hard by the strong wind, began to flow over the top of the embankment. By midnight torrents of water were cascading down the outer surface at many points, and soon this grass-grown surface, not being faced with stone, began to crumble. Tons of loose earth and rubble were swiftly carried away. Hardly had the alarmed watchers become accustomed to this spectacle than the whole outer surface of the bank disappeared, leaving exposed the inner layer of clay. At one point near the north side of the reservoir there now became visible a gap in the clay.
    â€œThat’s where the spring came through,” said old Boothpointing. “I told ’em so. I told ’em. There was clay in the watter, could only have come from the puddle in the wall.”
    His hearers murmured agreement.
    â€œI was right, I believe?” went on old Booth fiercely. “Weren’t I right? Eh?”
    â€œRight enough,” murmured his hearers, uneasily shuffling their feet.
    Water now began to pour through the gap. The clay around it bulged, cracked, split; the split became fissures and ran along the whole length of the embankment; the clay bank began to slide and in a moment, it seemed, had totally disintegrated.
    â€œThis is more than brimming, John,” said one man sardonically.
    â€œIt is that,” replied old Booth gravely.
    â€œBut if that inner wall doesn’t hold, what then?”
    â€œGod knows.”
    â€œIt’s stone, think on,” said the drawer in the high quavering tones of fear.
    At that moment, with a noise like a rolling peal of thunder, the whole mass of earthwork gave way, and three hundred thousand tons of water were released to rush down with fearful velocity upon the narrow valley through the gap thus made. For a moment the watchers stood stupefied, awestruck by the magnitude of the calamity and the fearfully grand spectacle of the huge waves billowing white beneath the moon. Then with incoherent cries of panic they turned and ran for their homes.
8
    â€œWakken up, Joe!” said his wife, shaking him.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” said Joe, starting up.
    â€œThi father’s not home yet, and thi mother’s right upset.”
    His mother stood in the door of the tiny loft, wrapped in a shawl, a lighted candle in her hand.
    â€œIt’s so fearfully wild, Joe,” she murmured. “The wind’s howling like a